Part 8

In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of Scottish poets--"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems." The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths, gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his other works--deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all falsehood.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq., Edinburgh.

SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.

Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe; Loch Etive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe. With his peak so high He cleaves the sky That smiles on his old gray crown, While the mantle green, On his shoulders seen, In many a fold flows down.

He looks to the north, and he renders A greeting to Nevis Ben; And Nevis, in white snowy splendours, Gives Cruachan greeting again. O'er dread Glencoe The greeting doth go And where Etive winds fair in the glen; And he hears the call In his steep north wall, "God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."

When the north winds their forces muster, And ruin rides high on the storm, All calm, in the midst of their bluster, He stands with his forehead enorm. When block on block, With thundering shock, Comes hurtled confusedly down, No whit recks he, But laughs to shake free The dust from his old gray crown.

And while torrents on torrents are pouring Down his sides with a wild, savage glee, And when louder the loud Awe is roaring, And the soft lake swells to a sea, He smiles through the storm, And his heart grows warm As he thinks how his streams feed the plains And the brave old Ben Grows young again, And swells with his lusty veins.

For Cruachan is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe; Loch Etive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe. Ere Adam was made He rear'd his head Sublime o'er the green winding glen; And when flame wraps the sphere, O'er earth's ashes shall peer The peak of the old granite Ben.

THE BRAES OF MAR.

Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From you my feet must travel far, Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar, Farewell, farewell for ever! Thou lone green glen where I was born, Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn. From thee my heart is rudely torn, And I shall see thee never!

The braes of Mar with heather glow, The healthful breezes o'er them blow, The gushing torrents from them flow, That swell the rolling river. Strong hills that nursed the brave and free, On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee, My widow'd eyne no more shall see Your birchen bowers for ever!

Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui, Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie, Farewell, farewell for ever! In you the rich may stalk the deer, Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer; But oh, the poor man's heart is drear To part from you for ever!

May God forgive our haughty lords, For whom our fathers drew their swords; No tear for us their pride affords, No bond of love they sever. Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar-- The friendless poor is banished far From your green glens for ever!

MY LOVES.

Name the leaves on all the trees, Name the waves on all the seas, Name the notes of all the groves-- Thus thou namest all my loves.

I do love the dark, the fair, Golden ringlets, raven hair, Eye that swims in sunny light, Glance that shoots like lightning bright.

I do love the stately dame And the sportive girl the same; Every changeful phase between Blooming cheek and brow serene.

I do love the young, the old, Maiden modest, virgin bold, Tiny beauties, and the tall-- Earth has room enough for all.

Which is better--who can say?-- Lucy grave or Mary gay? She who half her charms conceals? She who sparkles while she feels?

Why should I confine my love? Nature bids us freely rove; God hath scatter'd wide the fair, Blooms and beauties everywhere.

Paris was a pedant fool, Meting beauty by a rule: Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he Should have chosen all the three.

I am wise, life's every bliss Thankful tasting; and a kiss Is a sweet thing, I declare, From a dark maid or a fair.

LIKING AND LOVING.

Liking is a little boy Dreaming of a sea employ, Sitting by the stream, with joy Paper frigates sailing: Love 's an earnest-hearted man, Champion of beauty's clan, Fighting bravely in the van, Pushing and prevailing.

Liking hovers round and round, Capers with a nimble bound, Plants his foot on easy ground, Through the glass to view it: Love shoots sudden glance for glance, Spurs the steed, and rests the lance, With a brisk and bold advance, Sworn to die or do it.

Liking 's ever on the wing, From new blooms new sweets to bring; Nibbling aye, the nimble thing From the hook is free still: Love 's a tar of British blue, Let mad winds their maddest do, To his haven carded true, As I am to thee still.

WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.

William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother, who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution of 1688.

Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical _brochure_. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present work with the author's permission.

During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.

In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.

RUTH.

