:

EGBERT GRANT. B5

EOBEET GPvANT.

Born 1785 — Died 1838.

The Plight Hon. Sir Egbert Grant, governor of Bankrupts. In 1826 he was elected to Par- of Bombay, was born in the county of Inver- liament for the Inverness district of burghs; ness in 1785. He was descended from one of and he afterwards sat for Norwich and the the most ancient families in Scotland. With new borough of Finsbur}'. He was appointed liis elder brother Charles, the late Lord Glen- one of the commissioners of the Board of Con- elg, he was entered a member of Magdalene trol, was sworn a privy-councillor in 1831, and College, in the University of Cambridge, of the year following was appointed Judge- Advo- which they both became fellows. Here he cate-General. In June, 1834, he received the graduated with the highest honours in 1806, appointment of governor of Bombay, and con- and adopting the profession of the law he was tinued to discharge the duties of this impor-

called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn in 1807. In tant office till the time of his death, which

1813 he published a pamphlet entitled "The took place at Dapoorie July 9, 1838, in his Expediency Maintained of Continuing the Sys- fifty-third year. An elegant volume, entitled tem by which the Trade and Government of "Sacred Poems, by Sir Robert Grant," was India are now Regulated," and also "A Sketch published by Lord Glenelg in 1839. In the of the History of the East India Company from preface he says: — "Many of them have its First Foundation to the Passing of the already appeared in print, either in periodi- Regulating Act of 1773." He held the office cal publications or in collections of sacred of King's Sergeant in the Duchy Court of Lan- poetry; but a few are now published for the caster and was made one of the Commissioners first time."

LITANY.

Saviour: when in dust to thee By the anguished sigh that told Low we bow the adoring knee; Treachery lurked within thy fold, AVhen, repentant, to the skies From thy seat above the sky Scarce we lift our weeping eyes: Hear our solemn litany.

O ! by all thy pains and woe. Suffered once for man below. By thine hour of dire despair. Bending from thy throne on high. By thine agony of prayer, Hear our solemn litany. By the cross, the wail, the thorn, Piercing spear, and torturing scorn. By thy helpless infant years. By the gloom that veiled the skies By thy life of want and tears, O'er the dreadful sacrifice, By thy days of sore distress Listen to our humble cry, In the savage wilderness. Hear our solemn litany. By the dread mysterious hour Of the insulting tempter's power; By the deep expiring groan. Turn, 0! turn a favouring eye, By the sad sepulchral stone, Hear our solemn litany. By the vault whose dark abode Held in vain the rising God

By the sacred griefs that wept ! from earth to heaven restored. O'er the grave where Lazarus slept; Mighty reascended Lord, By the boding tears that flowed Listen, listen to the cry Over Salem's loved abode; Of our solemn litany. —; ; — ;;

86 EOBEET GEANT.

And still, in displeasure, thy goodness was there. Disappointing the hope and defeating the joy. "WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE?" The blossom blush'd bright,but a worm was below The moonlight shone fair, there was blight in Lord of earth! thy bounteous hand the beam; this glorious frame hath planned; Well Sweet whisper'd the breeze, but it whisper'd of AVoods that wave, and hills that tower, woe Ocean rolling in his power; And bitterness flow'd in the soft flowmg stream. All that strikes tlie gaze unsought, All that charms tiie lonely tliought, So eur'd of my folly, yet cured but in imrt, Friendship—gem transcending price, I turn'd to the refuge thy j^ity displayed; Love—a flower from Paradise. And still did this eager and credulous heart Yet, amidst this scene so fair, Weave visions of promise that bloom'd but to fade. Should I cease thy smile to share. What were all its joys to me! I thought that the course of the pilgrim to heaven have I in earth but thee? AVhom W^ould be bright as the summer, and glad as the mom; of heaven! beyond our sight Lord Thou show'dst me the path—it was dark and EoUs a world of purer light: uneven. There, in Love's unclouded reign. All rugged with rock, and all tangled with Parted hands shall clasp again; thorn. Martyrs there, and prophets high. I dream'd of celestial rewards and renown; Blaze—a glorious company; I grasped at the triumph which blesses the AVhile immortal music rings brave; From unnumber'd seraph-strings. I ask'd for the palm-branch, the robe, and the Oh! that world is passing fair; crown Yet, if thou wert absent there. I asked—and thou show'dst me a cross and a What were all its joys to me! gi'ave. Whom have I in heaven but thee? Subdued and instructed, at length to thy will

Lord of earth and heaven I my breast My hopes and my longings I fain would resign Seeks in thee its only rest! 0! give me the heart that can wait and be still. I was lost—thy accents mild Nor know of a wish or a pleasure but thine. Homeward lur'd thy wandering child: I was blind— thy healing ray There are mansions exempted from sin and from Charmed the long eclipse away; woe mortals untrod; Source of every joy I know. But they stand in a region by rivers of joy but they roll not below; Solace of my every woe. There are — Yet should once thy smile divine There is rest —but it dwells in the presence of God. Cease upon my soul to shine. What were earth or heaven to me! AVhom have I in each but thee?

COMFORT UNDER AFFLICTION.

AVhen gathering clouds around I view. "BLESSED LS THE MAN AA'HOM THOU And days are dark, and friends are few. CHASTENEST." On him I lean who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain: Saviour! whose mercy, severe in its kindness. He sees my wants, allays my fears, Has chasten'd my wanderings and guided my And counts and treasures up my tears. way; Ador'd be the power which illumin'd my blind- If aught should tempt my soul to stray ness, From heavenly wisdom's narrow way; And wean'd me from i>hantoms that smil'd to To fly the good I would pursue. betray. Or do the sin I would not do;

Enclianted with all that was dazzling and fair, Still he who felt temptation's power I follow'd the rainbow—1 caught at the toy; Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. !

GEOEGE BEATTIE. 87

If wounded love my bosom swell, In my parent ocean's breast Deeeiv'd by those I prized too well, I hasten away!" He shall his pitying aid bestow, Who felt on earth severer woe; Many a dark morass. At once betrayed, denied, or fled, Many a craggy pass. By those who shared his daily bread. Thy feeble force must pass; Yet, yet delay If vexing thoughts within me rise, " Tho' the marsh be dire and deep, And, sore dismay'd, my spirit dies; Tho' the crag be stern and steep. Still he who once vouchsafed to bear On, on my course must sweep, The sickening anguish of despair. I may not stay; Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry. For oh ! be it east or west. The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. To a home of glorious rest In the bright sea's boundless breast, When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend. 1 hasten away!" Which covers what Avas once a friend, And from his voice, his hand, his smile, The warbling bowers beside thee, Divides me—for a little while, The laughing flowers that hide thee, Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed. With soft accord they chide tiiee. For thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead. Sweet brooklet, stay! " taste of the fragrant flowers, And 0! when I have safely past I I respond to the warbling bowers, Through every conflict —but the last. And sweetly they charm the hours Still, still, unchanging, watch beside Of my winding way; My painful bed— for thou hast died; ceaseless still, in quest Then point to realms of cloudless day. But that everlasting rest And wipe the latest tear away. Of In my parent's boundless breast, I hasten away!"

THE BROOKLET. Know'st thou that dread abyss? Is it a scene of bliss? Sweet brooklet ever gliding, Oh! rather cling to this, Now high the mountain riding, Sweet brooklet, stay! The lone vale now dividing, "0! who shall fitly tell Whither away? What wonders there may dwell? well " With pilgrim course I flow. That world of mystery Or in summer's scorching glow, Might strike dismay; ' breast. Or o'er moonless wastes of snow. But I know 'tis my parent's Nor stop, nor stay; There held, I must need be blest. For oh! by high behest. And with joy to that promised rest To a bright abode of rest, I hasten away!"

GEOEGE BEATTIE,

Born 17S6 — Died 1823.

could George Beattie, a man who, both from the The son of a crofter, who in the season to support value of the poetry he left behind him, and take to salmon-fishing to help him brought up in a the tragic nature of the closing years of his his family, he was born and which boasted only of a "but brief life, has claims on the sympathetic re- small cottage, three brothers and membrance of a generation other than his own, and a ben," along with his every morning was born in 1786 in the parish of St. Cyrus, two sisters, who went regularly parish school. These in the south-east corner of Kincardineshire. in merry band to the ———— —

88- GEORGE BEATTIE.

were the days of simple homely pleasures and He soon established for himself the reputation rural festivities, when the more serious business of being both a humorist and a poet by his

of life was enlivened at stated periods by the poem of "John o' Arnha'," the first sketch of merrymakings of Hallowe'en, Hogmanay, Yule, which appeared in the columns of the Montrose Tasch Saturday, and earlin play at harvest- Revieiv in 1815. In this shape the poem is bare home, and George's nature seems to have been and meagre compared with its finished form. It considerably influenced by the frolic and sim- was afterwards extended to four times its ori- plicity of these rustic rites. When he was ginal length, and made much richer and fuller. about thirteen years of age his father obtained Six years later the tragic interest of Beattie's a situation in the excise, and this led the life begins, but we cannot more than briefly family to remove to Montrose, a distance of outline the storj'. After successfully wooing about five miles. It was probably with some a certain lady, she inherits a large fortune, sorrow that the children left their pretty and, abandoning the humble poet for a more country home, and it is said that George aristocratic suitor, who is suddenly smitten walked all the distance to their new abode with her solid charms, the sensitive Beattie is with a tame "kae" (jackdaw) on his shoulder. so overwhelmed with grief and despair that he Some time after the family settled at Mon- provides himself with a pistol, walks out to a trose George was sent to learn a trade, but favourite resort known as the Auld Kirkyard, he continued at it a very short time. He and is found the following day lying dead by managed to procure a situation as clerk in an the side of his sister's grave. Since the time office in Aberdeen. His employer died six of his death (September 29, 1823) his poetical weeks later, however, and left to his clerk a writings have passed through several editions. legacy of ^50. This was quite a little capital The latest collection is accompanied by an in- to the young man. He returned to Montrose, teresting memoir of the poet from the pen of and entered the office of the procurator-fiscal A. S. M*Cyrus, M.A.; also memoranda from

of the place. After passing a year or two in manuscripts . left by Beattie. His principal Edinburgh he commenced business for himself poem, "John o' Arnha'," is full of wild rollick- in Montrose as a writer. In this capacity he inff fun and humour, and has been well called succeeded well, and attracted many friends by an amplified and localized "Tam o' Shanter." the kindliness of his manner, the accuracy of Mingled with its grotesque imagery there is a

his official habits, and his conversational gifts. vein of deep pathos.

JOHN 0' ARNHA'.

(extract.)

It was in May, ae bonny morn, The lammies frisket o'er the lea When dewie draps refresh'd the corn. Wi' music rang ilk bush and tree. And tipt ilk stem wi' crystal bead, That glissent o'er the spangelt mead l^ow "sighs and vows," and kisses sweet Like gleam o' swords in fairy wars, The sound of lightly-tripping feet As thick and clear as heaven's stars; Love's tender tale—the sweet return While Phoebus shot his gowden rays The plaints of some still doomed to mourn; Asklent the lawn—a dazzling blaze; The rustic jest and merry tale The wind but gently kissed the trees, Came floating on the balmy gale; To waft their balm upon the breeze; For smiling, on the road were seen The bee commenced her eident tour, Baith lads and lasses, trig and clean, Culling sweets frae ilka flower; Linkin' blythely pair and pair, The whins in yellow bloom were clad, To grace Montrose's annual fairl^ And ilka bush a bridal bed; Montrose, "wham ne'er a town surpasses" A' nature smil'd serene and fair; For GroAvling Guild and ruling Asses! specific The la'rocks chantit i' the air; For pedants, Avith each apt —— ———————

GEORGE BEATTIE. 89

render To barren brains prolific; A wicked scandalous digression ; For poetasters, who conspire By bards of yore who sang of gods, To rob Apollo of his lyre, Clep'd underplots and episodes: Although they never laid a leg But, "Muse, be kind, an' dinna fash us Athort his godship's trusty naig; To flee awa' ayont Parnassus,"

For preachers, writers, and physicians Or fill our brains wi' lies and fiction. Parasites and politicians: Else fouk will scunner at your diction. And all accomplished, grave, and wise, Or sae appear in their own eyes! I sing not of an ancient knight, To wit and lair, too, make pretence, Wi' polish'd lance and armour bright; !" E'en sometimes " deviate into sense Nor, as Ave say, wi' book bedeckit A path right kittle, steep, and latent, In iron cap and jinglin' jecket, And only to a few made patent. High mounted on a champion steed, So, lest it might offend the sentry, Enough to fley puir fouk to deid^ I winna seek to force an entry, Or modern Du.x, wi' noddin' crest. But leav't to bards inspir'd and holy, An' starnies glancin' on his breast And tread the open field of folly; Or garter wappin' round his knee For certes, as the world goes, To celebrate his chivalry; — Nonsense in rhyme's as free's in pi'ose; Heroes fit for southern bardies! And are we not distinctly told Mine walks a-foot and wields his gardies; By Hudibras, in days of old, Or, at the warst, his aiken rung, That "Those who write in rhyme still make Wi' which he never yet was dung, The one verse for the other's sake; Unless by more than mortal foe And one for sense and one for rhyme By demons frae the shades below Is quite sufficient at a time." As will be seen in proper time, Provided I can muster rhyme. As for your critics, ruin seize them,

I I ken canna sing to please them ; The valiant hero of my story A reason guid— 1 dinna try— Now rang'd the fair in all his glory, They're but a despicable fry, A winsome strapper trim and fettle, That vend their venom and their ink, Courting strife, to show his mettle. Their praise and paper eke for clink. An' gain him favours wi' the fail' Thae judges partial, self-elekit, For dastard coofs they dinna care. AVliy should their sentence be respeckit; Your snools in love, and cowards in war, AVhy should the silly squeamish fools Frae maiden grace are banished far; Think fouk will mind their measur'd rules; An' John had stak'd his life, I ween. They spill not ink for fame or glory, For favour frae a lassie's een; Nor paper blacken con amove; Stark love his noble heart had fir'd 'Tis Mammon aye their pens inspire, To deeds o' pith his soul aspir'd; They praise or damn alike for hire: Tho' these, in distant climes, he'd shown, An', chapman-like, their critic treasure 'Twas meet to act them in his own. Is bought and sold again by measure; Some barrister new ta'en degrees Now thrice he wav'd his hat in air

(Whase purse is lank for lack o' fees), Thrice dar'd the bravest i' the fair. Or churchman just come frae the college, The Horner also wav'd his bonnet, Wi' skull weel cramm'd wi' classic knowledge, But wish'd belyve he hadna dune it; Draw pen to land .some weary bard. For scarcely could ye counted sax, Or deal damnation by the yard. Before a double round o' whacks But first they toss them up a maik, AVere shower'd upon his bancs like hail. To learn what course they ought to take; Eight, left, and centre, crack pell-mell If "tails," the critics quickly damn him. Sair to bide, and terrible to tell. If " heads," wi' fousome flattery cram him. The hardest head could ne'er resist In either case they're paid their wages. The fury of his pond'rous fist; Just by the number o' their pages. He hit him on the ribs sic dirds, They raird and roove like rotten girds; How soon are mortals led astray His carcass, too, for a' the warl', Already I am off my way; Was like a butt or porter barrel. I've left my bonny tale, to fesli in Now John gaed round him like a cooper, —

90 GEORGE BEATTIE.

An' showed himsel' a smart tub hooper; Was solemn and low, and they spoke the language " \Vi' mony a snell an' vengefu' j^aik, Of the days of other years." In seeming He gar'd his sides an' midriff ake; Woo, they spoke of events long gone by; and Upon his head-piece neist he hammert, Marvelled at the changes that had taken Place since they left Until the Horner reel'd and stammert; this mortal scene, to sleep Within the dark and narrow He cried out, " Mercy! phigue upon itl" house. Voices Issued from the mould, where no fomis were seen; Up gaed his heels— aif flew his bonnet, These were still more hollow and sepulchral; An' raise to sic a fearfu' height, They were as the sound of the cold, bleak wind, It soon was lost to mortal sight: In the dark and danky vaults of death, when Some said, that witnessed the transaction, It moans low and mournful, through the crannies 'Twas cleckit by the moon's attraction, Of tlieir massive doors, shattered by the hand Or nabbit by the fairy legions. Of time—a serenade for owls most meet. To whirl tiiem througli the airy regions. And such the raven loves, and hoarsely croaks His hollow response from the blasted yew. Often have I heard, when but a stripling, 'Twas meet to speak a troubled ghost, to give It peace to sleep within the silent grave. With clammy brow, and joints palsied with fear, THE DREAM. I said, in broken accents, " What means this Awful congress, this wild and wan array Last night I dreamed a dream of horror. Me- Of shadowy shapes, gliding here, and moaning

tliought At the silent, solemn hour of midnight ? That, at the hour of midnight, the bell tolled. Have the crying sins, and unwhipt crimes

With slow and solemn peal ; and straight, beneath Of mortals, in these latter days, reached you The pale cold moon, a thousand spectres moved, Ev'n in the grave, where silence ever reigns. In "dread array," along "the church-way path," At least as we believe? Or complain ye All swathed in winding-sheets as white as snow Of holy rites unpaid, —or of the crowd A ghastly crew! Methought I saw tlie graves Whose careless steps those sacred haunts pro- Yawn and yield up their charge; and I heard the fane." Coffins crack, and the deadal drapery Straight a fleshless hand, cold as ice, was pressed Rustic against their hollow sides, like the Upon my lips; and the spectres vanished Wing of the renovated chrysoly. Like dew before the morning sun: and as As they flutter against the ruins of They faded on my sight a sound was heard Their winter dormitory, when the voice Like the peal of many organs, solemn. Of spring awakes them from their drowsy conch. Loud, and sonorous; or like the awful To float aloft upon the buxom air. Voice of thunder in the sky, —or mighty Although the round full moon shone bright Tempest, roaring in a boundless forest, and clear. Uprooting trees, razing habitations. Yet did none of these awful phantoms cast And sweeping the earth with desolation; Their shadows on the wan and silent earth, Or like the voice of millions, raised in song; Nor was the passing breeze interrupted Or the dark ocean, howling in its wrath; By their presence. Some skimmed along the Or, rather, like all these together, in earth, One wild concert joined. Now the mighty coil And others sailed aloft on the thin air; Died gradually away, till it resembled And I observed, when they came between me The last murmur of the blast on the hill; And the moon, they interrupted not her Of storms, when it lulls itself to rest; and Pale rays; for I saw her majestic orb The echo of its wrath is faintly heard Distinct, round, and clear, through their indistinct In the valley; or the last sigh of the And airy forms; and although they moved ^olian harp, when the breeze, that erewhilo Betwixt me and the tomb-stones, yet I read Kissed its trembling strings, is spent and breath- Their sculpture (deeply shaded by the bright less! And piercing beams of the moon) as distinctly The next whisper was still lower; and the last As if nought, dead or living, interposed Was so faint and feeble that nothing seemed Between my eyes and the cold monuments. To live between it and silence itself. The bell ceased to toll; and when the last peal The awful stillness was more appalling Died away on the ear, these awful forms Than its dread precursor; and I awoke Congregated in various groups, and seemed In terror! But I never shall forget To hold converse. The sound of their voices What I heard and saw in that horrid dream. JOHN DONALD CAEEICK. 91

JOHN DONALD CAEEICK.

