Part 6

So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender, Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea, Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour, To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming, Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep! But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming, And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever, A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell; 'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river, And startling the night with their cries of farewell.

FIRST GRIEF.

They tell me first and early love Outlives all after dreams; But the memory of a first great grief To me more lasting seems; The grief that marks our dawning youth To memory ever clings, And o'er the path of future years A lengthen'd shadow flings.

Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour When to my father's home Death came--an uninvited guest-- From his dwelling in the tomb! I had not seen his face before, I shudder'd at the sight, And I shudder still to think upon The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek Became all cold and wan; An eye grew dim in which the light Of radiant fancy shone. Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, The eye was fix'd and dim; And one there mourn'd a brother dead Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then, I know not if 'twas spring, But if the birds sang on the trees I did not hear them sing! If flowers came forth to deck the earth Their bloom I did not see; I look'd upon one wither'd flower, And none else bloom'd for me!

A sad and silent time it was Within that house of woe, All eyes were dull and overcast, And every voice was low! And from each cheek at intervals The blood appear'd to start, As if recall'd in sudden haste To aid the sinking heart!

Softly we trod, as if afraid To mar the sleeper's sleep, And stole last looks of his pale face For memory to keep! With him the agony was o'er, And now the pain was ours, As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar From the world's weary strife, How oft in thought did we again Live o'er his little life! His every look--his every word-- His very voice's tone-- Came back to us like things whose worth Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away And joy has been my lot; But the one is oft remember'd, And the other soon forgot. The gayest hours trip lightest by, And leave the faintest trace; But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears Time never can efface!

THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves; Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat; How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings; Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills! In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound; Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day! There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme! Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while? Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary? Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows? The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!

WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, entitled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the _Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."

YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.

What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain? I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again. There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie; I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane. We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair; Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare; In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung; The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young; An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind-- Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung. Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share, But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair; Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

While we live for each other, our lot will be blest; An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd; We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien, An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd. A couple that strive to be honest and fair May be rich without siller, and guid without lear; Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue, Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.

Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall, in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825, at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.

THE LANG WINTER E'EN.

Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair; The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare; To the cot wee robin returns for a screen Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

But charms there are still, though nature has nane, When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane, Then round the fireside social hearts do convene, And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.

O' warldly wealth I hae got little share, Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care; Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien', To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear, Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear, But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.

THOMAS YOUNG.

The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the _Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of L300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.

ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.

By Niagara's flood Antoinette stood, And watch'd the wild waves rush on, As they leapt below Into vapoury snow, Or fell into flakes of foam.

The sun's last beams Fell in golden gleams On water and wave-girt isle, And in tinge all fair Dipp'd the girl's bright hair And heighten'd her happy smile.

Away--away! In wild ecstasy She threads the abyss's brink, Where waters--black-- Of the cataract Into drifted snow-waves sink.

A father's eye Looketh anxiously On the freaks of his favour'd child, Till her spirit appals His soul, and he calls "Antoinette" in accents wild.

A bolder heart Loves the girl's free sport, And he grasps her by the gown, Then tosseth her high In the twilight sky-- But, heavens! she falleth down!

She sinks in the wave; He swimmeth to save! Oh, never was mortal arm More manfully braced, As it grasps her slim waist, And struggles in frantic alarm!

In vain does he strike-- The fresh waves break, And the doom'd ones are downward borne! Yet the swimmer's eye Seemeth still to defy The might of the merciless storm.

More loud than before Is the cataract's roar, And the furrow'd wave is bright With many a pearl From the shining swirl Of the water's lucid light.

And down below Is the woolly snow Of Niagara's wrathful bed, But the lip of the bold Hath never told The secrets that there lie hid.

A strong arm, press'd Round a maiden's waist On the doleful morrow is seen, And her oozy hair Laves his forehead bare With the waft of the wavy stream.

ROBERT WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at Aberdour, Fifeshire.

AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.

Away, away, my gallant bark! The waves are white and high; And fast the long becalmed clouds Are sailing in the sky. The merry breeze which wafts them on, And chafes the billow's spray, Will urge thee in thy watery flight: My gallant bark, away!

Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes, Are spread thy winged sails, To soar above the mountain waves, And scoop their glassy vales; And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest, Thy azure journey o'er, The shadow of thy folded wings Upon the sunny shore.

Away, away, my gallant bark! Across the billow's foam; I leave awhile, for ocean's strife, The quiet haunts of home; The green fields of my fatherland For many a stormy bay; The blazing hearth for beacon-light: My gallant bark, away!

LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart! Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart, Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core, That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide, Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside; And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year, And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems, And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams; And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh, And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new; But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true? Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train, And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.

EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world.

A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, And have revell'd amid their flowers; I have lived in the light of Italian eyes, And dream'd in Italian bowers, While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time When my heart could respond with its tears. Then sing me a song, a good old song-- Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand-- But a simple song, a good old song Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay All, all they would have me adore Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say Can be equall'd on earth never more. And it may be their numbers indeed are divine, Though they move not my heart through mine ears, But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne" Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime To mine own loved haunts once more, With a yearning for all of my childhood's time And the dear home-sounds of yore; And here, if there yet be love for me, Oh, away with those stranger lays, And now let my only welcome be An old song of my boyhood's days.

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.

I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa'; The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin', A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw; Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin, While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin', An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e, I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'-- Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me; I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure, I tried to forget, but the labour was vain; My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow, The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears. I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me, An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life-- For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree; Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me-- I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me. I wander me aften to break melancholy, On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see, Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly; Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.

KATIE BLAIR.[8]

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair In kintras far awa, I 've met wi' mony here at hame, Baith bonny dames an' braw; But nane e'er had the power to charm My love into a snare Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e An' smile o' Katie Blair.

She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks, Whar' thick the greenwoods grow, Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves While merrily they row. They drouk the lily an' the rose, An' mony flowerets fair, Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet As winsome Katie Blair.

She is a queen owre a' the flowers O' garden an' o' lea-- Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is Than a' their balms to me. As licht to morn she's a' to me, My bosom's only care; An' worthy o' the truest love Is winsome Katie Blair.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.

DAVID TAYLOR.

David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.

MY AIN GUDEMAN.

O dear, dear to me Is my ain gudeman, For kindly, frank, an' free Is my ain gudeman. An' though thretty years ha'e fled, An' five sin' we were wed, Nae bitter words I 've had Wi' my ain gudeman.

I 've had seven bonnie bairns To my ain gudeman, An' I 've nursed them i' their turns For my ain gudeman; An' ane did early dee, But the lave frae skaith are free, An' a blessin' they 're to me An' my ain gudeman.

I cheerie clamb the hill Wi' my ain gudeman; An', if it 's Heaven's will, Wi' my ain gudeman, In life's calm afternoon, I wad toddle cannie doun, Syne at the foot sleep soun' Wi' my ain gudeman.

ROBERT CATHCART.

Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early Blossom."

MARY

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom, Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary; Sweeter far thy love in bloom, Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary. When the woods in silence sleep, And is hid in dusk the steep, When the flowers in sorrow weep I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

When love plays in rosy beams Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary, Then thine e'e a language gleams Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary. When thy sigh blends wi' my smile, Silence reigns o'er us the while, Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil, Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

When our hands are join'd in love, Ne'er to part again, Mary, Till death ance mair his arrows prove And tak us for his ain, Mary; Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss! In a hallow'd hour like this, We in rapture join to kiss And taste o' heaven again, Mary.

WILLIAM JAMIE.

William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence.

AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.

Although the lays o' ither lands Ha'e mony an artfu' air, They want the stirrin' melody An auld man lo'es to hear. Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms Which maks the bosom fain; And to her sons, that 's far awa', Wi' thochts o' hame again.

Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms, They fondly bring to min' The trystin'-tree and bonny lass, Wi a' love's dreams langsyne. Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain, For weel I lo'e to hear-- Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes," And "Bush aboon Traquair."

Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon," Whaur Robin tuned his lyre; And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's-- Oh! sing, and I'll admire! For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs Sung owre and owre wi' glee; And the mair I hear their artless strains They dearer grow to me.

Enchanting strains again they bring, Fond memory glints alang To humble bards wha woke the lyre, And wove the patriot's sang. Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs, The sangs o' youth and glee; They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds, Which made our country free.

JOHN CRAWFORD.