The golden smile of morning On the hills of Moab play'd, When at the city's western gate Their steps three women stay'd. One laden was with years and care, A gray and faded dame, Of Judah's ancient lineage, And Naomi her name; And two were daughters of the land, Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth, Their faces wearing still the bloom, Their eyes the light of youth; But all were childless widows, And garb'd in weeds of woe, And their hearts were full of sorrow, And fast their tears did flow.

For the Lord God from Naomi Her spouse and sons had taken, And she and these that were their wives, Are widow'd and forsaken; And wish or hope her bosom knows None other but to die, And lay her bones in Bethlehem, Where all her kindred lie. So gives she now upon the way To Jordan's western waters Her farewell kisses and her tears Unto her weeping daughters: "Sweet daughters mine, now turn again Unto your homes," she said, "And for the love ye bear to me, The love ye bear the dead, The Lord with you deal kindly, And give you joy and rest And send to each a faithful mate To cheer her widow'd breast."

Then long and loud their weeping was, And sore was their lament, And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi, And back to Moab went; But gentle Ruth to Naomi Did cleave with close embrace, And earnest spoke, with loving eyes Up-gazing in her face-- "Entreat me not to leave thee, Nor sever from thy side, For where thou goest I will go, Where thou bidest I will bide, Thy people still my people, And thy God my God shall be, And where thou diest I will die, And make my grave with thee."

So Naomi, not loath, was won Unto her gentle will; And thence, with faces westward set, They fared o'er plain and hill; The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem Rose fair upon their sight, A rock-built town with towery crown, In evening's purple light, Midst slopes in vine and olive clad, And spread along the brook, White fields, with barley waving, That woo'd the reaper's hook.

* * * * *

Now for the sunny harvest field Sweet Ruth her mother leaves, And goes a-gleaning after The maids that bind the sheaves. And the great lord of the harvest Is of her husband's race, And looks upon the lonely one With gentleness and grace; And he loves her for the brightness And freshness of her youth, And for her unforgetting love, Her firm enduring truth-- The love and truth that guided Ruth The border mountains o'er, Where her people and her own land She left for evermore.

So he took her to his home and heart, And years of soft repose Did recompense her patient faith, Her meekly-suffer'd woes; And she became the noblest dame Of palmy Palestine, And the stranger was the mother Of that grand and glorious line Whence sprang our royal David, In the tide of generations, The anointed king of Israel, The terror of the nations: Of whose pure seed hath God decreed Messiah shall be born, When the day-spring from on high shall light The golden lands of morn; Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale Of tenderness and truth-- Of the gentle deed of Boaz And the tender love of Ruth.

SHALLUM.

Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest; Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.

But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger, Shall ne'er to the home of his people return; His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger, No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.

And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion, King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just; For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on, Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.

THOMAS C. LATTO.

A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in 1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile concerns at New York.

Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of "Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in _Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.

THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.

TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_

There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, Whiles mair than in a score; But wae betak' the stouin smack I took ahint the door.

O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore; Fou brawly did my mither hear The kiss ahint the door. The wa's are thick--ye needna fear; But, gin they jeer and mock, I 'll swear it was a startit cork, Or wyte the rusty lock. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal; An' as for me, I could hae crept Into a mouse's hole. The mither look't--saffs how she look't!-- Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. Their 's meikle bliss, &c.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there, As weel micht been in Rome, For by the fire he puff'd his pipe, An' never fash'd his thumb; But, titterin' in a corner, stood The gawky sisters four-- A winter's nicht for me they micht Hae stood ahint the door. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?" The bauld gudewife began; Wi' that a foursome yell got up-- I to my heels and ran. A besom whiskit by my lug, An' dishclouts half-a-score: Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain, At kissin 'hint the door. There 's meikle bliss, &c.

THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.

TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_

Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen On Kenly banks sae grassy, O! Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet, Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet; The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

They glintit slee--the moon and she-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O!-- On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me: She is a dear wee lassie, O! How rapture's pulse was beating fast As Mary to my heart I claspt! Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last-- I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!

