Part 9

To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung; But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung The heart o' the lane auld man.

A leafless tree in life's wintry blast, He stood alane o' his kin the last, For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd, An' left him a lane auld man.

His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize, Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes, Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies; Alack for the lane auld man!

The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife, Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life, Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife, An' heeds na her lane auld man.

Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep, And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet, Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep, The een o' the lane auld man.

Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard, An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward, The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard The last o' the lane auld man.

THE WANDERER'S RETURN.

Shadows of glory the twilight is parting, The day-star is seeking its home in the west, The herd from the field to the fold is departing, As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest. And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea, On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing, To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.

But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander, The faces are gone I have panted to see, And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger, Which once had a seat in its circle for me. Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd, When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay; If care on the light of my happiness linger'd, Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.

Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way, And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her, And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay. While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting, I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains, And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.

Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes, And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines. The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind, Restore me the ties which are parted for ever, And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?

The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling, It came like the sun when unclouded and gay; Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling, But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray. Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu; Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover, And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.

THOMAS ELLIOTT.

The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics, Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his original trade, he has continued to reside.

Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow.

UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil, And bare the brawny arm, To drive the harness'd team afield, And till the fruitful farm; To dig the mine for hidden wealth, Or make the woods to ring With swinging axe and sturdy stroke, To fell the forest king.

With ocean car and iron steed Traverse the land and sea, And spread our commerce round the globe As winds that wander free. Subdue the earth, and conquer fate, Outspeed the flight of time; Old earth is rich, and man is young, Nor near his jocund prime.

Work, and the clouds of care will fly, Pale want will pass away; Work, and the leprosy of crime And tyrants must decay. Leave the dead ages in their urns; The present time be ours, To grapple bravely with our lot, And strew our path with flowers.

CLYDE BOAT SONG.

_Music by A. Hume._

Leave the city's busy throng-- Dip the oar, and wake the song, While on Cathkin Braes the moon Rises with a star aboon: Hark! the boom of evening bells Trembles through the dewy dells. Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, While the golden eventide Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Life 's a river, deep and old, Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold; Now in shadow, then in light, Onward aye, a thing of might; Sons of Albyn's ancient land, Row with strong and steady hand, Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Gaily row, and cheery sing, Till the woodland echoes ring; Row, lads, row; row lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

Hammers on the anvil rest, Dews upon the gowan's breast; Young hearts heave with tender thought, Low winds sigh, with odours fraught, Stars bedeck the blue above, Earth is full of joy and love; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Let your oars in concert beat Merry time, like dancers' feet; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, With the tide, down the Clyde, Row, lads, row.

DIMPLES AND A'.

I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo; Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma', She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'-- Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.

Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge, Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe, Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa', Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'-- Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'-- And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.

I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name, I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame; When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw, She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'-- Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.

When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above, I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love; She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa' Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'. Dimples and a', dimples and a'-- Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.

BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.

A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees, And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze; Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair, To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air. Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind, And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind; And such are human pomp and ambition at the last-- The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng, To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along! 'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar-- Now a revolution, and again a woeful war; A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might; A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light; Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast-- All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age; This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay-- Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away. We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things, That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings; And others yet may rise from the future, like the past, The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.

A SERENADE.

The shadows of evening fall silent around, The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd; While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse, With your love at my heart, your name on my lips; Your name on my lips, like a melody rare-- Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low, They seem to be breathing a burden of woe; They seem to be asking, why am I alone? And why do you tarry, or where are you gone? The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air, And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide, Recall your sweet image again to my side-- Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute; Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot; Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair, And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow, Beside the calm waters that slumber below, While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom, Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume; Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care, When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!

A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.

I 'm a very little man, And I earn a little wage, And I have a little wife, In a little hermitage, Up a quiet little stair, Where the creeping ivy clings; In a mansion near the stars Is my home of little things.

I 've two bonnie little bairns, Full of prattle and of glee, And our little dwelling rings With their laughter, wild and free. Of the greenwoods, all the day, I 've a little bird that sings; It reminds me of my youth, And the age of little things.

I 've no money in the funds, And no steamers on the sea; But my busy little hands Are a treasure unto me. I can work, and I can sing, With a joy unknown to kings; While peace and plenty smile On my bonnie little things.

And when my work is done, In my cosie ingle nook, With my little ones around, I can read a little book. And I thank my lucky stars For whatever fortune brings; I 'm richer than a lord-- I 'm content with little things.

MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.

Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame, Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand, And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.

I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells, The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells, The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand, That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.

I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow, The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow; But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd, And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.

I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea, Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me; Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand, Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.

WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.

Give me the hour when bells are rung, And dinsome wheels are still, When engines rest, and toilers leave The workshop, forge, and mill; With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e, My gudewife welcomes me; Our bairnies clap their wee white hands, And speel upon my knee. When I come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me the bairnies' glee, When I come hame at e'en.

Our lowly bield is neat and clean, And bright the ingle's glow, The table 's spread with halesome fare, The teapot simmers low. How sweet to toil for joys like these With strong and eydent hand, To nurture noble hearts to love, And guard our fatherland. When I come hame at e'en, &c.

Let revellers sing of wassail bowls, Their wines and barley bree; My ain wee house and winsome wife Are dearer far to me. To crack with her of joys to come, Of days departed long, When she was like a wee wild rose, And I a bird of song. When I come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me these memories When I come hame at e'en.