Born 1787 — Died 1837.

John Donald Carrick, a meritorious but velling agent in the "West Highlands. After- xinsuccessful literary man, and the autiior of wards he became assistant editor of the Scots numerous songs and poems chiefly of a humor- Times, a newspaper then published in Glasgow. ous character, was born at Glasgow, April, To the first volume of Whistle-Binkie Mr. 1787. His parents, being in humble circum- Carrick contributed the subjoined and many stances, could only afford their son an ordinary other songs, which he used to sing with in- education; and at an early age he was placed imitable effect. In 1833 he went to Perth as in the office of an architect in his native city. editor of the Advertiser, and the year following In his twentieth year, unknown to his parents, accepted the editorship of the Kilmarnock he left Glasgow, and travelled to London on Journal. In 1835 he returned to Glasgow, foot, there to seek his fortune. On his arrival owing to ill health, and superintended the he offered his services in various places in vain, first edition of the Laird of Logan, an un- but at last found employment with a fellow- rivalled collection of Scottish anecdote and countryman who took compassion on the friend- facetiae, to which he was the principal contri- less lad. For some time he was employed by butor. Mr. Carrick died August 17, 1S37, a house in the pottery business, and in 1811 and was interred in the burying-ground of the he returned to Glasgow, and opened a large High Church— of his native city. His biogra- china and stonewai-e establishment, in which pher says: "We may observe generally, that trade he continued for fourteen years. In 1825, as a descriptive painter of the comic and ludi- being deeply read in old Scottish literature, crous aspects of man and society, and as equally he began the preparation of a '•' Life of Sir skilful in the analysis of human character, AVilliam Wallace," which was written for Con- combined with a rare and never-failing humour, stable's Miscellany. The same year he gave a pungent but not malicious irony, and great up his own business, and was for some time ease and perspicuity of expression, few writers employed by a Glasgow house as their tra- have surpassed John Donald Carrick."

THE MUIRLAN' COTTAES.

" make it "The snaw flees thicker o'er the muir, and That time I often think upon, and heavier grows the lift; aye my care, The shepherd closer wraps his plaid to screen On nichts like this, to snod up a' the beds Ave him frae the drift; hae to spare; drift-driven strangers come for- I fear this night will tell a tale among our In case some foldless sheep, foughten to our beild. shall be to what That will mak many a farmer sigh—God grant An' welcome, welcome they nae widows weep! the house can yield.

that nicht, " I'm blythe, guidman, to see you there, wi' "'Twas God that saved you on despair. elshin an' wi' lingle when a' was black to him for makin' you Sae eydent at your cobbling wark beside the An' gratitude is due cosie ingle; his care; let show our grateful sense of the It brings to mind that fearfu' nicht, i' the spring Then us bestowed. that's now awa', kindness he that wanders AVhen you was carried thowlass hame, frae An' cheer the poor wayfaring man road. 'neath a wreath o' snaw. frae his —: —

92 JOHN DONALD CAERICK.

"There's cauld and drift without, guidman, Thus aft it comes the gracious deeds whii-li we might drive a body blin', to others show But, Praise be blessed for a' that's guid, there's Return again to our own hearts with joyous meat and drink within; overflow. An' be he beggar, be he prince, that Heaven directs this way, His bed it shall be warm and clean, his fare the best we hae." THE SOXG OF THE SLAVE.

The guidman heard her silentlie, an' threw England! dear home of the lovely and true. his elshin by. Loved home of the brave and the free. For his kindlie lieart began to swell, and the Though distant—though wayward—the path I tear was in his eye; pursue, He rose and pressed hisfaithfu' wife sae loving My thoughts shall ne'er wander from thee. to his breast, Deep, in my heart's core. While on her neck a holy kiss his feelings deep Rests the print of thy shore. die impression fades never. expressed. From a whose And the motto impressed By this die on my breast "Yes, Mirran, yes, 'twas God himself that Is " England, dear England, for ever," helped us in our strait, May blessings rest on thee for ever! An' gratitude is due to him — his kindness it was great; As Queen, she sits throned with her scejitre of An' much I thank thee thus to mak' the light stranger's state thy care, Aloft on the white-crested wave. An' bless thy tender heart, for sure the grace While billows surround her, as guards of her right of God is there." To an island where breathes not a slave. And her sceptre of light Nor prince nor beggar was decreed their kind- Shall, through regions of night. ness to partake; Shed a radiance like darts from day's quiver. The hours sped on their stealthy pace as silent' Till the unfetter'd slaves. as the flake. To the queen of the waves, " Till on the startled ear there came a feeble Shout Freedom and England for ever," ever! cry of woe. May blessings rest on thee for As if of some benighted one fast sinking in the How often hath fame, with his trumpet's loud snow. blast. Praised the crimes of mock heroes in war, But help was near an' soon a youth, in hod- — Whose joy was to revel o'er nations laid waste. den gray attire, And drag the fallen foe to their car! Benumbed with cold, extended, lay before the But a new law from heaven. cottars' fire; Hath by England been given Mirran his Kind thow'd frozen hands, the To fame—and from which she'll ne'er sever guidman rubbed his breast, " No hero but he An' soon the stranger's glowin' cheeks return- Who saves and sets free," ing life confess'd. Saith England, free England, for ever, May blessings rest on thee for ever! How it comes the gracious deeds which we to others show, Pieturn again to our own hearts wi' joyous overflow! THE HARP AND THE HAGGIS. So fared it with our simple ones, who found the youth to be At that tide when the voice of the turtle is dumb. only son, they told Their whom were had And winter wi' drap at his nose doth come,— perish'd far at sea. A whistle to mak' o' the castle lum. To souf his music sae sairlie, 0! The couch they had with pions care for some And the roast on the speet is sapless and sma'; lone stranger spread And meat is scant in chamber and ha'. Heaven gave it as a resting-place for their And the knichts hae ceased their merry guffaw,

lov'd wanderer's head For lack o' thou- warm canarie, ! ,! — —.

ALEXANDEE LAING. 93

Then the Harp and the " Haggis began a dispute, But what is the harp to put in the mouth ? 'Bout whilk o'theircharms were in highest repute; It fills nae the wame, it slaiks nae the drouth, The Haggis at first as a haddie was mute, At least—that is my way o' thinking, ! An' the Harp went wi' on her vapourin', ! An' lofty and loud were the tones she assumed, " A tune's but an air, but a haggis is meat, — An' boasted how ladies and kniclits gaily plumed, An' wha plays the tune that a body can eat ?— Through rich gilded halls, all so sweetly perfumed When a haggis is seen wi' a sheep's head and feet,

To the sound of her strings word she has ! went a caperin', ! My gallant attendance, A man wi' sic fare may ne'er pree the tangs. " While the Haggis," she said, " was a beggarly But laugh at lank hunger though sharp be her slave, fangs;

An' never was seen 'mang the fair an' the brave;" But the bard that maun live by the wind o' his "Fuff! fuff!" quo' the Haggis, " thou vile lying sangs,

knave, Waes me, has a puir dependence, !

Come tell us the use of thy twanging, ? Can it fill a toom wame? can it help a man's pack? " How often we hear, wi' the tear in our eye. A minstrel when out may come in for his snack, How the puir starving minstrel, exposed to the But when starving at hame will it keep him, alack sky, Fra trying his hand at the hanging, 0?" Lays his head on his harp, and breathes out his last sigh. The twa they grew wud as wud could be, Without e'er a friend within hearing, ! But a minstrel boy they chanced to see, But wha ever heard of a minstrel so crost, Wha stood list'ning bye, an' to settle the plea, Lay his head on a haggis to gie up the ghost ?—

They begged he would try his endeavour, ! never, since time took his scythe frae the post, For the twa in their wrath had all reason forgot. An' truntled awa' to the shearing, ! And stood boiling with rage just like peas in a pot. " Now I'll settle your plea in the crack o' a whup: But a haggis, ye ken, aye looks best when it's hot. Gie the haggis the lead be't to dine or to sup: Till the bags are well filled, there So his bowels were moved in his favour, ! can no drone get up,— " Nocht pleasures the lug half sae weel as a tune, Is a saying I learned from my mither, ! An' whar hings the lug wad be fed wi' a spoon?" When the feasting is owre, let the harp loudly The Harp in a triumph cried, "Laddie, weel twang. done," An' soothe ilka lug wi' the charms o' her sang, An' her strings wi' delight fell a tinkling, 0! An' the wish of my heart is, wherever ye gang, " The Harjj'sa brav/ thing," continued the youth, Gude grant ye may be thegither, 0!"

ALEXANDEB LAING.

Born 1787 — Died 1857.

Alexander Laing, familiarly kno^yn as ness, at which he continued for fourteen years, "the Brechin poet," was born at Brechin, when he was accidentally disabled by a heavy Forfarshire, Jlay 14, 1787. His education at plank falling upon his shoulder. On recover- school was exceedingly limited, having been ing from the accident he turned packman, a there only during two winters; but the want business which he carried on until within a was largely supplied by the careful liome- short period of his death. training of his parents and his own self-appli- Laing'seffusionsfirstappearedinthecolumns cation. When only eight years old he was of provincial newspapers. In 1819 several employed herding cattle during the summer songs from his pen were publislied in the Harp months, and while thus engaged he read many of Caledonia, edited by John Struthers, and of the modern Scottish poets. He was after- he subsequently became a contributor to the wards apprenticed to the flax-dressing busi- Harp of lienfreicshire and Smith's Scottish — — :— —; ! —;

94 ALEXANDEE LAING.

Minstrel. In 1846 he published by subscrip- Angus Album, published in 1833; contributed tion a collected edition of his poems and songs facetke to the Laird of Logan; and edited an under the designation of Wayside Flowers. edition of his favourite song-writer Robert A second edition appeared in 1850, and a few Tannahill. It is also worthy of mention that days befjre the poet's death a third edition the improvement which took place in the was published, with illustrative notes and penny chap-book and ballad literature of additions by the author. His extensive and Scotland was owing in some measure to Laing, reliable information regarding the poets and who carefully superintended the Bi-echin edi- poetry of Scotland brought liim into corres- tions of those once celebrated pieces, often pondence with some of the more celebrated enriching them with short historical or bio- poets of the day, from many of whom he graphical sketches. received presentation copies of their works. Mr. Laing died at Brechin, October 14, 1857, He edited two editions of Burns; furnished aged seventy. A handsome marble tablet has his friend Allan Cunningham Avith numerous been erected over his grave by the church in notes for his four volumes of Scottish songs; Brechin, of which he was for many years a compiled the biographical notices for the consistent and valued office-bearer.

ARCHIE ALLAN.

Ay! poor Archie Allan— I hope he's no poor! Themsel's an' but ae lassie-bairn was a'; A mair dainty neebour ne'er entered ane's door Sae wi' workin' an' winnin', wi' savin' an' care, An' he's worn awa' frae an ill-doin' kin, They gather'd an' gather'd nae that little gear. Frae a warld o' trouble, o' sorrow, an' sin. Wad ye hear o' the hardships that Arcliie befel ? Yet nae narrow bodies—nae niggards were they Then listen a-wee, an' his story I'll tell. Nae slaves to the warld, to want, an' to ha'e; Tho' they ken'd weel aneuch a' the bouk o' their Now twice twenty towmonts an' twentj'^ are gane ain. Sin' Archie an' 1 could ha'e ranket as men They wad tak', they wad gi'e—they wad borrow Sin' we cou'd ha'e left ony twa o' our eild, or len'; At a' kinds o' farm-wark, at hame or a-field; Whan a friend or a neebour gaed speerin' their Sin' we cou'd ha'e carried the best bow o' bere. weel,

An' thrown the fore-hammer out-owre ony pair. They had meal i' the bannock, an' maut i' the yill; An! then we were forward, an' flinty, an' young. They had hearts that could part, they had hands An' never ance ken'd what it was to be dung; that were free. We were lang fellow-servants and neebours fu' An' leuks that bade welcome, as warm as cou'd be; dear: Gaed ye in—cam' ye out, they wei'e aye, aye the Folk ne'er thocht o' flittin' then ilka half-year. same; There's few now-a-days 'mang our neebours like When he was the bridegroom, an' Mary his bride, them Mysel' an' my Jeanie were best man an' maid 'Twas a promise atween us —they cou'dna refuse Thus, blythesome an' happy, time hasten'd awa', Had our bridal been first, they had gotten the Till their dochter was twenty, or twenty an' twa. gloe's. Whan she, a' the comfort an' hope o' their days, Fell into some dowie, some ling'rin' disease. Aweel, they were married, an' mony were there. Lang ill was the lassie, an' muckle she bure, An' Luve never low'd on a happier pair; Monie cures they gi'ed till her, but death winna For Archie had nae woman's skaith he could rue, cure An' Mary was sakeless o' breaking her vow. She dwyn'd like a gowan 'mang newly mawn grass They had lo'ed ither lang, an' the day was to be Some luve disappointment, they said, ail'd the When their ain gather'd penny wad set them up lass

free; Ay ! happen what may, there maun aye be a Sae clear o' the warld, an' can tie, an' weel. mean:

They thrave out an' in, like the buss i' the beil'; Her grave wasna sad, an' her truff wasna green, Their wants werena monie, their family was Whan Mary, her mither, a' broken an' pin'd sma' Wi' trachle o' bodv, wi' trouble o' mind. — ! ! ! ———

ALEXANDER LAING. 95 again— Was reliev'd frae her sorrows—was also weel 'Twas a' very g-ude he shou'd marry dreaiie his lane; sair'd, A man in a house is but he wad ever tak ane for a wife, An' laid by her bairn i' the silent kirk -yard But to think Wha had liv'd sic a loose an' a throwither life Wha had been far an' near whar it cou'dna be 0! sirs, sic a change! it was waesome to see; nam'd, But Ufe's like a journey, an' changes maun be; An' was come o' a family but little esteem'd Whan the day o' prosperity seems but at noon, believ't; To think he wad tak' her ! I cou'dna The nicht o' adversity aften comes down: But I was, an' mony forbye were deceiv't; I've lived till my locks are as white as the snaw. For, the Sabbath thereafter, wha think ye was Till the friends of my youth are a' dead an' awa'; cried? At death-bed an'^burial nae stranger I've been, But Archibald Allan an' Marg'ret Muresyde ! But sorrow like Archie's I've never yet seen; The death o' his lassie I ken'd it was sair. Weel, how they forgather'd an' a' that befel, But the death o' her mither was harder to bear; tell. Tho' it's painful to speak o't, ye'll msh me to For a' that was lovely, an' a' that was leal. She cam' in-about here as it happened to fa'. He had lost i' the death o' his Mary Macneill An' was nearest door neebour to him that's awa'; An' seein' a fu' house an' a free-hearted man. buryin' was bye, an' relations a' gane; Whan the That ken'dna the warld, wi' her wiles she began— i' the house, wae an' wearie, his lane. Whan left Seem'd sober an' decent as ony ye'll see, neebour wad do, I gaed yont the gate-end. As a As quiet an' prudent as woman cou'd be— gloamin' wi' Archie to spend; An hour i' the Was aye brawly busket, an' tidy, an' clean, our neighbour may sune be our fa'. For the fate o' An' aye at the kirk on the Sabbath was seen— are near us when kindred's awa'. An' neebours AVas better nor monie, an' marrow't by few, spak' o' the changes that time ever brings, We Till a' cam' about as she wish'd it to do; nature of a' earthly things, Of the frail fadin' But scarcely her hand and her troth he had ta'en, life an' its blessings—that we ha'e them in len'; Of Till she kyth'd in her ain dowie colours again. when he wills, has a right to his That the Giver, They had a short courtship, a brief honeymune! ain; It's aye rue'd at leisure what's owi-e rashly dune. That here though we ha'e nae continuin' hame, the promise is sure i' the Peace-maker's atweel, How We've a' our ain fau'ts an' our failin's, name. But Maggy Muresyde! she's a bauld Ne'er-do- To them that wi' patience, wi' firmness, and faith, weel I in his merits, and trust in his death; Beheve An' the warst o' it was, in an unlucky hour the coffin, an' pale windin'-sheet. To them, though She'd gotten ilk plack o' the purse in her pow'r; the cauld grave divide them, in heaven Though An' sune did she lift it, an' sune, sune it gaed— they shall meet In pennies 'twas gathered, in pounds it was spread; an' a blest meetin' there, Shall yet ha'e a blythe Her worthless relations, an' ithers siclike. separation an' sorrow nae mair. To ken Cam' in about swarmin' like bees till a bike; An' they feasted, an' drank, an' profaned the Thus kindly conversin', we aften beguiled blest Name, a' The hours o' the gloamin', till tliree summers An' Sabbath an' Saturday— was the same. smil'd; Waes me! it was sair upon Archie to see Till time in its progress had yielded relief. The walth he had won, an' laid up a' sae free. Had dealt wi' his mem'ry, an' lessen'd his grief— To comfort an' keep him when ailin', or auld, Though nae like the man I had seen him, 'tis true, Sae squander'd by creatures sae worthless an' grew. Yet fell knief an' cantie my auld neebour bauld; An' sair was he troubled to think o' their sin, they wad ha'e to gi'e in; Sometime then-about, as it happened to be, An' the awfu' account three. griev'd as he was at the rash lives they led, I hadna seen Archie for twa weeks or Yet, it was ill that they did! Whan ae night a near neebour woman cam' ben. He durstna ance say An' says, " Ha'e ye heard o' the news that's But time an' your patience wad fail me to tell a-gaun ? an' folk nor How she spent an' abus'd baith his means It's been tell'd me sin' mornin' by mae himsel'. ane. constant an' on, as the rin o' the burn. That our friend Archie Allan was beuket yes- For hand it was never but in an ill turn- treen." Her Till siller, an' gear, an' a' credit were gane— " Aweel, weel," quo' I, " it e'en may be sae, Till he hadna a penny, or aught o' his ain— There's aye heart wi' auld fouk, we'll a' get a day;" his brow to be, Till age an' vexation had wrinkl'd But when it was tell'd wha the bride was in his mou' lie! TiU he hadna a morsel to put I heard, but said naething—I thocht it a — — — —

9C ALEXANDER LAING.