She nestled close, like croodlin' doo-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! Unto my breast again, again, I prest her guileless heart sae fain; Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain, The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine-- The widow's ae bit lassie, O! My heart wad break gin I should tyne The widow's ae bit lassie, O! Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight; The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright On me and her, my soul's delight, The widow's ae bit lassie, O!

THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe, The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe; Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan, The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.

The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war, The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar; They close for the struggle where many shall fall, But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.

He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide, No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side; The Camerons gather around him alone-- He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.

The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight-- A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight; But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust! The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.

The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe-- The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe; But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale, For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.

The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe, From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow; They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear? The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.

The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe-- There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go; But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away-- The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.

TELL ME, DEAR.

AIR--_"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."_

Tell me dear! in mercy speak, Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie? Faint the rose is on thy cheek, But still the rose is there, lassie! Away, away each dark foreboding, Heavy days with anguish clouding, Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding, Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie! Day and night I've tended thee, Watching, love, thy changing e'e; Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e, Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!

Willie, lay thy cheek to mine-- Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie! Never mair may lip o' thine Press where it hath lain, laddie! Hark! I hear the angels calling, Heavenly strains are round me falling, But the stroke--thy soul appalling-- 'Tis my only pain, laddie! Yet the love I bear to thee Shall follow where I soon maun be; I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me-- We part to meet again, laddie!

Lay thine arm beneath my head-- Grieve na sae for me, laddie! I'll thole the doom that lays me dead, But no a tear frae thee, laddie! Aft where yon dark tree is spreading, When the sun's last beam is shedding, Where no earthly foot is treading, By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie! Though my sleep be wi' the dead, Frae on high my soul shall speed, And hover nightly round thy head, Although thou wilt na see, laddie.

WILLIAM CADENHEAD.

William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In 1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.

DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?

Do you know what the birds are singing? Can you tell their sweet refrains, When the green arch'd woods are ringing With a thousand swelling strains? To the sad they sing of sadness, To the blythe, of mirth and glee, And to me, in my fond love's gladness, They sing alone of thee! They sing alone of thee, love, Of thee, through the whole day long, And each its own dear charm extols, And each with its own sweet song!

Do you know what the soft winds whisper When they sigh through blooming trees-- When each bough is a choral lisper Of the woodland melodies? To some they seem to be grieving For the summer's short-lived glee; But to me they are always weaving Sweet songs in praise of thee! Sweet songs in praise of thee, love, And telling the flowers below, How far thy charms outshine them all, Though brightly their soft leaves glow!

Do you know what the streamlet trilleth As it glides or leaps along, While the cool green nook it filleth With the gushes of its song? Do you think it sings its dreaming Of its distant home, the sea? Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming Is still of thee, of thee! Is still of thee, of thee, love, Till echoes and woodland fays-- Yea, Nature all is eloquent And vocal in thy praise.

AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.

Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie, As I 've look'd in days gane by, When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie, And answer'd sigh for sigh; When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie, Although poor and lane together, We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie, And were a' to ane anither!

Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie, They ance were dear to me, As the honey-savour'd blossoms To the nectar-hunting bee! It kens whar dwalls the banquets O' the sweetest dewy wine-- And as the chosen flower to it, Sae were thy lips to mine.

I see thy very thochts, Jeanie, Deep in thy clear blue e'e, As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash, When ye sail the midnicht sea; And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie, Though the thochts they are nae mine, For I see there 's nae repentant ane, That they ance were sae langsyne.

Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie-- Ay, that 's the very chime, Whase silver echoes haunted me Through a' my youthfu' prime. Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie, Awake a blessed train Of memories that I thocht had slept To never wake again!

God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie, And your face sae angel fair! May the ane be never pierced wi' grief, Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care; And he wha has your love, Jeanie, May he be dear to thee, As I may aiblins ance have been-- And as thou 'rt still to me!

ALLAN GIBSON.

A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature. His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business. After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in 1850, for the benefit of his family.

THE LANE AULD MAN.

He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek, Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet, For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet By the side o' the lane auld man.