WILLIAM LOGAN.

William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in his native place.

JEANIE GOW.

Ye hameless glens and waving woods, Where Garnock winds alang, How aft, in youth's unclouded morn, Your wilds I 've roved amang. There ha'e I heard the wanton birds Sing blythe on every bough, There first I met, and woo'd the heart O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Dear Jeanie then was fair and young, And bloom'd as sweet a flower As ever deck'd the garden gay Or lonely wild wood bower. The warbling lark at early dawn, The lamb on mountain brow, Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.

Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot Rose by Glengarnock side, And Jeanie was his only stay, His darling and his pride. Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town, To which I ne'er could bow, And stray'd amang the ferny knowes Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.

But, ah! these fondly treasured joys Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast, For Jeanie dear was torn awa' By death's untimely blast. Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds, Ye canna cheer me now, Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.

JAMES LITTLE.

James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother, of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In 1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."

OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.

Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark Across the ocean drear, While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief, And wet wi' sorrow's tear. The flowers that spring upon the Clyde Will bloom for us in vain; Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb Our native hills again.

Amang their glens our fathers sleep, Where mony a thistle waves; And roses fair and gowans meek Bloom owre their lowly graves. But we maun dree a sadder fate Far owre the stormy main; We lang may look, but never see Our native hills again.

Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west, When starnies light the sky, We'll gather round the ingle's side, And sing o' days gane by; And sunny blinks o' joy will come To soothe us when alane, And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb Our native hills again.

HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.

_Music by Alexander Hume._

Sing not to me of sunny shores Or verdant climes where olives bloom, Where, still and calm, the river pours Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume; Give me the land where torrents flash, Where loud the angry cat'racts roar, As wildly on their course they dash-- Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny isles, Though there eternal summers reign, Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles, And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain; Give me the land of mountains steep, Where wild and free the eagles soar, The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep-- Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

Sing not to me of sunny lands, For there full often tyrants sway Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands, While crouching, trembling slaves obey; Give me the land unconquer'd still, Though often tried in days of yore, Where freedom reigns from plain to hill-- Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.

THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.

The happy days of yore! Will they ever come again, To shed a gleam of joy on us, And win the heart from pain? Or will they only come in dreams, When nicht's black curtain 's hung? Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind The days when we were young.

Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power, Brings early scenes to view-- Again we roam among the hills, Sae wat wi' morning dew-- Again we climb the broomy knowes, And sing wi' prattlin' tongue, For we had nae cares to fash us In the days when we were young.

How aft, when we were callants, Hae we sought the ocean's shore, And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats, And heard the billows roar? And aft amang the glancin' waves In daring sport we 've sprung, And swam till we were wearied, In the days when we were young.

In winter, round the ingle side, We 've read wi' kindling e'e, How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold, Aft made the southrons flee; Or listen'd to some bonnie sang, By bonnie lassie sung: Oh! love and happiness were ours, In days when we were young.

Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart That has nae sunny gleams Of by-gane joys in early days, Though it be but in dreams: Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms, Sae aft around him flung, To shield him safe frae earthly harms, In days when he was young:

Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair, That toddled out and in, And ran about the braes wi' him, And play'd wi' meikle din; And his maun be a barren heart, Where love has never sprung, Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by The days when he was young.

LIZZIE FREW.

'Twas a balmy summer gloamin', When the sun had gane to rest, And his gowden beams were glintin' Owre the hills far in the west; And upon the snawy gowan Saftly fell the pearly dew, When I met my heart's best treasure, Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.

Light she tripp'd amang the bracken, While her glossy waving hair Play'd around her gentle bosom, Dancing in the summer air. Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie, Smiles play'd round her rosy mou', And my heart was led a captive By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.

Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie, As I toil the lee-lang day; And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie, Gladly out wi' her I stray. I ask nae for a greater pleasure, Than to ken her heart is true-- I ask nae for a greater treasure, Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.

COLIN RAE BROWN.

The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service, Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821. Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in 1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the establishment in Glasgow of the _North British Daily Mail_, he accepted an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper. When the _Mail_ passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the _Bulletin_ and _Workman_, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in Glasgow.

CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.

Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea, Soon, he 'll set the country free From those that bear the rule and gree In bonnie Caledonia!

Gentle breezes, softly blow, We burn until we meet the foe, And strike the bold decisive blow For king and Caledonia!

Noble hearts are beating high, All will fight, none basely fly, For if they conquer not, they 'll die For ancient Caledonia!

Oh, that Charlie were but here! The base usurper then might fear-- As loud the din fell on his ear Of joy in Caledonia!

Heard ye not that distant hum? And now the pipe, and now the drum, Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come To gladden Caledonia!

Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here! Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear; Hielan' hearts be of good cheer, And on for Caledonia!

THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.

Why gaze on that pale face, Childless one, childless one? Why seek this lonely place? She hath gone, she hath gone.

Thy daughter is not here, Widow'd one, widow'd one-- Nay, wipe away that tear, She hath won, she hath won!

Her home is far away, She 's at rest, she 's at rest, In everlasting day, With the blest, with the blest.

No pains, no sorrows there, All are past, all are past; That sigh summ'd up her care, 'Twas her last, 'twas her last.

'Tis not her there you see, Sister dear, sister dear; That earth holds nought for thee, Draw not near, draw not near.

The place is cold and dark, Haste away, haste away; Corruption is at work-- Soulless clay! soulless clay!