Aweel, neither able to want nor to win, He had ane bizzy houre at nicht, Ae mornin' last week, ere the daj'-licht cam' in, Atweene the twall and ane; Thro' the lang eerie muLrs, an' the cauld plashy snaw, And thouch the sna" was never so deip, Wi' his staff in his hand he had wander'd awa', So wylde the wynde or rayne, To seek a fa'n bit for his daily supply, He ran ane errant ia a wiieip. An' to thole the down-leuk o' the proud an' the The Brownie of Fearnden! high. 0! had I but seen him when he gaed a-field, Ae nicht the gudewyfe of the house I wad ta'en him inbye to my aiii couthie bield; Fell sicke as sicke could be. An' wi' my auld neebour shar'd frankly an' free. And for the skilly mammy- wyfe My bannock, my bed, an' my hindmost bawbee! She wantit ane to gae;

How far he had gane—how he'd far'd thro' the Tlie nicht was darke, and never a sparkc day, AVald venture doun the glen. What trials he had met wi', I eanna weel say; For feir that he micht heir or see the o' the But whan gray hour gloamin' fell down. The Brownie of Fearnden! He sought the fire-side o' some distant farm- town But Brownie was na far to seeke, Wi' the door halflin's up, an' the sneck in his For Aveil he heard the stryfe; han'. And ablynis thocht, as weil lie mychte. He faintly inquir'd—wad they lodge a poor man? They sune wald tyne the wyfe: The mistress gaz'd on him, an' dryhe she spak', "We may lodge you the nicht, but ye maunna He afFe and brankis the ryding mear, come back" And throch the wynde and rayne; Said beggars and gang'rels were grown unco rife And sune was at the skilly wyfe's, Speer'd what place he cam' frae gin he had a — livit owre the den! wife? Wha Ay! that was a question! 0! sirs, it was sair; He pullifc the sneke, and out he spak', Had he no ha'en a u-ife, he had never been there! That she micht bettere heir, Cauld, cauld at their backs thro' the evenin' he "Thair is a mothere byrth. sat, wald gyve But hasna strengthe to beir. An' cauld was the bed an' the beddin' he gat, The floor an' the roof-tree was a' they could spare, "0 ryse! ryse! and hape you weil. An' he lay down, alas! but to rise never mair. To keip you fra the rayne." Was ho lang or sair ill, there was nane heard nor saw, " Whaur do you want me?" quoth the wyfe. Gin day-licht poor Archie had worn awa'! "0 whaur but owre the den!" Wha anco wad ha'e thocht it that he wad ha'e been Whan baytlic waur mountit on the mear. ryding up the glen; A beggar, an' dee't in a bam a' his lane! And But we needna think this will, or that winna be. "0 watt ye, laddy," quoth the wyfe, For, the Linger we live, the mae uncos we see. "Gyne we be neir the den?

"Are we com neir the den?" she said; "Tush! wyshte, ye fule!" quoth he, "For Avaure na ye ha'e in your armis, THE BROWNIE OF FEAEXDEN. This nicht ye wynna see!"

Thair livit ane man on Norinsyde, They sune waur landit at the doore. Whan Jamis lielde his aine; The wyfe he handit doun lie had ane maylen faire and wyde, "I've lefte the house but ae haufe houre, And servants nyne or tone. I am a clever loun!"

He had ane servant dwellving neir, " What mak's your feit sac brayde?" quoth she, Worthe all liis maydis and men; "And Avhat sae reid your cen?" And wha was this gyn ye wald speir? "I've wandert mony a weary foote. The Brownie of Fearnden! And unco sichtis I've seen!

Whan thair was corne to tliresh or dichte, "But mynd the wyfe, and mynd the weane. Or barne or byre to clene, And see that all gae richt; G — ; ;

ALEXANDER LAING.

And keip the beyld of biggit land I've ane at my foot, and I've ane on my knee; " Till aynce the mornyng licht: An' fondly they look, an' say Mammie" to me.

And gyne they speir wha brocht you heir, At gloamin' their daddie comes in frae the 'Cause they waur scaunte of men! plough, Even tell them that ye rade ahiut The blink in his e'e, an' the smile on his brow, The Brownie of Fearndenl" Says, " How are ye, lassie, 0! how are ye a', An' how's the wee bodies sin' I gaed awa?"

He sings i' the e'enin' fu' cheery an' gay. He tells o' the toil and the news o' the day THE TRYST IXG-TREE. The twa bonnie lammies he tak's on his knee. An' blinks o'er the ingle fu' couthie to me. The evening sun has closed the day, happy's the father that's happy at hame, An' silence sleeps on hill an' plain; An' blythe is the mither that's blythe o' the The yellow moon is on her way name, AVi' a' her glinting starry train. cares o' the warld they fear na to dree— The moment dear to love an' me The The warld is naething to Johnny an' me. The happy moment now is near, will mingle wi' mitherly cares, AVhen by our lanely trystingtree Though crosses Awa', bonnie lassies—awa' wi' your fears; I'll meet my lov'd Eliza dear. Gin ye get a laddie that's loving and fain, "Where mild the vernal mornings rise, Ye'll wish ye may never live single again. An' meek the summer e'enings fa'; "Where soft the breeze of autumn sighs, An' light the blasts o' winter blaw; AVhere Keithock winds her silver stream, ADAM GLEN. By birken tree an' blooming thorn Of love and bliss we fondly dream, Pawkie Adam Glen, Till often dawns the early morn. Piper o' the clachan, stoitet ben, Her voice like warbled music sweet, "When he "Would lead the minstrels of the grove; Sairly was he pechan; Spak' a wee, but tint his win', Her form, where a' the graces meet, syne. "Would melt the coldest heart to love; Hurklit down, an' hostit his beik, an' dichtit's een. Her wistfu' look, an' winning smile. Blew forfoughten. So sweetly kind, so chastely gay, An whaistl't a' "Would sorrow's mirkest hour beguile. But, his coughin' dune, And chase the deepest grief away. Cheerie kyth't the bodie, My lov'd Eliza! wert thou mine! Crackit like a gun. My own endear'd—endearing wife. An' leugh to Auntie Madie; heart to twine. Cried, " My callans, name a spring, How blest ! around thy

' In a' the changing scenes of life; Jinglin' John,' or onything. Though beauty, fancy, rapture, flies For weel I'd like to see the fling \Vhen age his chilling touch imparts; 0' ilka lass an' laddie." Yet time, while breaking other ties. the dancers flew, Will closer bind our hands and hearts. Blythe Usquebae was plenty, Blythe the piper blew, Tho' shakin' ban's wi' ninety. THE HAPPY MOTHER. Seven times his bridal vow Ruthless fate had broken thro'; his comin' now An' 0! may I never live single again, "Wha wad thocht maiden auntie! I wish I may never live single again; Was for our ^ I ha'e a gudeman, an' a hame o' my ain. She had ne'er been sought, An' 0! may I never live single again. Cheerie hope was fadin', I've twa bonnie bairnies, the fairest of a'. is the thocht They cheer up my heart when their daddie' Dowie dee a maiden. awa'; To live and Vol. II.— ! ! —— —— —

98 ALEXANDEK CAKLILE.

Her comfort she draws frae the Volume o' Licht, How it comes, we caiina ken, o't mornin' an' nicht AVanters aye maun wait their ain, An' aye reads a portion In a' crooks and crosses, she calmly obeys. Madge is hecht to Adam Glen, E'en seasons o' sorrow are seasons o' praise. An' sune we'll ha'e a weddin'. She opens an' closes the day on her knee That's a' the strange sicht ony body can see.

AULD EPPIE. THE YOUNG INQUIRER AND AGED Auld Eppie, poor bodie, she wins on the brae, In yon little cot-house aneath the auld tree; CHRISTIAN. Far aff frae a' ithers, an' fu', fu' o' flaws, Wi' rough divot sunks haudin' up the mud wa's; "Old man! I would speak a word or two! The storm-tattered riggin' a row'd here an' there, I long have wished to learn of you the grave are gone, An' the reekit lum-framin' a' broken an' bare. Your kindred and friends to The lang raggit eaves hangin' down the laigh door. And helpless and poor you are left alone. An' ae wee bit winnock amaist happit ower; Yet, aged Pilgrim, as happy you seem golden dream! The green boor-tree bushes a' wavin' aroun', As Youth with its gay and fain possess An gray siller willow-wands kissin' the grun' Oh! tell me—I would The secret of your happiness." "Auld Eppie's a weird-wife," sae runs the rude is shortly given, tale, "Young man! your answer For ae nicht some chiels, comin' hamo frae their My will is the sovereign will of Heaven, ale, Believing, whatever my lot may be. Cam' in by her biggin', an' watchin' apart. That all things work for good to me^ saving They saw Eppie turnin' the beuk o' black art; And trusting alone to grace An' 0! the strange sichts an' the uncos that fell, For the blessings of pardon, hope, and peace, and ever Nae livin' cou'd think o', nae language cou'd tell. I rest on the promise now ' never.' Nae body leuks near her, unless it may be My loving-kindness faileth When cloudie nicht closes the day's dowin' e'e. ' ' ! would you my happiness share. That some, wi' rewards an' assurance, slip ben, Young man With humble heart and fervent prayer The weils an' the waes o' the future to ken The voice of the contrite sinner raise Auld Eppie's nae weird-wife, though she gets the To God your life and length of days— name. That He as a father, forgetful of none, of son, She's wae for hersel', but she's waer for them; Would give you the portion a For tho' ne'er a frien'ly foot enters her door. As He in Christ hath given to me She's blest wi' a f rien' in the Friend o' the Poor. The hope of a happy eternity!"

ALEXANDEB CAELILE.

Born 1788 — Died 1860,

Alexander Carlile, the author of several his poetical compositions under the title of " spirited songs, was born at Paisley, the birth- Poenifi. His popular song Wha's at the place of so many poets, in the year 1788. He Window?" composed in early life, finds a of Scottish songs. was educated first at the grammar-school of place in all the collections interested in all his native town, and then in the University of Mr. Carlile, who was greatly Glasgow. He afterwards established himself movements tending to benefit the social and died in in Paisley as a manufacturer, and devoted moral welfare of his fellow-citizens, seventy- much of his leisure time to literature, contri- his native town, August 4, 1860, aged Avith buting to the leading magazines both in prose two. A friend who was well acquainted accom- and verse. In 1855 he collected and published him, as well as his most estimable and —

ALEXANDER CAELILE. 99 plisheil brother, the Rev. Dr. Carlile of Dublin, and Dr. Rogers, in his Century of Scottish tells us that he was one to whom the words of Life, remarks "that during his latter years, the old dramatist might most truthfully be when I knew him, he was a grave and reve- applied: rend-looking old man. He was much in his libi'ary, which was well stored with the best "A most incomparable man, breath'd. as it were. To an uutirable and continuate goodness;" books""

The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam. WHA'S AT THE WINDOW? The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home, Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close. the wild-flowers, and fain Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? Singing blithe 'mid would repose. Wha but blithe Jamie Glen, He's come sax miles and ten, How solemn the broad hills that curtain around Jeanie awa', awa'. To tak' bonnie This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found, To tak' bonnie Jeanie awa'. Whose echoes low whisper, " Bid the world fare- well. He has plighted his troth, and a', and a', And with lowly contentment here peacefully Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a'. dwell!" And sae has she dune, cot by that lake's verdant shore, By a' that's abune. Then build me a world's wild turmoil I'fl mingle no more, For he loe's her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', bune a', 'Mid the And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear. He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'. Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear. Bridal-maidens are braw, braw. are braw, braw; Bridal-maidens Young Mom, as on tiptoe he ushers the day, But the bride's modest e'e. Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray; And warm cheek are to me And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a', impart 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'. To the soul her own meekness—a rich glow to the heai't. It's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha', of passion all rocked to sweet rest, it's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha'; The heavings repose shall this There's quaffing and laughing. As repose its still waters, so There's dancing and dafKng, breast; And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall And the bride's father's blithest of a', of a'. rise The bride's father's blithest of a'. Like the mist from the mountam, to blend with the skies. It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava. It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava. That my heart is sae weary, When a' the lave's cheerie. CORBIE AND CRAW. But it's just that .she'll aye be awa', awa'. THE It's just that she'll aye be awa'. The corbie wi' his roupy throat. Cried frae the leafless tree, " Come o'er the loch, come o'er the loch, Come o'er the loch to me." THE VALE OF KILLEAX. The craw put up his sooty head. And look'd o'er the nest whare he lay, Oh yes, there's a valley as calm and as sweet gied a flaf wi' his rousty wings, As "that vale in whose bosom the bright waters And whare tae?" meet; And cried, "Whare tae? So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green, Cor. " Te pike a dead man that's lying 'Mid Scotia's dark mountains — the Vale of A hint yon meikle stane." Killean. 100 THOMAS PEINGLE.

light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hom-s Cra. " Is he Ui, is he fat, is he fat, is he fat? How those songs and flowers! If no, we may let him alaiie." I spend among

I love the spirit of the wind, Cor. " He cam' frae merry England, to steal His varied tones I know; The sheep, and kill the deer." His voice of soothing majesty, Cra. " I'll come, I'll come, for an Englishman Of love and sobbing woe; Is aye the best o' cheer." Whate'er his varied theme may be. spirit mingles free. Cor. " we may breakfast on his breast. With his my And on his back may dine; I love to tread the grass-green path. For the lave a' fled to their ain count rie, Far vip the winding stream; And they've ne'er been back sinsyne." For there in nature's loneliness The day is one bright dream. And still the pilgrim waters tell Of wanderings wild by wood and dell. MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY Or up the mountain's brow I toil TREES. Beneath a wid'ning sky, forests, lakes and rivers wide. My brothers are the stately trees Seas, the wondering eye. That in the forests grow; Crowding Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings, The simi:)le flowers my sisters are, That on the green bank blow. To cloudless regions upwards .springs I With them, with them, I am a child The .stars—the stars! I know each one, Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild. With all its soul of love. The daisy, with its tear of joy, They beckon me to come and live Gay greets me as I stray; In their tearless homes above; How sweet a voice of welcome comes And then 1 spurn earth's songs and flowers, From every trembling .spray! And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.

THOMAS PEINGLE.

BoRX 1789— Died 1834.

Thomas Prixgle, a poet and miscellaneous In the following year he assumed the editor- writer, was born at Blacklaw, in Roxburgh- ship of the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, and shire, January 5, 1789. AVhen young he met projected by James Hogg and himself, with an accident by which his right hip-joint published by William Blackwood, as a rival was dislocated, and he was obliged ever after to the Scots Magazine. Brewster, Cleghorn, Wilson to use crutches. In liis fourteenth year he Lockhart, the Shepherd, and Professor was sent to the grammar-school at Kelso, and were among the contributors to this periodical, three years afterwards entered the University whicli afterwards became the famous Black- of Edinburgh. In the year 1808 he obtained icood's Magazine. Pringle soon withdrew from be the a situation in the General Register House, its management, but he continued to newspaper and in 1811, in conjunction with his friend conductor of the Edinburgh Star Magazine Robert Storj', published a satirical poem en- and editor of Constable's Edinburgh this time he titled "The In.stitute," which obtained for its and Literary Miscellany. Before from young authors great praise but small profit. had married, and finding the emoluments In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's these literary sources insufficient to maintain and Albijn s Antholorjy; he also compo.scd an ex- his family, he was fain to abandon them Register cellent imitation of Sir Walter Scott's poetical return in 1819 to his old place in the style for the Ettrick Shepherd's Poetic Mirror. IIou.sc. — — — ; ; —

THOMAS PRINGLE. 101

Priagle published during the same year the Cape with his wife and sister-in law, when he

"Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems/' became worse, and died December 5, 1834. but the poetical field at that season was so His remains were interred in Bunhill Fields, pre-occupied by greater singers, that his little and a tombstone with an elegant inscription volume, though appreciated by the judicious marks the spot where thej' lie. few, brought him but small profit. In 1820, Pringle's poetical works, with a memoir in company^ with his brothers and other rela- written by Leitch Ritchie, were published in tives and friends, in all twenty-four persons, 1839. Many of his compositions exhibit a he embarked for South Africa, Avhere they highly cultivated taste, combined witli deep landed in safety, and took possession of a tract and generous feeling. The fine pastoral lyric of twenty thousand acres assigned to them by " 0, the Ewe-bughting's bonnie," left un- the government, which tiiey named Glen finished by Lady Grizzel Baillie (see vol. i.

Lynden. The poet afterward removed to Cape p. 91), was completed by our author. Allan Town, where he filled the position of govern- Cunningham wrote: — " Thomas Pringle is a ment librarian, and kept a large boarding- poet and philanthropist: in poetry he has school. Here, after some difficulty, he estab- shown a feeling for the romantic and the lished the South African Journal, a magazine lovely, and in philanthropy he has laboured to which appeared in Dutch and English, and he introduce liberty, knowledge, and religion, in also assumed the editorship of a weekly news- the room of slavery and ignorance." Another paper. But ere long he had disagreements Scottish poet says: — "His poetry has great with the governor, Lord Charles Somerset, and merit. It is distinguished by elegance rather weary of his CatiVeland exile he returned to than strength, but he has many forcible pas- England in 1826, and obtained the appoint- sages. The versification is sweet, the style ment of secretary to the Anti-Slavery Societj', simple and free from all superfluous epithets, a post which he retained until the abolition of and the descriptions are the result of his own slavery in the colonies of Great Britain ren- observations. His 'African Sketches,' which dered the society unnecessary. Meantime he consist of poetical exhibitions of the scenery-, was a constant contributor of prose and verse the characteristic habits of animals, and the to the chief periodicals of the day; edited an modes of native life in South Africa, are alone annual. Friendship's Offerlnrj; and published a sufficient to entitle him to no mean rank as a " Narrative of his Residence in South Africa," poet." The first of our selections was greatly also " Ephemerides, or Occasional Poems." admired by Sir Walter Scott and many other Failing health induced him to decide to remove distinguished poets of Pringle's period. Cole- to a warmer climate as the only means of saving ridge was so highly delighted that he did little his life, and he was preparing to return to the else for several days than read and recite it.

AFAE IN THE DESERT.

Afar in the Desert T love to ride. Thrills to my heart like electric flame; With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: The home of my childhood— the haunts of my When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, prime And, sick of the present, I turn to the past; All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time, And the eye is suffused with regretful tears. When the feelings were young and the world was From the fond recollections of former years; new. And the shadows of things that have long since Like the fresh bowers of Paradise opening to view! fled, All —all now forsaken, forgotten, or gone; Flit over the brain like the ghosts of the dead- And 1, a lone exile, remembered of none. Bright visions of gloiy that vanished too soon — My high aims abandoned, and good acts undone Day-dreams that departed ere manhood's noon Aweaiy of all that is under the sun Attachments by fate or by falsehood reft With that sadness of heart which no stranger Companions of early days lost or left may scan And my native land! whose magical name I fly to the Desert afar from man. — ; — ; ; — : :; ——: —

102 THOMAS PEINGLE.

Afar in the Desert I love to ride, Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; A region of emptiness, howling and drear. When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, Which man hath abandoned from famine and With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and fear; strife; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone. The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear; And the bat flitting forth from his old hollow And the scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear; stone And mahce and meanness and falsehood and Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, that pierce the foot: folly, Save poisonous thorns Dispose me to miising and dark melancholy And the bitter melon, for food and diink, the pilgrim's fare by the Salt Lake's brin'v When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high. Is region of drought, where no river glides. And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh A brook with osiered sides; Oh, then! there is freedom, and joy, and pride. Nor rippling fountain. Afar in the Desert alone to ride! Nor reedy pool, nor mossy tree, nor cloud-capped mountain. There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, Nor shady aching eye And to bound away with the eagle's speed. Are found—to refresh the With the death-fraught firelock in my hand— But the barren earth and the burning sky. round, The only law of the Desert land And the black horizon round and living sight or sound, But 'tis not the innocent to destroy. Without a in its pensive mood. For I hate the huntsman's savage joy. Tell to the heart, That this is—Nature's solitude. And here—while the night winds round me sigh, Afar in the Desert I love to ride. And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side; I sit apart by the caverned stone. Away— away from the dwellings of men. As Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone. By the wild-deer's haunt and the buffalo's glen; And feel as a moth in the mighty hand By valleys remote, where the oribi plays; That spread the heavens and heaved the land Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest " still small voice" comes through the wild graze; A father consoling his fretful child) And the gemsbok and eland unhunted recline (Like a Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear By the skirts of gray forests o'ergrown with wild Saying, is distant, but God is near!" vine; "Man And the elephant browses at peace in his wood; And the river horse gambols unscared in the flood And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the Vley, where the wild ass is drinking his THE LION AND GIRAFFE.

fill. Would'st thou view the lion's den ? Afar in the Desert I love to ride. Search afar from haunts of men With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: Where the reed-encircled rill O'er the brown Karroo where the bleating cry Oozes from the rocky hill. Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; By its verdure far descried Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. 'Mid the desert brovra and wide. In fields seldom freshened by moisture or rain; And the stately koodoo exultingly bounds. Close beside the sedgy brim, Undisturbed by the bay of the hunter's hounds; Couchant, lurks the lion grim. And the timorous quagga's wild whistling neigh Watching till the close of day Is heard by the brak fountain far away; Brings the death-devoted prey. And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Heedless at the ambush'd brink Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste; The tall giraffe stoops down to drink And the vulture in circles wheels high overhead. Upon him straight the savage springs Greedy to scent and to gorge on the dead; With cruel joy. The desert rings And the grisly wolf, and the shrieking jackal, With clanging sound of desperate strife for life. Howl for their prey at the evening fall; The prey is strong, and he strives And the fiend-like laugh of hyenas grim, Plunging off with frantic bound Fearfully startles the twilight dim. To shake the tyrant to the ground. He shrieks—he rushes through the waste headlong haste. Afar in the Desert T love to ride, With glaring eye and prize With the silent bush-boy alone by my side: In vain! —the spoiler on his he flies Away—away in the wilderness vast. Rides proudly—tearing as Where the white man's foot hath never passed, For life—the victim's utmost speed And the quivered Korauna or Bechuan Is mustered in this houi- of need. — ! !! — ——

THOMAS PRINGLE. 103

For life—for life—his giant might Mr cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw. strains, He and pours his soul in flight; By bonnie Avondhu, lassie! with terror, And mad thirst, and pain, There's birk and slae on ilka brae, Spurns with wild hoof the thundering plain. And brackens waving fair, lassie. 'Tis vain; the thirsty sands are drinking And gleaming lochs and mountains gray- His streaming blood—his strength is sinking; Cau aught wi' them compare, lassie? The victor's fangs are in his veins Come awa', come awa', &c. His flanks are streaked with sanguine stains— His panting breast in foam and gore Is bathed—he reels—his race is o'er. He falls—and with convulsive throe, Resigns his throat to the ravening foe FAREWELL TO TEVIOTDALE.

—And lo ! ere quivering life is fled, The vultures, wheeling overhead, Our native land—our native vale Swoop down, to watch in gaunt array, A long and last adieu Till the gorged tyrant quits his prey. Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue.

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds. And streams renown'd in song COME AWA', COME AWA'. Farewell ye braes and blossom'd meads, Our hearts have lov'd so long. Come awa', come aAva', Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes, An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie; Where thyme and harebells grow Leave your southern wooers a', Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, My winsome bride to be, lassie! O'erhung with birk and sloe. Lands nor gear I proffer you, Nor gauds to busk ye line, lassie; The mossy cave and mouldering tower, that's But I've a heart leal and true, That skirt our native dell And a' that heart is thine, lassie! Tiie martyr's grave, and lover's bower. We bid a sad farewell Come awa', come awa', And see the kindly north, lassie, Home of our love! our father's home! Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair, Land of the brave and free! And by the links o' Forth, lassie! The sail is flapping on the foam And when we tread the heather-bell, That bears us far from thee! Ahoon Demayat lea, lassie. You'll view the land o' flood and fell, AVe seek a wild and distant shore. The noble north countrie, lassie! Beyond the western main We leave thee to return no more. Come awa', come awa'. Nor view thy clifts again! And leave your southland hame, lassie; native The kirk is near, the ring is here. Our land—our native vale And Fm your Donald Graeme, lassie! A long and last adieu Eock and reel and spinning-wheel, Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And English cottage trig, lassie; And Scotland's mountains blue! Haste, leave them a', wi' uie to speel The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!

Come awa', come awa', MAID OF MY HEART. I ken your heart is mine, lassie; And true love sliall make up for a' Maid of my heart—a long farewell! For whilk ye might repine, lassie! The bark is launch'd, the billows swell, Your father he has gi'en consent. And the vernal gales are blowing free. Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie; To bear me far from love and thee! that our feet were on the bent, I hate ambition's An' the lowlands far behind, lassie! haughty name, And the heartless pride of Avealth and fame; Come awa', come awa', Yet now I haste through ocean's roar Ye'U ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie; To woo them on a distant shore. 104 JOHN BURTT.

Can pain or peril bring relief Thy dimpling cheek and deep-blue eye, To him wlio bears a darker grief? Where tender thought and feeling lie! Can absence calm this feverish thrill? Thine eyelid like the evening cloud —Ah, no! — for thou wilt haunt me still! That comes the star of love to shroud!

Thy artless grace, thj' open truth, Each witchery of soul and sense, Thy form that breath'd of love and youth, Enshrin'd in angel innocence, Thy voice by nature fram'd to suit Combin'd to frame the fatal spell — Tlie tone of love's enchanted lute! That blest— and broke my heart— Farewell!

JOHN BUETT.

Born 1789 — Died 1866.

The Rev. John Burtt was born at Knock- he removed to Philadelphia and assumed the marloch House, in the parish of Riccarton, editorship of a weekly journal named The Pres- Ayrshire, May 26, 1789. While he was still a hjterkin. Two years later he became the pastor child he lost his mother, and went to reside with of a church in Cincinnati, at the same time his maternal grandfather, Avith whom he spent acting as editor of The Standard. In 1812 he his boyhood, during which time he attended accepted the charge of a congregation at Black- school and became a good classical scholar. He woodtown, where he remained until 1859, Avhen was then sent to learn the weaving trade, but the infirmities of age induced him to resign he soon abandoned the loom and returned to and retire to Salem, N.J., wliere he died, his books. In his si.xteenth year lie was decoyed March 24, 1866. Mr. Burtt mari-ied JNIiss into a small boat by a press-gang, carried on Mary N. Fisher of Philadelphia, Sept. 29, 1820. board the Magn'ificent, a ship-of-war stationed Of his family a daughter survives, to whom the near Greenock, and compelled to serve as a Avriter is chiefly indebted for the particulars of common sailor. Effecting his escape after her father's career; and two sons, one of whom being five years in the service, he returned to has served his country as a surgeon both in the

Scotland and opened a private school at Kil- army and navy, while the other is doing his marnock. In 1816 he removed to Glasgow, Master's work as a missionary among the where he attended the medical lectures at the American Indians. university. During the first years of Mr. Burtt's resi- During his career as a sailor Burtt had occu- dence in the New World he wrote a number of pied many of his leisure hours in the composi- poems, which, with those published in Scot- tion of verses, and had also written some lyrics land, were issued in 1819, at Bridgeton, N.J., during the period of his teaching at Kilmar- with the title of Horce Poeticce. Later in life nock. These he collected and published at he occasionally contriljuted verses to the col- GlasgoAv in 1817. The same year he proceeded umns of The Prenhiitcrlan and other religious to the United States, and soon after entered periodicals. " The Pev. John Burtt," remarks the Theological Seminary at Princeton, New a correspondent, writing to us in 1875, "Avas Jei-sey, where he studied theology. On leaving a man of great excellence of character, and in that institution Burtt for some time acted as a the vigour of his years Avas one of our best domestic missionary of the Presbyterian Church preachers and poets. His Avas truly a remark- at Trenton and Philadelphia, until called to able life, Avith the golden ending so seldom a ministerial charge at Salem, N.J. In 1831 allotted to the children of song." ——!— —: ——— ! — ;

JOHN BURTT. 105

I've seen the rosebud drooping fade Beneath the dewy tear. MERCY. ON THE DIVINE Then fare ye wcel, my frien's sae dear. For I maun lea' you a'. Shall the wanderer's harp of sorrow will ye sometimes shed a tear Always tell the tale of woe? For me, when far awa"? Shall the night no joyful morrow For me, when far frae hame and you, Of unclouded transport know? AVhere ceaseless tempests blaw, Shall the bosom filled with sadness AVill ye repeat my last adieu, Shall the boiling blood of madness An' mourn that I'm awa? Never know the calm of peace, hope and beam of bliss? Balm of I've seen the wood, where rude winds rave. In gay green mantle drest; "Wake, my harp! nor weak nor mildly But now its leafless branches wave Let thy notes of rapture swell "Wild whistling in the blast: AVake, my harp! and warbling wildly. So perish'd a' my youthfu' joy. Of immortal triumphs tell. An' left me thus to mourn; Holy fire— seraphic feeling The vernal sun will gild the sky, O'er my melting mind are stealing; But joy will ne'er return. Heavenward rolls my raptured eye, Then fare ye weel, &c. Loud I strike the harp of joy! In vain will spring her gowans spread "Weeping orphan! God has found thee. Owre the green swairded lea: Led thee to thy mother's breast; The rose beneath the hawthorn shade AVandering stranger! all around thee AVill bloom in vain for me: Smiles the blissful home of rest. In vain will spring bedeck the bowers is the arm of weakness; Strengthen'd Wi' buds and blossoms braw heart of sickness; Cool'd the fever'd The gloomy storm already lowers strifes and pangs are o'er 3Iortal That drives me far awa'. to die no more. lilortals live Then fare ye weel, &c. behold bending Sons of earth! Him winter! spare the peacefu' scene God, your Father, from above; AVhere early joys I knew; Peace and mercy sweetly blending Still be its fields unfading green. AVith His tender looks of love. Its sky unclouded blue. Sweeter than a seraph's vespers Ye lads and lasses! when sae blythe the welcome which He whispers; Is The social crack ye ca', and opprest. "Come, ye weary spare the tribute of a sigh laden rest Come, ye heavy — For me, when far awa' Then fare ye weel, &c. " Eest ye from the care and sorrow, AVhich in seasons past ye knew: 'Tis an everlasting morrow Scenes of endless bliss ye view: From the snares of guilt and error. O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.^ From the grasp of death and terror cliffs the gray moun- IJest secure!—on IMe depend O'er the mist-shrouded of Me, your Father and your Friend." tain straying, AVhere the wild winds of winter incessantly rave What woes wring my heart, while intently sur- veying The stomi's gloomy path on the breast of the THE FARE\YELL. wave.

winter! wi' thy storms. welcome 1 This song enjoyed for many years the distinction of sna'; Thy frosts, an' hills o' being attributed to Burns, and of being iuchuled in Dismantle nature o' her charms, several editions of his poems. It celebrates Burtt's first Kilmarnock For I maun lea' them a'. love, who died young, and was Avritteu at he bade adieu I've mourn'd the gowan wither'd laid when in his twenty-second year, before Ed. Upon its wallow bier; to Scotland.— —

106 WILLIAM KNOX.

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, An' tardy-footed gloamin', Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore; Out-owre the hills slow comin', Where the flower that bloom'd sweetest in Coila's Still finds me lanely roamin'. vale, green And thinkin' still o' thee. The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more! When soughs the distant billow, more by the banks of the streamlet we'll No An' night blasts shake the willow, wander, Stretch'd on my lanely pillow. And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; My dreams are a' o' thee. Then think when frien's caress thee, No more shall my arms cling with fondness around think cares distress tiiee. her, Oh, when For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her Oh, think when pleasures bless thee, grave. 0' him that thinks o' thee. No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast I haste with the storm to a far distant shore, Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest. And joy shall revisit iny bosom no more. SWEET THE BARD.

Sweet the bard, and sweet his strain, Breath'd where mirth and friendship reign. 0! LASSIE I LO'E DEAREST! O'er ilk woodland, hill, and plain, And loch o' Caledonia. 0! lassie I lo'e dearest! Sweet the rural scenes he drew, Mair fair to me than fairest, Sweet the fairy tints he threw Mair rare to me than rarest. O'er the page, to nature true, How sweet to think o' thee. And dear to Caledonia. When blythe the blue-ey'd dawnin' But the strain so lov'd is o'er. Steals saftly o'er tlie lawnin', And the bard so lov'd no more And furls night's sable awniii', Shall his magic stanzas pour 1 love to think o' tliee. To love and Caledonia. An' while the honey'd dew-drap Ayr and Doon may row their floods, Still trembles at the flower-tap. Birds may warble through the woods, The fairest bud I pu't up. Dews may gem the opening buds. An' kiss't for sake o' thee. And daisies bloom fu' bonnie, 0: An' when by stream or fountain, Lads fu' blythe and lasses fain In glen, or on the mountain, Still may love, but ne'er again Tlie lingering moments counting, Will they wake the gifted strain 1 pause an' think o" thee. 0' Burns and Caledonia. When the sun's red rays are streamin', While, his native vales among. Warm on the meadow beamin', Love is felt, or beauty sung. Or on the loch wild gleamia', Hearts will beat and harps be strung My heart is fu' o' thee. To Burns and Caledonia.

WILLIAM KNOX.

Born 1789 — Died 1825.

William Knox, the author of the pathetic was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, poem which was so great a favourite with the Roxburghshire, August 17, 1789. His parents late President Lincoln, beginning, were in comfortable circumstances, and he first parish "Oh! wby sliould the spirit of mortal be proud!" received a liberal education, at the — ! —

WILLIAM KNOX. 107 school of Lilliesleaf, and afterwards at tlie a slight gratification for the admirer of poetry, grammar-school of Musselburgh. In 1812 he I may also have done something to raise the became lessee of a farm near Langholm, but devotional feelings of the pious Christian." he was so uusuccessful as a farmer that at the A new edition of his poetical works was pub- end of five years he gave up his lease, and lished in London in 1847. Eesides the commenced that precarious literary life which volumes mentioned above he also wrote A he continued to the close. From his early ]'isit to Dublin, and a Christmas tale entitled youth he had composed verses, and in 1818 "ilarianne, or the AVidower's Daugiiter." he published The Lonelj Hearth, and other Much of his authorship, however, was scattered Poems, followed six years later by Tlie Songs over the periodicals of the day, and especially of Israel. In 1825 appeared a third volume the Literary Gazette. As a prose writer his of lyrics, entitled The Harp of Zion. Knox's works are of little account, but the same can- poetical merits attracted the attention of Sir not be said of his poetry, which possesses a

Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly coun- richness and originality that insure for it a tenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. more lasting popularity. Sir Walter Scott, Professor Wilson also thought highly of his alluding to our poet, remarks—"His talent poetical genius, and was ever ready to befriend then showed itself in a fine strain of pensive him. He was a kind and affectionate son, poetry, called, I think, "The Lonely Hearth," and a man of genial disposition; but he un- far superior to that of Michael Bruce, whose wisely squandered his resources of liealtli and consumption, by the way, has been the life of strength, and died of paralysis at Edinburgh, iiis verses." He was keenly alive to his lite- November 12, 1825, in his thirty-sixth year. rary reputation, and could not but have been Knox's poetry is largely pervaded with greatly gratified had he known that a poem of pathetic and religious sentiment. In the pre- his would one day go the rounds of the Ameri- face to his Songs of Israel he says— "It is my can press and that of the Canadas as the pro- sincere wish that, Avhile I may have provided duction of a president of the United States.

THE WOOER'S VISIT.

My native Scotland ! how the youth is blest Tripping as lightly as the breathing gales To mark thy first star in the evening sky, That fan his cheek upon the lonesome road. AVhen the far curfew bids the weary rest, Seldom by other footsteps trod And in his ear the milk-maid's wood-notes die! Even though no moon shed her conducting ray,

O ! then unseen by every human eye. And light his night-path to that sweet abode. Soon as the lingering daylight hatli decayed. Angels will giiide the lover's dreariest way, Dear, dear to him o'er distant vales to hie, If but for her dear sake whose heart is pure as they. While every head in midnight rest is laid, To that endearing cot where dwells his favourite And see him now upon the veiy hill. maid. From which in breathless transport he doth hail, At such an hour so exquisitely still, Though he has laboured from the dawn of mom, To him the sweetest, far the sweetest, vale Beneath the summer sun's unclouded ray, That e'er was visited by moimtain gale. Till evening's dewdrops glistened on the thorn. And, 0! how fondly shall be hailed by him And wild-flowers closed their petals with the The guiding lamp that never yet did fail day; Tliat very lamp which her dear hand doth trim And though the cottage home be far away, To light his midnight way when moon and stars Where aU the treasure of his bosom lies, are dim.

O ! he must see her, though his raptured stay Be short— like every joy beneath the skies But who shall tell what her fond thoughts may be, And yet be at his task by morning's earliest rise. The lovely damsel sitting all alone. When every inmate of the house but she Behold him wandering o'er the moonlit dales. To sweet oblivion of their cares have gone ? The only living thing that stirs abroad, By harmless stealth unnoticed and unkno^vu, — — ! —

108 WILLIAM KNOX.

may at length their country's guardians Behold her sccated by her midnight fire, Who And turning many an anxious look upon stand. And own the undaunted heart, and lift the un- The lingering clock, as if she would require conquered hand The steady foot of time to haste at her desire.

But though the appointed hour is fondly sought, At every sound her little heart will beat, And she will blush even at the very thought MORTALITY. Of meeting him whom she delights to meet. Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ! Be as it may, her ear would gladly greet Like a fast-flying meteor, a fast-flying cloud, The house-dog's bai-k that watch'd the whole A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave night o'er, He passes from life to his rest in the grave. And C! how gently shall she leave her seat. And gently step across the sanded floor. The leaves of the oak and the willows shall fade, With trembling heart and hand, to ope the scattered around and together be laid; creaking door. Be And the young and the old, and the low and the high, The hour is past, and still her eager ear Shall moulder to dust, and together shall he. Hears but the tinkle of the neighbouring rill; No human footstep yet approaching near that a mother attended and loved. Disturbs the night calm so serene and still, A child mother that infant's affection that proved. That broods, hke slumber, over dale and hill. The The husband that mother and infant that blest, Ah! who may tell what phantoms of dismay all are away to their dwelling of rest. The anxious feelings of her bosom chill Each— The wiles that lead a lover's heart astray— The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in The darkness of the night—the dangers of the whose eye. way ? Shone beauty and pleasure—her triumphs are by; And the memory of those that beloved her and But, lo! he comes, and soon shall she forget praised, Her griefs, in sunshine of this hour of bliss; Are alike from the minds of the living erased. Their hands in love's endearing clasp have met. And met their lips in love's delicious 'kiss. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne. 0! what is all the wealth of worlds to this! The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, Go—thou mayest cross each foreign land, each The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave. sea. Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. In search of honours, yet for ever miss The sweetest boon vouchsafed by Heaven's de- The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, cree The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the The heart that loves thee well, the heart that's steep. dear to thee. The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away hke the grass that we tread. And may I paint their pleasures yet to come. When, like their heai-ts, their willing hands saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, are joined, The The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven. The loving inmates of a wedded home. The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just. For ever happy and for ever kind ? Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. And may I paint their various charms combined In the sweet offspring that around them plays, So the multitude goes—like the flower and the Who—tho' on mountains with the bounding hind weed That wither away to let others succeed; Be rudely nursed—may claim a nation's praise, So the multitude comes—even those we behold, And on their native hills some proud memorial To repeat every tale that hath often been told. raise ?

our fathers have l\ry native Scotland! 01 thy northern hills, For we are the same things that Tliy dark brown hills, are fondly dear to mc; been. seen, And aye a warmth my swelling bosom fills We see the same sights that our fathers have feel the same For all the filial souls that cling to thee— We drink the same stream, and we Pure be their loves as human love can be, sun, the same course that our fathers And still be worthy of their native land And we nni The little beings nursed beside their knee. have run. — — — ! ; —

WILLIAM KNOX. 109

The thoughts we arc thinking our fathers would IMother—sister—both are sleeping think, Where no heaving liearts respire, From the death we are shi-inkiug from, they too While the eve of age is creeping would shrink, Piound the widowed spouse and sire. To the Ufe we are clinging to, they too would He and his, amid tlieir sorrow, cling Find enjoyment in thy strain. it speeds from the earth like a bird on the But Harp of Zion! let me borrow wing. Comfort from thy chords again.

They loved—but their story we cannot unfold; They scorned—but the heart of the haughty is cold; They grieved—but no wail from their slumbers THE DEAR LAXD OF CAKES. may come; They joyed—but the voice of their gladness is- 0! brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends, dumb. Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds; Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west. They died—ay, they died I and we things that And courage is lull'd in the wan'ior's breast. are now, Here social pleasure enlivens each heart. Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. And friendship is ready its warmth to impart; Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, The goblet is filled, and each worn one partakes, Meet the changes they met on then- pilgi-image To drink 'plenty and peace to the dear Land of road. Cakes. Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure and boast of his vine-cover'd pain. Though the Bom-bon may Are mingled together like sunshine and rain, hills. Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills; And the smile and the tear, and the song and the Indian may sit in his green orange the dirge. Though bowers. Still follow each other like surge upon surge. There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours. Though our island is beat by the storms of the 'Tis the twink of an eye, 'tis the di-aught of a breath. north, the bright meteors of valour and From the blossom of health to the paleness of There blaze worth death, There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes From the gilded saloon to the bier and the the dear Land of shroud From that cradle of virtue, Cakes. ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud

0! valour, thou guardian of freedom and trutli, Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth! Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade ZION. HARP OF The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid. And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend Harp of Zion! pure and holy! To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land; Pride of Judah's eastern land! Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes. May a child of guilt and folly When called in defence of the dear Land of Cakes. Strike thee with a feeble hand? May I to my bosom take thee, ShaU the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud. prophet's touch. Trembling from the When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud, And with throbbing lieart awake thee See us shrink from our standai-d with fear and To the songs I love so much? dismaj', And leave to our foemen the pride of the day ? I have loved thy thrilling numbers No, by heavens! we will stand to our honour and Since the dawn of childhood's day, trust. When a mother soothed my slumbers Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' With the cadence of thy laj" dust, Since a little blooming sister Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet Clung with transport round my knee, breaks, And my glowing spirit blessed her Beneath the brown heath of the dear Laud of With a blessing caught from thee. Cakes. ; ——

no WILLIAM GLEN.

ashes of those that have hied To-day—the clasping babe may drain ! peace to the For the land where the proud thistle raises its The milk-stream from its mother's vein; head! Tomorrow— like a frozen rill. 0! peace to the ashes of those gave us birth, That bosom-current may be still. lu a land freedom renders the boast of the earth! Though theii- lives are extinguish'd, their spu-it To-day —thy merry heart may feast remains, On herb and fruit, and bird and beast; our And swells in their blood that still runs in To-mon-ow^—spite of all thy glee. veins; The hungry worms may feast on thee. Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes. To-morrow! —mortal, boast not thou For the honour and weal of the dear Land of Of time and tide that are not now! Cakes. But think, in one revolving day That even thyself may'st pass away. Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart. From our word, from our trust, let us never depart; Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd, And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his THE SEASON OF YOUTH. wound dear, And still to our bosom be honesty Rejoice, mortal man, in the noon of thy prime! sincere; And still to our loves and our friendships Ere thy brow shall be traced by the ploughshare firmament And, till heaven's last thunder the of time shakes, Ere the twilight of age shall encompass thy way, May happiness beam on the dear Land of Cakes. And thou droop'st, like the flowers, to thy rest in the clay.

Let the banquet be spread, let the wine-cup go round, TO-MORROW. Let the joy-dance be wove, let the timbrels re- sound mortal, boast not thou To-morrow! — While the spring-tide of life in thy bosom is high, time and tide tliat are not now! Of And thy spirit is light as a lark in the sky. But think, in one revolving day How earthly things may pass away! Let the wife of thy love, like the sun of thy day. Throw a radiance of joy o'er thy pilgrimage way— rapture spring, To-day—while hearts with Ere the shadows of grief come, like night from The youth to beauty's lip may cling; the west, To-morrow—and that lip of bliss And thou weep'st o'er the flower that expired on May sleep unconscious of his kiss. thy breast.

To-day—the blooming spouse may press Rejoice, mortal man, in the noon of thy jirime. Her husband in a fond caress; But muse on the power and the progress of time; given, To-morrow— and the hands that pressed For thy life shall depart with the joy it hath heaven. May wildly strike her widowed breast. And a judgment of justice awaits thee in

WILLIAM GLEN,

Born 1789 — Died 1826.

generations persons of con- William Glex, tlic author of " Wae's me tors were for many Renfrewshire. William received for Prince Charlie," perhaps the most popular sideration in on the organization of and pathetic of modern Jacobite lyrics, was a good education, and Volunteer Sharpshooters joined born at Glasgow, Nov. li, 1789. His ances- the Glasgow - —

WILLIAM GLEN. Ill the corps as lieutenant. He entered upon a living in Russia. He died of consumption in mercantile career, and was for some time a his native city, December, 1826, and the Edi- manufacturer in his native city, carrying on a tor's father was one of the few friends of the prosperous trade with the West Indies, where unfortunate poet who followed his remains to he resided for several years. In 1814 he was their last resting-place in God's acre.^ elected a manager of the Merchants' House of In 1815 Glen published a .small volume of Glasgow and a director of the Chamber of verses, entitled Poems, chiefly Lyrical. The Commerce. Soon after he met with several lovers of Scottish minstrelsy will rejoice to heavy losses, which caused his failure in busi- learn that a large number of unpublished ness, which he never again resumed. His songs and poems which he left behind him in latter days were marked by the poet's too fre- MS. are .soon to be issued, together with a quent lot —poverty and misfortune. During memoir of the bard by the editor the Rev. the last few years of his short life he spent his Dr. Rogers, and a narrative, written by a lady, summers with relations of Mrs. Glen residing of the interesting educational work carried on at Rainagour, in the parish of Aberfoyle, and at Aberfoyle for many years by the widow and received pecuniary assistance from an uncle daughter of Glen.

THE BATTLE-SONG.

Raise high the battle-song High deeds are Avritten fair To the heroes of our land; In that scroll, which time must spare, Strike the bold notes loud and long And thy fame's recorded there To Great Britain's warlike band. Noble Moore. Burst away like a Avhirlwind of flame. Wild as the lightning's wing; Yonder's Barossa's height, Strike the boldest, sweetest string, Rising full upon my view, And deathless glory sing— Where was fought the bloodiest fight To their fame. That Iberia ever knew. Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led. See Corunna's bloody bed! With bay'nets levell'd low, 'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene; They rush'd upon the foe, There the imperial eagle fled, Like an avalanche of snow And there our chief was slain. From its bed. Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast, " High honour seal'd his doom, Sons of the Lonely Isle," And eternal laurels bloom Your native courage rose, Round the poor and lowly tomb When surrounded for a while the thousands of your foes. Of his rest. By But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of Strong was his arm of might, war. When the war-flag was unfurl'd; He resistless led ye on. But his soul, when peace shone bright, Till the bloody field was won, Beam'd love to all the world. And the dying battle-groan And his name through endless ages shall endure; Sunk afar.

' Aberfoyle, though neither the birth-place of the closing years of his brief career. A few weeks before poet nor tlie spot where he breathed his last, has never- his death he said to his amiable wife, " Kate, I would theless many interesting associations connected with like to go back to Glasgow." "Why, Willie?" she ?" William Glen. It was here he often wandered in his asked, " are ye no as well here "It's no myself I'm youth, here that he won the fair Kate of Aberfoyle, thinking about," he answered. " It was of you, Kate; here on the banks of the lovely Loch Ard, for I know well it is easier to take a living man there than a dead one." So the sorrowful woman with her " Bright mirror set in rocky dell," dying husband departed from the place, and the warm that he composed many of his sweetest songs, and it Highland hearts missed and mourned for him, forget- was here that he spent, on the farm of Rainagour, the ting his faults and remembering only his virtues.—Ed. — — — ——

112 WILLIAM GLEN.

Our song Balgowan share, Home of the cliieftaiii's rest; WAE'S ME FOR PPJKCE CHAELIE.1 For thou art a lily fan- In Caledonia's breast. A wee bird cam' to our ha' door. soothing Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love He warbled sweet and clearly, strain, An' aye the o'ercome o' his sang For beauty there doth dwell, Was "Wae's me for Prince Charlie. flood, or fell. In the mountain, 0! when I heard the bonnie soun' And throws her witching spell The tears cam' happin' rarelj-, scene. O'er the I took my bannet aff my head. For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie, But not Balgowan's charms Could lure the chief to stay; Quoth I, " My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, For the foe were up in arms. Is that a sang ye borrow. In a country far away. Are these some words ye've learnt by heart, He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame; Or a lilt 0' dool an' sorrow?" Ages may pass by. " Oh! no, no, no," the wee bird sang; Fleet as the summer's sigh, " I've flown sin' mornin' early. But thy name shall never die But sic a day o' wind an' rain Gallant Graeme. Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie! Strike again the boldest strings " On hills that are by right his ain To our great commander's praise; He roves a lanely stranger. Who to our memory brings every side he's press'd by want. " The deeds of other days." On On every side is danger; Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain; Yestreen I met him in a glen. The blaze of hope illumes heart maist burstit fairly, Iberia's deepest glooms, My For sadly chang'd indeed was he And the eagle shakes his plumes Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie! There in vain.

" roar'd High is the foemen's pride. Dark night cam' on, the tempest For they are sons of war; Loud o'er the hills an' valleys. But our chieftain rolls the tide An' whare was't that your prince lay down, Of battle back afar. Whase hame should been a palace? A braver hero in the field ne'er shone; He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Let bards, with loud acclaim. Which cover'd him but sparely. Heap laurels on his fame, " Singing glory" to the name 1 Alexamler Whitelaw, in his admirable collection Of Wellington. entitled The Book of Scottish Song, relates that during one of her Majesty's earliest visits to tlie North, Could I with soul of fire " Wae's me for Prince Charlie" received a mark of royal Guide my wild unsteady hand, favour, which would have sweetened, had he been I would strike the quivering wire. alive, poor Glen's bitter cup of life. While at Taymouth the land. Till it rung throughout Castle, the marquis had engaged the celebrated vocalist Of all its warlike heroes would 1 sing; John Wilson to sing before the Queen. A list of the Were powers to soar thus given. songs Mr. Wilson was in the habit of singing was sub- By the blast of genius driven, mitted to her Majesty, that she might signify her to those wliich she would wish to hear, when I would sweep the highest heaven pleasure as fixed upon the following: — With my wing. the Queen immediately "Lochaber no more," "The Flowers of the Forest," " " Jo," "Cam' Yet still this trembling flight The Lass o' Gowrie," John Anderson, my The pre- ^lay point a bolder way. ye by Athol," and "The Laird of Cockpen." Mr. Wilson's list, but her Majesty Ere the lonely beam of night sent song was not in herself asked if he could sing "Wae's me for Prince Steals on my setting day. Charlie," which fortunately he was able to do. The Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree; selection of songs which the Queen made displays emi- I come again. And when nently her sound taste and good feeling. A better or Thou wilt not sound in vain, more varied one, both as regards music and words, For I'll strike thy highest strain taking the number of pieces into consideration, could Bold and free. not easily be made. Ed. —

WILLIAM GLEN. 113

steady gale, ye win's, waft him An' slept beneath a bush o' broom Then blow a Oh! wae's me for Prince Charlie!" across the sea, And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn and me. But now the bird saw some red coats, An' he sheuk his wings wi' auger, " Oh! this is no a Land for me, I'll tarry here nae langer." THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. lie hover'd on the wing a while Ere he departed fairly; Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim.

But weel I mind the fareweel strain High glory gie to gallant Graham, Was, "Wae's me for Prince Charlie!" Heap laurels on our marshal's fame, AVha conquer'd at Vittoria. Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,, An' raised her stately form again. Whan the British lion siiook his mane HO\Y EERILY, HOW DREARILY. On tlie mountains of Vittoria.

How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine. Let blustering Suchet crousely crack, When my love's in a foreign land, far frae thae Let Joseph rin the coward's track. arms o' mine; An' Jourdan wish liis baton back sin' first he said Three years ha'e come an' gane He left upon Vittoria. to me. If e'er they meet their worthy king. wi' her to That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, Let them dance roun' him in a ring. live and die; An' some Scots piper play the spring The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is He blew them at Vittoria. wild and drear, An' every hour that passeth by I water wi' a tear. Gie truth and honour to the Dane, Gie German's monarch heart and brain. I kiss my bonnie baby—I clasp it to my breast, But aye in sic a cause as Spain Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace its father hath Gie Britain a Vittoria. me prest! The English rose was ne"er sae red. it hes upon And whan I gaze upon its face, as The shamrock waved whare glory led. knee. my An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head crystal drops out-owre my cheeks will fa' The In joy upon Vittoria. frae ilka e'e; its face ! mouy a mony a burning tear upon Loud was the battle's stormy swell, will fa', Whare thousands fought an' mony fell. an' he is far awa'. For oh! it's like my bonnie love, But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell At the battle of Vittoria. spring-tims gane by and the rose Whan the had The Paris maids may ban them a'. began to blaw. Their lads are maistly wede awa'. An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw shaw, They lie upon Vittoria. 'Twas then my love cam' courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart. Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae The eagle standard-bearer flees, me part; While the " meteor flag" floats to the breeze. But though he's in a foreign land, far, far across An' wantons on Vittoria. the sea, Britannia's glory there was shown, I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto By the undaunted AVellington, me. An' the tyrant trembled on his throne, Whan hearin' o' Vittoria. Ye wastlin' win's upon the main, blaw wi' a steady breeze, Peace to the spirits o' the brave. And waft my Jamie hame again across the roarin' Let a' their trophies for them wave. seas; An' green be our Cadogan's grave. 0! when he clasps me in his arms, in a' his manly Upon thy field, Vittoria! pride, There let eternal laurels bloom, I'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the his early doom, world beside, While maidens mourn Vol. II.—H ; —

114 JOHN MACDIAEMID.

And thou wilt find me sitting here An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb Ere thou can'st hail the dawn o' morn Wi' roses on Yittoria. Then high on airy pinions borne, o' love and wac, Ye Caledonian war-pipes play, Thou'lt chant a sang scorn Barossa heard your Hielan' lay, An' soothe me weeping at the Oronsey. An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day Of the sweet maid of A prelude to Vittoria. And when around my weary head, Shout to the heroes— swell ilk voice, pillowed where my fathers lie, To them wha made poor Spain rejoice, Soft eternal poppies spread, Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys, Death shall An' close for aye my tearfu' eye; Barossa an' Vittoria! Ferehed on some bonny branch on high, Thou'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay. And soothe my " spirit passing by" To meet the maid of Oronsey. THE MAID OF OEONSEY,

Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain; Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows; MARY GRAY. Sweet bird, oh! warble it again, Once William swore the sacred oath, Thou'st touched the string o' a' my woes; That I my love had never weary; Oil! lull me with it to repose, And I gave him my virgin troth. I'll dream of her who's far away, But now he's turned awa' frae Mary. And fancy, as my eyelids close, thought his heart was link'd to mine. AVill meet the maid of Oronsey. I So firm that it could never stray; thine Could'st thou but learn frae me my grief, Yet, AVilliam, may that peace be Gray. .Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove, Which thou hast ta'en frae Mary And fly to bring my soul relief, happy in his love. To where my warmest wishes rove; I once was gloomy prospect made me dreary; Soft as the cooings of the dove No that he would never rove, Thon'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay. I thought But aye be faithfu' to his Mary. And melt to pity and to love on shone sweet pleasure's sun, The bsnnie maid of Oronsey. Bright me I sported in its gladdening ray; shades are come. Well may I sigh and sairly weep. But now the evening The song sad recollections bring; And soon will close round Mary Gray. Oh! fly across the roaring deep. Yet, AVilliam, may no gloomy thought And to my maiden sweetly sing; Of my love ever make thee dreary; 'Twill to her faithless bosom fling — I've suffer'd much 'twas dearly bought, Remembrance of a sacred day; Peace now has fled frae wretched Mary.— But feeble is thy wee bit wing, And when some maid more loved than me. And far's the isle of Oronsey. Thou lead'st to church on bridal day. lowly grave you'll see Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear Perhaps the poor neglected Mary Gray. I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn, Of

JOHN MACDIARMID.

Born 1790 — Died 1852.

years minister of a John MacDiarmid, a gifted writer and jour- MacDiarmid, for many in Glasgow, left him at an early nalist, was born, it is said, in Edinburgh in Gaelic church way in the world. He 1790. The death of his father, the Rev. Hugh age to make his own —

JOHN MACDIARMID. 115

for an Edin- first became a clerk in a counting-house, and prepared a memoir of Goldsmith afterwards obtained a situation in tiie Com- burgh edition of the Vicar of WakcJiM. In mercial Bank, Edinburgh, where he rose to a 1825 he originated the Dumfries Mafjazlne, good position. During this time he managed and five years later published his Sketches from of scenery and to attend several classes in the university, and Nature, chieSy illustrative Dumfries and devoted all his leisure hours to reading and character in the districts of contributed an interesting stud}'. He also for two years acted as occa- Galloway. He also its neigh- sional amanuensis to Professor Playfair, from account of the ancient burgh and ~ whom he obtained the privilege of attending bourhood to the Picture of Dumfries, an illus- and in the his classes, and the free use of his library. trated work published in 1832; description MacDiarmid's first literary effort seems to intervals of his leisure wrote a of Xicholsou the liave been some spirited verses on the battle of Moffat and a memoir of Waterloo, which he wrote in 1815, on the Galloway poet. occasion of erecting a commemorative monu- The Courier, which ultimately became ^Mac- ment at Newabbey, near Dumfries. The poem Diarmid's exclusive property, and in which attracted notice, and the editor of the Edln- most of his poems appeared, acquired a char- paper, 6(t)-/7/ti?et>iew signified his willingness to receive acter rarely attained by a provincial contributions from MacDiarmid's pen. while and its editor was highly esteemed by Sir the publishers Oliver and Boyd engaged him to Walter Scott, Wilson, Jeffrey, Lockhart, and his compile several works, for which service he was other leading literary men of his day. To paid £50. This, the first-fruits of his literary kind heart and liberal patronage many young indebted for labour, had not been half an hour in his pos- aspirants for poetic fame were sister of session before he gave the whole amount to assistance. Isabella, the youngest that her an impecunious poet-friend, who, it is almost Burns, told the Editor in 1855 had found in needless to remark, never returned it. In brother's widow and children friend, and 1816, in company with two friends, he estab- Mr. MacDiarmid a most faithful he acted as lished the Scotsman newspaper in Edinburgh, that after the death of Mrs. Burns now perhaps the most prosperous journal in her executor. Not even Eobert Chambers pos- of the life and Scotland; and the year following he accepted sessed a more minute knowledge national poet, or the editorship of the Dumfries and Oalloioay writings of Scotland's great more original anec- Courier. enriched the world with did John Mac- Although devoted to the business of his news- dotes concerning him, than universally respected by paper, MacDiarmid still continued to cherish Diarmid. He died 18, 1852, leaving his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published his fellow -men, November of whom became his bio- an edition of Cowpers Poems, with a well- several children, one tribute to his memory, written memoir of the poet, which passed grapher. As a fitting subscribed a sufficient sum through several editions. The Scrap Book, a a number of friends bursary bearing his name for £10 volume of selections and original contributions to found a in the University of Edinburgh, to be in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was annually students from the counties of soon followed by a second volume, both of competed for by and Wigton. which were highly successful. In 1823 he Dumfries, Kirkcudbright,

EVENING.

Jumbling in fantastic game: Hush, ye songsters! day is done; inhabitant of air, See how sweet the setting sun Sweet bo.^om holds no care; Gilds the welkin's boundless breast. Sure thy the fowler full of wrath. Smiling as he sinks to rest; Not the deeds of death Now the swallow down the dell, Skilful in the darting hawk on high Issuing from her noontide cell, Not tyrant of the sky '.) ilocks the deftest marksman's aim, (Ruthless — —

116 JOHN MACDIAEMID.

Owns one art of cruelty When sages with their precepts show. Fit to fell or fetter thee, Perfection is unknown below, Gayest, freest of the free! They mean, except in somebody.

Ruling, whistling shrill on high, Her lovely looks, sae kind and gay, Where yon turrets kiss the sky. Are sweeter than the smiles of day, Teasing with thy idle din And milder than the morn of Jlay Drowsy daws at rest within; That beams on bonnie somebody'. Long thou lov'st to sport and spring My fair, &c. On thy never-wearying wing. 'Twas but last eve, when wand'ring here, Lower now 'midst foliage cool, We heard the cushat cooing near, Swift thou skimm\st the peaceful pool, I softly whispered in her ear, Where the speckled trout at play, "He woos, like me, his somebody." Eising, shares thy dancing prey, My fair, &c. While the treach'rous circles swell Wide and wider where it fell, With crimson cheek the fair replied, Guiding sure the angler's arm '•As seasons change, he'll change his bride; to find the puny swarm Where ; But death alone can e'er divide And with artificial fly. From me the heart of somebody." Best to lure the victim's eye, My fair, &c. Till, emerging from the brook,

Brisk it bites the barbed hook; Enrapt I answer'd, "Maid divine, Struggling in the unequal strife. Thy mind's a model fair for mine; With its death, disguised as life, And here I swear I'll but resign Till it breathless beats the shore, With life the love of .somebody." Ke'er to cleave the current more! My fair, &c.

Peace! creation's gloomy queen, Darkest Night, invests the scene! Silence, Evening's handmaid mild. NITHSIDE. Leaves her home amid the wild.

Tripping soft with dewy feet When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the Summer's flowery carpet sweet, tree. Morpheus^drowsy power— to meet. The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee; Ruler of the midnight hour. The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows In thy plenitude of power. pied. From this burthen'd bosom throw How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside! Half its leaden load of woe. When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives Since thy envied art supplies to drown. What reality denies, And sclioolboys seeking nests find each nursling Let thy cheerless suppliant see fledged or flown, Dreams of bliss inspired by thee To hop 'mong plots and borders, an-ay'd in all before his wond'ring eyes Let their pride, visions rise Fancy's brightest How sweet at dewy mom to roam by bonnie Long-lost happiness restore, Nithside! None can need thy bounty more. When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue, And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue; MY FAITHFUL SOMEBODY. While the coble circles pools, where the nioniu cli salmon glide, Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nith- AVhen day declining gilds the west, side! And weary labour welcomes rest. How lightly bounds his beating breast When the comcraik's voice is mute, as her young At thought of meeting somebody. begin to flee. My fair, my faithful somebody, And seek with swifts and martins some home Jly fair, my faithful somebody; beyond the sea; ;

DAVID VEDDER. 11-

And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and The next, a nameless chanr^e was wrouglit, maiden pride, Death nipt in twain life's brittle thread, exquisite the How golden hours on bonnie Nith- And, in a twinkling, feeling, thought. side! Sensation, motion, — all were fled!

When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands Those lips will never more repeat brown and sear, The welcome lesson connd with cai'e; The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year; Or breathe at even, in accents sweet, To Heaven the well-remembered prayerl And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through oiu- valley wide, Those little hands shall ne'er essay Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside! To ply the mimic ta.sk again, And when winter comes at last, capping everj' Well pleased, forgetting mirth and play, hill \rith snow, A mother's promised gift to gain! And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below, That heart is still —no more to move. You still may share the curler's joys, and find at That ciieek is wan— no more to bloom, eventide. Or dimple in the smile of love. Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie That speaks a parent's welcome home. Nithside! And thou, with years and sufferings bow'd. Say, dost tiiou least this loss deplore? Ah! though thy wailings are not loud, OX THE DEATH OF A CHILD. I fear thy secret grief is more.

I cannot weep, yet I can feel Youth's griefs are loud, but are not long; Tlie pangs that rend a parent's breast; But thine with life itself shall last; And age shall feel each sorrow strong. But ah I what sighs or tears can lieal Thy griefs, and wake the slumberer's rest? When all its morning joys are past.

AVhat art thou, spirit undefined. 'Twas thine her infant mind to mould. That passest with man's breath away. And leave the copy all tliou art That givest him feeling, sense, and mind. And sure the wide Avorld does not hold And leavest him cold, unconscious clay? A warmer or a purer heart!

A moment gone, I look'd, and, lo! I cannot weep, yet I can feel Sensation throbb'd through all her frame; The pangs that rend a parent's breast; Those beamless eyes were raised in woe; But, ah! what sorrowing can unseal That bosom's motion went and came. Those eyes, and wake tiie slumberer's rest?

DAVID YEDDEE.

BoEX 1790 — Died 1854.

David A'edder, a lyric poet of considerable command of a trading vessel, in wliich he made originality, was born in the parish of Burness, several successful voyages. In 1815 he entered Orkney, in 1790. Having early lost his parents, the British Revenue service as first officer of he chose, as was natural to an island boy, a an armed cruiser, and at the age of thirty he sailor's life, and at the age of twelve siiipped was promoted to the position of tide-surveyor as a cabin-boy on board a small coasting vessel. of customs; successively discharging the duties He proved an apt scholar in the nautical pro- of his office at the ports of Dundee, Kirk- fession, and when

118 DAVID VEDDER.

Covenanters. His prose placed on the retired list, when he took up persecutions of the of vigorous his residence in Edinburgh, and died tliere, productions are good specimens songs and February 11, 1854, in his sixty-fourth year. composition, and his numerous David Vedder had from his early boyhood ballads are characterized by deep pathos and indulged in the pleasure of rhyming, and before beauty. JIany of his productions enjoyed a he had attained to manhood his compositions remarkable degree of popularity, and one of his found admission to the columns of the maga- devotional pieces, "The Templeof Nature," was Chalmers, zines. Encouraged by the favourable reception an especial favourite with Thomas extended to his poetic efforts, he commenced who frequently quoted passages from the poem the career of an author in earnest, and in 1826 in the course of his theological lectures. Avas intimate with i.ssued through Blackwood the publisher The Thomas C. Latto, who Covenanters Communion, and other Poems. "the sailor-poet of Orkney," as Hugh Miller The volume was so favourably received that called him, informs the Editor that Vedder was the whole impression was soon exhausted. Six the biggest poet in Scotland, or England either, was years later his Orcadian Sketches appeared, a weighing twenty-two stones, but that he volume of prose and verse recounting many active to the last— a prudent, warm-hearted. was reminiscences of his early life. This was God-fearing man. His countenance followed by a memoir of Sir Walter Scott, weather-beaten and corrugated in rather a which was much read and admired, until it singular manner; his aspect somewhat threaten- was superseded by Lockhart's well-known life ing and forbidding, but his first words made breast warm, of his distinguished father-in-law. In 1839 you forget all that, for his was Tedder edited the Poetical Remains of Robert and his conversation of a kindly and high Fraser, for which he wrote an interesting order. His words had weight, for Avhile he memoir: and three years later he published a talked he instructed. His voice was deep as of the collected edition of his own poetical writings, a boatswain's, but when he sang some it marvellous entitled Poems—Lerjendcmj, Lyriccd, and De- sweet songs of Scotland, was it to the scriptive. In 1848 he supplied the whole of how softly and gently he could mould humour. the letterpress for an illustrated volume entitled tenderest expression or archest He Lays and Lithogrctphs, published by his son- was pretty well grown before he could read or in-law, Frederick Schenck the lithographer. write. At last he mastered the alphabet, and " more does a man His last work was a new English version of as he used to say, What his in the the old German story of Reynard the Fox, want than that, to make way adorned with numerous elegant illustrations. world?" His widow, "Bonnie Jean," a son daughters, At the time of his decease he was engaged on in the royal navy, and two amiable a beautiful ballad, the subject of which was the still survive.

SIR ALAX MORTIMER. A LEGEXD OF FIFE.

flower, The morning's e'e saw mirth an' glee She bloomed in her bower a lily r the hoary feudal tower Beneath the light o' his e'e; 0' bauld Sir Alan Mortimer, She equalled Eve's majestic form. The lord o' Aberdour. Saint Mary's matchless grace; hues o' paradise But dool was there, an" mickle care, An' the heavenly When the moon began to gleam; O'erspread her beauteous face. For Elve an' Fay held jubilee The diamond grew dim compared wi' her e'e. Beneath her siller beam. The gowd, compared wi' her hair, bewitching smile Sir Alan's peerless daughter was Wi' the magic o' her earth to compare. His darling frae iufancie; There was nacthing an —— — — —

DAVID VEDDEE. 119

An' the dulcet music o' her voice Sir Alan was aye the foremost man Excelled the harmonic In dingle, brake an' brier; Which Elve an' Fay sae deftly play But when he heard his sleuth-hounds yowl, AYhen haldiug high jubilee! He tore his thin gray hair.

The woodbine an' the jessamine An' aye he cheered his vassals on, Their tendrils had entwined; Tiiough his heart was like to break; A bower was formed, an' Emma aft But Avheri he saw his hounds lie down, At twilight there reclined. Fu' mournfully thus he spake:

She thought of her knight in Palestine; "Unearthlie sounds affright my hounds, An' sometimes she would sigh, Unearthlie sights they see; For love was a guest in her spotless breast, They quiver an' shake on the heather brake In heavenly purity. Like the leaves o' the aspen tree.

The setting sun had ceased to gild " My blude has almost ceased to flow. Saint Col u nib's haly tower, An' my soul is chilled wi' fear. An' the vesper star began to glow Lest the elfin or the demon race Ere Emma left her bower; Should ha'e stown my daugiiter dear.

An' the fairy court had begun their sport "Haste, haste to the haly abbot wha dwells Upon the daisied lea, On Saint Coin nib's sacred shores; While the gossamer strings o' their virginals An' tell him a son o' the haly kirk rang His ghostlic aid implores. Wi' fairy melodie. " Let him buckle sic spiritual armour on That night the king had convoked his court As is proof against glamourie; Upon the enamelled green, Lest the friends o' hell ha'e power to prevail To pick an' wale thro' his beauties a' Against baith him an' me." For a blumin' fairy queen; The rowers ha'e dashed across the stream xVn' ere ever he wist, he spied a form An' knocked at the chapel door; That rivalled his beauties a'; The abbot waschauntin' his midnight hymn, 'Twas Emma— Sir Alan Jlortimer's pride Saint Columb's shrine before; Coming hame to her father's ha'. His saint-like mien, his radiant een, Quick as the vivid lightning gleams An' his tresses o' siller gray, Amidst a thunder storm. Might ha'e driven to flight the demons o' As rapidly the elve assumed night, Lord Bethune's manly form: But rood or rosarie!

As flies the cushat to her mate, The messenger dropt upon his knee, So, to meet his embrace she flew; An' humbly tiiis he said; Like a feathered shaft frae a yeoman's bo's,^ "My master, a faithfu' son o' the kirk, She vanished frae human view! Implores your ghostlie aid;

The abbey bell, on the sacred isle, "An ye' re bidden to put sic armour on Had told the vesper hour; As is proof against glamourie. No footsteps are heard, no Emma appeared. Lest the fiends o' hell ha'e power to prevail Sir Alan rushed from his tower; Against baith him an' thee."

The warders they ha'e left their posts. The abbot leaped lightlie in the boat, An' ta'en them to the bent; An' pushed her frae the strand; The porters they ha'e left the yetts — An' pantin' for breath, 'tween life and death, The sleuth-hounds are on the scent. The vassals rowed to land;

Baron's hand The vassals a' ha'e left their cots. He graspit the mournfu' " An' sought thro' brake an' wold; Ha'e patience, my son," says he, But the good sleuth-hounds they a' lay down "For I shall expel the fiends o' hell On the purple heath, an' yowled! Frae your castle an' baronie." — ———; ————

120 DAVID VEDDER.

" Eestore my daughter," Sir Alan cries, Its lamps arc the meridian sun, " To her father's fond embrace, And all the stars of heaven; An' the half o' my gold, this very night, Its Avails are the cerulean sky. Saint Columb's shrine shall grace; Its floor the earth so green and fair; The dome is vast immensity child. "Yes, if thou'lt restore my darling All nature worships there! That's from me foully been riven. The half of my lands, ere morning's prime. The Alps array'd in stainless snow, To thine abbey shall be given." The Andean ranges yet untrod, At sunrise and at sunset glow The abbot replied, with priestly pride, Like altar-fires to God. " Ha'e patience under your loss; A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze, There never was fiend witiistood me yet, As if with hallow'd victims rare; cross. AVhen I brandished the haly And thunder lifts its voice in praise All nature worships there! " Forego your fear, and be of good cheer I liereby pledge my word The ocean heaves resistlessly. That, by Marie's might, ere I sleep this night. And pours his glittering treasure forth; Your daughter shall be restored." His waves —the priesthood of the sea Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth, The abbot had made a pilgrimage And there emit a hollow sound, Barefoot to Palestine; As if they murmur'd praise and prayer; Had slept 1' the haly sepulchre, On every side 'tis holy ground An' visions he had seen; All nature Avorships there!

His girdle had been seven times laved The grateful earth her odours yield In Siloanl's sacred stream, In homage, mighty One! to thee; haly An' Saint Bride a rosarie hung From herbs and flowers in every field, Around his neck, in a dream! From fruit on every tree. The balmy dew at morn and even A bead was strung on his rosarie Seems like the penitential tear, That had cured ten men bewitched; Shed only in the sight of heaven An' a relic o' the real cross All nature worships there! His pastoral staff enriched; The cedar and the mountain pine. lie caiTied a chalice in his hand, The willow on the fountain's brim. Brimfu' o' water clear. The tulip and the eglantine For his ain behoof, that had oozed frae the roof In reverence bend to Him; U' the haly sepulclire! The song-birds pour their sweetest lays From tower, and tree, and middle air; lie sprinkled bauld Sir Alan's lands The rushing river murmurs praise \Vi' draps o' this heavenly dew; All nature Avorships there! An' the gruesome elves betook themselves the distant To Grampians blue: Tiien talk not of a fane, save one Built without hands, to mankind given; Anon he shook his rosarie, Its lamps are the meridian sun. An' invoked Saint Marie's name. And all the stars of heaven An' Emma's lute-like voice was heard Its Avails are the cerulean sky. Chauntin' our lady's hymn! Its floor the earth so green and fair,

But when lie brandished the haly rood. The dome is vast immensity An' raised it to the sky, All nature Avorships there! Like a beam of light she burst on their sight In vestal purity!

GIDEON'S AVAR-SONG.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE. Oh! Israel, thy hills are resounding, The checks of thy Avarriors are pale: Talk not of temples—there is one. For the trumpets of Midian arc sounding. Built without hands, to mankind given; His legions are closing their mail, — ————— ——!——;;

DAVID VEDDER. 121

His battle-steeds prancing and bounding, The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy Jeanie hame again! Ills veterans whetting tlieir steel 1 Shall welcome

His standard in haughtiness streaming Like dew-drops on a fading rose. Above his encampment appears; Maternal tears shall start for thee, An ominous radiance is gleaming And low-breathed blessings rise like those Around from his forest of spears: Which soothed thy slumbering infancy. The eyes of our maidens are beaming, Come to my arms, my timid dove! But, ah! they are beaming through tears. I'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more; The fountain of thy father's love matron survivors are -weeping, Our Is welling all its banks out o'er! Their sucklings a prey to the sword; Tiie blood of our martyrs is steeping The fanes where their fathers adored; The foe and the alien are reaping THE SUX HAD SLIPPED. Fields, —vineyards, —the gift of the Lord 1 The sun had slipped ayont the hill. Our country! shall IMidian enslave her, The darg was done in barn and byre; AVith the blood of the brave in our veins? The carle himself, come hame frae the mill. Shall we crouch to the tyrant for ever, Was luntiu' his cutty before the fire: AVhilst manhood existence remains? — — The lads and lasses had just sitten down, fawn on the despot? Oh, never! Shall we The hearth was sweepit fu' canty an' clean. freemen, unrivet your chains! Like When the cadgie laird o' Windlestraeto\ra Cam' in for till baud his Hallowe'en. Like locusts our foes ai'e befoi-e us, Encamped in the valley below; The gudewife beck'd, and the carle boo'd; The sabre must freedom restore us, In owre to the dels the laird gaed he; The spear, and the shaft, and the bow; The swankies a', they glowr'd like wud, The banners of Heaven wave o'er us, The lasses leugh i' their .sleeves sao slee; IJush! —rush like a Hood on the foe! An' sweet wee Lilias was unco feared, Tho' she blumed like a rose in a garden green An' sair she blush'd when she saw the laird Come there for till haud his Hallowe'en JEANIE'S WELCOME IIAME. "Now haud ye merry," quo' Windlestraetown, " Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, I dow^na come here your sport to spill, While plaudits shake the vaulted fane; Kax down the nits, ye unco like loon, though I auld, I am gleesorac slill: Let warriors rush through flood and fire, For am An' Lilias, my pet, to burn wi' me. A never-dying name to gain; Ye winna be sweer, right weel I \s'ecn, Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing, However it gangs my fate I'll dree. Pursue some high or holy theme; Since here I am haudin' my Hallowe'en." Be't mine, in simple strains, to sing My darling Jeanie's welcome harae! The pawky auld wife, at the chimly-cheek, Took courage an' spak', as a mither should do Sweet is the morn of flowery May, "Noo haud up yer head, my dochter meek, When incense breathes from heath and A laird comesna ilka night to woo! wold He'll make you a lady, and that right soon, laverocks hymn the matin lay. " When I dreamt it twice owre, I'm sure, yestreen. bathed in gold And mountain-peaks are "A bargain be't," quo' Windlestraetown, strand. And swallows, frae some foreign " It's lucky to book on Hallowe'en!" Are Avheeling o'er the winding stream; But sweeter to extend my hand. "I'll stick by the nits, for better, for waur,— And bid my Jeanie welcome hame! Will ye do the like, my bonny May? Ye sail shine at my board like the gloaming Poir collie, our auld-farrant dog. star, Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes; An' gowd in gowpins ye's hae for aye!" And baudrons, on the ingle rug. The nits are cannilie laid on the ingle, Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums." AYeel, weel are they tented wi' anxious een, The mavis, frae our apple-tree, And sweetlie in ase thegither they mingle; " Siiall warble forth a joyous strain; Noo blessed for aye be this Hallowe'en!" — : —

122 JOHN NEVAY.

JOHN NEYAY.

Born 1792 — Died 1870.

John Nevay was born in the town of Forfar, life was a life of poverty and privation, Lome January 28, 1792. He tells us that when a bravely and uncomplainingly. boy he loved to wander among the Grampians Hi an autobiographic sketch, prepared by and by the streams, imbibing from the beauties Nevay in 1866 for this volume, he remarks in of nature the spirit of poesy. His verses soon conclusion: "The third and last epoch has yet became locally known, and in 1818 he was to be written, — wherein there may be, now induced to collect and publish them under the and then, a blink of summer sunshine breaking title of "A Pamphlet of llhymes," which, being thi-ough the clouds of cai-e and regret ; and favourably received, was followed by a second even through the rimy fog of disappointment, collection in 1821. After an interval of ten a glimpse of morning light may appear in the years he brought out "Emmanuel: a Sacred horizon of my destiny." He had the honour Poem, in nine cantos, and other Poems," fol- of being introduced as "John o' ye Girnal" lowed in a short time by "The Peasant: a Poem by Christopher North in the Nodes Amhrosi- in nine cantos; with other Poems." In 1835 ance, accompanied by a quotation from his he published " The Child of Nature, and other beautiful poem of "The Yeldron." "I beg Poems." In 1853 he printed by subscription to mention," the venerable bard wrote to the a volume entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in four Editor in his last letter, ".sans vanity, that duans; and other Poems;" followed in 1855 many of my lyrics have been translated into languages. by "The Fountain of the Kock : a Poem." both the French and German The Mr. Nevay's latest poems, entitled "Leisure French translator is the Chevalier de Chatelain.

Hours," ai-e still in manuscript. He died in This you Avill allow is very gratifying to my May, 1870, after having been favourably known muse. I am delighted to learn that you are in the literary world for half a century. He so well pleased with the MS. pieces intended was of a very sensitive, retiring disposition, for insertion in your valuable and interesting simple in all his manners and ways, and his work."

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

The summer flowers are gone, The hamlet fowls, —the cock not crows; And o'er the melancholy sea While mo\u-nfully, all mournfully. The thistle-down is strewn; The rain-wind blows. The brown leaf drops, drops from the tree. heard the pastoral bleat And on the spated river floats, Nor that whitened many hills; That with a sullen spirit flows; Of flocks, plaided shepherd's seat Like lurid dream of troubled thoughts; Vacant the above the boulder-leaping rills: While mournfully, all mounifully, Far up The rain-wind blows. Young Winter o'er the Grampians scowls, His blasts and snow-clouds marshalling; The summer birds are mute, Beasts of the fields, and forest fowls. Anrl cheerless is the unsung grove; Instinctive see the growing wing of storm Silent the rural flute. Dark coming o'er their social haunts; Whose Doric stop was touched to love, Yet fear not they, for Heaven provides By hedgerow stile at gloaming gray For them; the wild bird never wants; Nor heard the milk-maid's melody, Want still with luxury resides! To fountain wending, blithe as gay; Prophetic, on the rushy lea, In wain-shed stand, all pensively, Stalk the dull choughs and crows; ; —

JOHN NEVAY. 123

\\Tiile mournfully, and drearily, 'Tis like the heart's mirk mood. The rain-wind blows. That makes this fleeting world its care; And hath no joys, nor hope of joys, Thick on the unsunn'd lake Above the \'ulgar mortal aim Float, munnuringly, its hlasted reeds; W'hich all the grovelling soul employs. And on the pebbles break, Till quenched is its ethereal flame! To rot among the oozy weeds; From sky to earth now all is night; The wreck of summer grand and beauteous spring, In every nook old Darkness creeps; The hearse-like, pensive, chilly fret And art the halls of wealth must light. Of the bleak water seems to sing Where beauty smiles; nay, haply weeps. The elegy of bright suns set, Amid the grandeuV of a station high; And all their balmy blossoms dead; Tears from the fount of sympathy Like young life's verdant pastimes fled; For hapless worth, worth which the world not Nor sapphu-e sky, nor amber cloud, knows; Lies mirrored in the sombre wave: 0! blessed is the tear that flows, The gloomy heaven's like Nature's shroud; Like matma-dew from a celestial tree, The water's lurid depth seemeth the grave For uncomplaining woes. Of beauty gone. And beauty's eye Now happy— how happy they, No more with floral pleasure glows; The toil-tired sons of honest industry, While mom-nfuUy, all mournfully. Who, by the cheerful hearth, 'mid children gay. The rain-wind blows. In cottage-home, enjoy health's blithe repose, Wliile mournfully, and drearily. There long decay hath been; The rain-wind blows. Through the rank weeds, and nettles vile, Whistle the surly winds of e'en. Where Scotland's Queen was wont to smile; Who, in a dark and savage age. Was learned and pious; read the sacred page A SUMMER LOVE-LETTEK. Unto her lord; taught maids of lowhest home To know and love the Saviour-Lord; Let us rove, Jessie, rove; now the summer is To read his soul-uphfting word. brightest. And understand the kingdom yet to come: The sky pure azure, earth a green grassy sea; Now sainted Margaret's boimy summer-bower And clear are the fountains, where gowans bloom Is reft of all its sylvan joy; whitest. Nor vestige left of the Inch Tower; But heaven has nae light, earth nae beauty like Nor that which charmed the roaming boy; thee. The ancient Bush of glossy sloes: fairest; Nought but the lightning-scathed tree Of a' that is fair, thou, dear Jessie, art thought's Remains; that, from its leafless boughs Of a' that's bright, brighter thy Drops the cold dew incessantly, modesty. and Like Eld weeping for a young maiden's woes; That hallows each feeling— the sweetest While mournfully, all mournfully, rarest The rain-wind blows. Love declares that a beauty mair heaven couldna gie. Browse not the kine and horse; where'er thou appearcst; Rusted the harrow and the plough; And a' things are happy darkness o' light's on thy lily e'ebree; And all day long upon the gorse. The night and her stars come Brown-blighted on the brae's rough brow. Compared wi' which, The night-dew, and thin gossamer, the nearest: in thy breast is a heaven-ccstacy! Hang chilly; and the weary sua The love Seems tired amid the troubled air; The pride o' my heart is to sing thee the fairest, And, long ere his full course be run, The sweet rays o' song are the morn in thine e'e; Besouth the Sidlaws wild, sinks down; And in thy bright bosom a jewel thou wearest,— Night gathers fast o'er cot and town; were it mine, richer than kings I would be! Ai'ound, and far as eye can see. Day has a dreary, death-like close; win it—that jewel sae simple? W^hile mournfully, most mournfully, 0, how shall I on the untrodden lea. The rain-wind blows. I'll think it a flower My love a pure stream that, wi' clear, sunny wimple, Thick glooms fall on the wood; Sings—heaven is mail- blessed that lily to sec! A cold and thrilling sough is there; : —— —: — —

124 JOHN NEVAY.

Let us rove, Jessie, rove, for a' Ucature is bloom- the summer day's bright, green every bower. ing; And blithe is the song of the silver stream; The siller burns dance o'er the pebbles wi'glee; But brighter and blither the curfew-hour, And flowers in their prime are the saft breeze When love was my dream. perfuming; Oh, surely the flowers steal their fragrance rich autumn's sun of the golden shower. from thee! And the corn-fields drink of his mellowing beam; But richer the star of the curfew-hour, We'll rove by the burnie where summer is When love was my dream. sweetest, Where every wee blossom gi'es balm to the bee sweet winter's hearth, while music's power But thou, fairest Flower! fair nature completest, Enchai-ms heart and soul, like a joy supi-eme; And every bird sings — nature's perfect in thee! But sweeter by moonlight the curfew-hour, When love was my dream. We'll rove in the woodland, where violets are

springing, ! brightest and sweetest o' the twenty-four. They wait to unfold their chaste virtues to thee; Announced by the silver peal, —like a gleam In the dell, to her children loved, summer is Of hope from heaven, was the curfew-hour, singing: When love was my dream. But thou art the Muse o' my heart's melodic. When the heart was young, and life seemed a Youth is the gay season o' love—the prime bless- dower. ing; The maiden all lovely—my soul's esteem, Without love, life's summer joys ne'er would 'Twas heaven to tryst in the curfew-hour, we pree; When love was my dream. Then let us, dear Jessie, con summer's sweet lesson, 1 cared not for wealth, I envied not rank; Our love like her bright dewy mom aye to be. All nature was mine, and the sunlight above, The sweet gushing stream, and the prinu-ose bank, Oh, then, let U3 saunter where a' things are When my dream was love. loving The air and the su.nlight, and bird, ilower, and I cared not for aught which the vain world pur- tree sues; And we too will love, by the blithe waters roving. With her only happy was I to rove; And sweetly our joy shall wi' summer's agree. Her smile was like that of a heavenly Muse, When my dream was love. Hark! Nature invites us. Her reason is thrilling, 'Tis love, hope, and rapture—thy soul's poesie; Afar from the world and its pleasures vain. Let us rove, then, where .summer our love-cup is At calm summer eve, in lily alcove, filling; I thought not of aught but to be her swain, We'll drink, and sae blest, heaven mair blest When my dream was love. couldna be! I cared not for books; for morality. we shall And be happy, our hearts sae united, Religion, and song in her smile were wove; Joy blending wi' joy in a love melodic; The melody of heaven was in her eye, And in it sae sweetly our troth .shall be plighted: When my dream was love. Oh, then, my ain Jessie, to love we'll be free!

I eared not for aught but the beautiful. For that was the joy of her bosom's dove, The feeling that well all chaste things could cull, When my dream was love. THE DREAMING LOVER. I cared not for aught but the gems of her choice. sweet the May morn, and fair every flower. Fair Nature's own blooms in the woodland and And every sweet song-bird makes love its theme; grove; But sweeter and happier the curfew-hoxir. And there with my Jeanie were all Ufe's joys, When love was my dream. When my dream was love. —

HEW AINSLIE. 125

HEW AINSLIE.

Hew Aixslie, one of the best living writers and finding his salary inadequate to the main- of Scottish songs and ballads, was born April 5, tenance of his family, Ainslie resolved to go to 1792, at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, the United States, and accordingly set sail, Ayrshire, on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrympie arriving in Xew York in July, 1822. He pur- Hamilton, in whose service his father had been chased a small farm in Een.sselaer county, X. Y., employed for many years. He was educated and resided there for three years. He next made first by a private tutor at home, afterwards trial for a year of Robert Owen's settlement at the parish-school of Ballantrae, and finally at New Harmony, Indiana, but found it a at the Ayr Academy. At the age of fourteen failure, and then removed to Cincinnati, where delicate health induced him to forego tlie further he entered into partnership with Price and prosecution of his studies, and to return to his Wood, brewers. In 1829 he established a native hills. Sir Hew was at this time engaged branch at Louisville, which Avas ruined by an in an extensive plan for the improvement of inundation of the Ohio in 1832. He erected his estate, under the direction of the celebrated a similar establishment the same year in Xew landscape-gardener AVhite, and a number of Albany, Indiana, which was destroyed by fire young men from the south. Young Ainslie in 1834. Satisfied with these experiments, he joined this company, as he says, "to harden employed himself— till his retirement from my constitution and clieck my overgrowth. business a few years ago— in superintending Amongst my planting companions I found a the erection of mills, factories, and breweries number of intelligent young men, who had got in the Western States. up in a large granary a private theatre, where In 186i Ainslie visited Scotland, after an they occasionally performed for the amusement absence of more than forty years, and was of the neighbourhood the 'Gentle Shepherd,' warmly welcomed by old friends and many 'Douglas,' &c., and in due time I was to my ncAv ones to his native land. From the lead- great joy found tall enough, lassie-looking ing literary men of Edinburgh and Glasgow, enough, and flippant enough, to take the part and especially from the poets, he received of the pert 'Jenny ;' and the first relish I got for many most gratifying marks of attention and anything like sentimental song was from learn- respect. He still enjoys good health for a ing and singing the songs in tliat pastoral, person upwards of fourscore years of age, and auld ballads that my mother sung— and she continues to reside in Louisville. On the sang many and sang them well —having been one hundred and twelfth anniversary of the all the poetry I cared for. For three years, birth of Burns a large company assembled in which was up to the time we removed to IJoslin, Louisville to celebrate the day so dear to all

I remained in this employment, acquiring a Scotchmen. The chairman was the venerable tough, sound constitution, and at the same poet, whose memory dates back nearly to the time some knowledge of nursery and floral days of the Ayrshire bard, and who, in a culture." humorous address delivered on the occasion, In his seventeenth year he was sent to Glas- told how he had had the honour of kissing " gow to study law in the office of a relation, but Bonny Jean," the wife of the great poet. the pursuit proving uncongenial he returned Ainslie was a poet from his early years, and to Eoslin. Soon after he obtained a situation had composed verses before lie left his native in the liegister House, Edinburgh, Avhich he Carrick. A visit to Ayrshire in 1820 renewed retained until 1822, a portion of the time being the ardour of his muse, which, on the eve of passed at Kinniel House, as the amanuensis his departure from Scotland, burst forth into of Prof. Dugald Stewart, whose last woi-k he authorship under the title of A PUgrimnge to copied for the press. Having married in 1812, the Land of Burns. A second volume from 126 HEW AINSLIE. his pen, entitled Scottish Songs, Ballads, and tish Song, and other collections of the lyrie Poems, appeared in 1855. A new edition of poetry of his native land. They well deserve his poetical writings is now in preparation for the reputation they acquired half a century the press. Many of Ainslie's compositions are ago, and which they still retain in the New and tj be found in Whistle Blnkie, Gems of Scot- Old Worlds.

Are there touslings on the hairst rig. "STANDS SCOTLAND WHERE An' lioutherings 'mang the hay? IT DID?" Are sheepshead dinners on the board, Wi' gousty haggis seen? IIoo's dear auld mither Scotland, lads, four Hoo's kindly Scotland noo? Come scones an' farls at hours; Are sowens sair'd at e'en? Are a' her glens as green 's of yore, Her hills as stern an' blue? Are winkings 'tween the preachings rife Out-owre the baps an' yill? I meikle dread the iron steed. Are there cleekings i' the kirk gates. That tears up heugh and fell, An' loans for lovers still ? Has gi'en our canny old folic A sorry tale to tell. Gang loving sauls in plaids for shawls A courtin' to the bent? Ha'e touns ta'en a' our bonnie burns braid lawlins left the land? To cool their lowin' craigs? Has gude Are kail and crowdy kent? Or damm'd them up in timmer troughs To slock their yettlin' naigs? Ah! weel I min', in dear langsyne, rantin's the green; Do Southern loons infest your touns Our round Wi' mincing Cockney gab? The meetings at the trystin' tree. " Ha'e "John and Eobert" ta'en the place The chappings out" at e'en. 0' plain auld "Jock an' Itab?" Oh bootless queries, vanish'd scenes; Oh wan and wintry Time! In sooth, I dread a foreign breed lay alike, heart an' dyke, Noo rules o'er "corn an' horn;" Why on Thy numbing frost and rime? An' kith an' kin I'd hardly fin'. Or place whare I was born. E'en noo my day gangs doun the brae. tear di'aps fa' like rain. They're houkin sae in bank an' brae. An' think the fouth o' gladsome youth An' sheughin' hill an' howe: To Can ne'er return again. I tremble for the bonny broom, The whin an' heather cowe.

I fear the dear auld "Deligence" An' "Flies" ha'e flown the track, THE ROYER 0' LOCHRYAN. An' cadgers braw, pocks, creels an' a',

Gane i' the ruthless wrack. The Eover o' Lochryan he's gane, Wi' his merry men sae brave; Are souple kimmers kirkward boun. Their hearts are o' the steel, and a better keel On Sabbath to be seen ? Ne'er bowled o'er the back o' a wave. Wi' sturdy carles that talk o' texts,

lioups, craps, an' days ha'e been. It's no when 1he loch lies dead in its trough, WTien nacthing disturbs it ava; Gang lasses yet. wi' wares to sell But the rack an' the ride o' the restless tide. Barefitit to the toun? An' the splash o' the gray sea-maw. Is wincie still the wiliccoat An' demitty the goun? It's no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl Owrc the breast o' the siller sea, Do wanters try the yarrow leaf That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best, Upon the first o' Alay? An' the Rover that's dear to me. — ————— — —

HEW AINSLIE. 127

Bub when that the chid lays its cheeks to the flud, When win's grow loud, and birdies mute, the sea lays its An' shouthcr to the shore; An' swallows flit awa' ^Vhen the wind sings high, and the sca-whaups Then, on the lee side o' a stook, cry, Or in some calm an' cosie nook, As they rise frae the deafening roar. I'll swear I'm tiiine upon the IJook,

Thou sweetest o' them a'. It's then that I look thro' the thickening rook, An' watch by the midnight tide; Tho' black December bin's the pool I ken the wind brings my Rover hame, AVi' blasts might e'en a wooer cool. And the sea that he glories to ride. It's them that brings us canty Yule

Men-ily he stands 'mang his jovial crow, As weel's the frost an' snaw. Wi' the helm heft in his hand, Then, wlien aiild winter's raging wide, An' he sings aloud to liis boys in blue. An' cronies crowd the ingle-side, As his e'e's upon Galloway's land I'll bring them ben a blooming bride 0! sweetest o' them a'! " Unstent and slack each reef and tack, Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit; She has roar'd thro' a heavier sea afore, And she'll roar thro' a heavier yet. OX Wr THE TARTAN. " When landsmen drouse, or trembling rouse.

To the tempest's angry moan. Do ye like, my dear lassie, thro' drift, We dash the and sing to the lift The hills wild an' free, 0' the wave that heaves us on. Wiiere the sang o' the shepherd Gars a' ring wi' glee; " It's braw, boys, to see, the morn's blythe e'e, Or the steep rocky glens. When the night's been dark an' drear; Where tlie wild falcons bide? But it's better far to lie, wi' our storm-locks dry, Then on wi' the tartan. In the bosom o' her that is dear. An' fy let us ride!

"Gi'e her sail, gi'e her sail, till she buries her Do ye like the knowes, lassie, wale, That ne'er were in riggs. Gi'e her sail, boys, while it may sit; Or tile bonny lowne howes, She has roar'd thro' a heavier sea afore, Where the sweet robin biggs? An' she'll roar thi'o' a heavier yet!" Or the sang o' the lintie, AVhen wooing his bride; Then on wi' the tartan, An' fy let us ride. THE SWEETEST 0' TIIEII A'.

Do ye like the burn, lassie. AVhen springtime gi'es the heart a lift That loups amang linns. Out ower cauld winter's snaw and drift, Or the bonny green holmes An' April's showers begin to sift Where it cannily rins; Fair flowers on field an' shaw. Wi' a cantie bit housie, Then, Katie, when the dawing's clear Sae snug by its side; Fresh as tlie firstlings o' the year Then on wi' the tartan, Come forth, my joy dearest dear— —my An' fy let us ride. 0! sweetest o' them a'!

When pleasant primrose days are doon When Unties sing tlieir saftest tune— And simmer, nearing to his noon, THE LAST LOOK OF HOME. Gars i-arest roses biaw Then, sheltered frae the sun an' win', Our sail has ta'en the blast, Beneath the buss, below the linn, Our pennant's to the sea, I'll tell thee hoc this heart ye win, And the waters widen fast Thou sweetest o' them a'. 'Twixt the fatherland and me.

When flowers hae ripened into fruit Then, Scotland, fare thee well — When plantings wear their Sabbath suit- There's a sorrow in tliat word — ; — — —————

128 HEW AINSLIE.

This aching heart could tell, An' the sang o' the bird But words shall ne'er record. Seems to welcome me back. 0! dear to the heart lieart veil The should make us Is the hand that first fed us; the heart's elected few, From An' dear is the land, Our sorrows when we ail An' the cottage that bred us. Would we have them suffer too? An' dear are the comrades, No, the parting hour is past; AVi' whom we once sported; Let its memory be brief; But dearer the maiden. AYhen we monument our joys, Whose love we first courted. We should sepulchre our grief. Joy's image may perish, E'en grief die aAvay; Kow yon misty mountains fail, As the breezes give us speed But the scenes o' our youth. recorded for ave. On, my spirit, with our sail, Are There's a brighter land ahead.

There are wailings on the wind, There are murmurs on the sea. But the fates ne'er proved unkind SIGHIXGS FOR THE SEASIDE. Till they parted home and me. At the stent o' my string, Wiien a fourth o' the earth Lay 'tween me and Scotland THE IXGLE SIDE. Dear land o' my birth,

It's rare to see the morning bleeze, Wi' the richest o' valleys. Jjike a bonfire frae the sea; And waters as bright It's fair to see the burnie kiss As the sun in midsummer The lip o' the flowery lea; Illumes wi' his light. An' fine it is on green hill side, surrounded wi' a' When hums the hinny bee; And That the heart or the head, But rarer, fiiirer, finer far, The body or the niou' Is the ingle side to me. 0' mortal could need. Glens may be gilt wi' gowans rare, I hae paused in sic plenty, The birds may fill the tree. And .stuck in my track. An' haughs ha'e a' the scented ware As a tug frae my tether Tiiat simmer's growth can gi'e; Would mak me look back, But the cantie hearth where cronies meet, An' the darling o' our e'e; Look back to auld hills That makes to us a warld complete In their red heather bloom. 0! the ingle side for me! To glens wi' their burnies, And hillocks o' broom,

To some loop in our lock, A HAMEWAED SAXG. Whar the wave gaes to sleep. Or the black craggy headlands Each whirl o' the wheel. That bulwark the deep; Each step brings me nearer The hame o' my youth; Wi' the sea lashing in Every object grows dearer. Wi' the wind and the tide The hiils, an' the huts, Aye, 'twas then that I sicken'd, The trees on that green 'Twas then that I cried Losh! they glour in my face, 0! gie a sough o' the auld saut sea, Like some kindly auld frien'. me A scent o' his brine again. E'en the brutes they look social To stiffen the wilt that this wilderness As gif they would crack; Has brought on this breast and brain. THOMAS LYLE. 129

Let me heai- his roar on the rocky shore, But the breath o' the swamp brews a sickly His thud on the shelly sand; damp, For my spirit's bow'd and my heart is dow'd And there's death in the dark lagoon. AVi' the gloom o' this forest land. Aye, gie me the jaup o' the dear auld saut, A scent o' his brine again! Your sweeping floods an' your waving woods, To stitfen the wilt that this wilderness Look brave iu the suns o' June; Has laid on this bosom and bruiu.

THOMAS LYLE,

Born 1792 — Died 1859.

Dr. Thomas Lyle, like his friend John success in his new field of labour; for, as in Wilson, a native of Paisley, was born in that Glasgow, he Avas regarded as a man more town, September 10, 1792. He received a devoted to the muse and to the gathering of liberal education, and afterwards studied at rare plants than to the practice of his profes- the University of Glasgow, where in 181G he sion. In the following year he appeare

" Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O." most valuable jiortion of it to antiqinirians

It was written in the year 1819, when he was consists of the miscellaneous poems of Sir Wil- in the habit of resorting, in his botanical liam Mure, Knight of Rowallan. After a excursions, to the then wooded and sequestered residence at Airth for above a quarter of a banks of the Kelvin, about two miles from centur}^ he returned in 18.53 to Glasgow, and Glasgow. Since that date the huge city has resumed his profession. Two years later the swallowed up Lyle's rural retreat of Kelvin Editor found him living there in obscurity, Grove. Not meeting with the success in his with little practice, and apparently as much profession that he anticipated, he removed in forgotten as the spot celebrated in his most 1826 to Airth, a few miles from Falkirk. But it popular song. Lyle died in Glasgow, April does not appear that he met with any greater 19, 1859.

KELVIN GROYE.i

Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, 0, Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, 0, Thi-ough its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, 0, To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, Where the rose in all her pride Where the glens rebound the call Paints the hollow dingle side, Of the roaring waters' fall. Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, 0. Thro' the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, 0.

Renfreicaliire, a collection of > It is worthy of mention that this song, on which in 1S20 in the Harp of Lyle's poetical reputation chiefly rests, was originally poetical pieces to which an introductory essay on the attributed to another writer. MaodonalJ. in his Ram- poetsof the district was contrilMi ted by William JI other- was first published well. In the index to that work the name of John Sim bles round Glasgow, savs—" " The song Vol. II.—I !

130 THOMAS LYLE.

the snaw-draps hung white 0! Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, 0, She was mhie when When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, 0, on the lea. an' grew sae fair; There the ]May-pink's crimson plum^i Ere the broom bloom' <1 bonnie, anither wysed Phebe frae me, Throws a soft, but sweet perfume, Till May-day, broom ony mai/. Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie,0. So I ne'er will gae down to the

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, 0, Sing, love, thy fond promises melt like the snaw. As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie lassie, 0, When broom waves lonely, an' bleak blaws the Yet with fortune on my side, air; I could stay thy father's pride, For Phebe to me now is naething ava'. And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, 0. If my heart could say, "Gang to the broom nae man-." But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, 0, On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, 0, Durst I trow that my dreams in the night hover Ere yon golden orb of day o'er, an' grows sae fair; Wake the warblers on the spray. Where broom blooms bonnie, (who, while waking, thou thinks of no From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, 0. The .swain more,) gang to the broom Then farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, 0, Whisp'ring, "Love, will ye mair?" And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, 0, ony To the river winding clear. No! fare thee well, Phebe; I'm owre wae to weep, To the fragrant scented breer. Or to think o' the broom growing bonnie an' E'en to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, 0. fair; death I maun .sleep, When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, 0, Since thy heart is anither's, in the broom on the lea, an' the bawm Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, 0, 'Neatii sunny air. Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear Of thy lover on his bier. To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, 0. DAEK DUNOON.

See the glow-Avorm lits her fairy lamp, moon; I AKCE KNEW CONTENT. From a beam of the rising On the heathy shore at evening fall, I ance knew content, but its smiles are awa', 'Twixt Holy-Loch and dark Dunoon; The broom blooms bonnie, an' grows sae fair; Her fairy lamp's pale silvery glare. Each tried friend forsakes nie, sweet Phebe an' a'. From the dew-clad, moorland flower, So I ne'er will gae down to the broom ony mair. Invite my wandering- footsteps there, At the lonely twilight hour. How light was my step, and my heart, how gay Wlien the distant beacon's revolving light The broom blooms bonnie, the broom blooms Bids my lone steps seek the shore. fair; There the rush of the flow-tide's rippling wave Till Phebe was crowned our Queen of the May, Meets the dash of the fisher's oar; sweets When the bloom o' the broom strew'd its And the dim-seen steamboat's hollow sound, on the air. As she seaward track.s lier way; All else are asleep in the still calm night, that of the author of ' Kelvin Grove.' Mr. is given as And robed in the misty gray. Sim, who had contributed largely to the work, and for a time had even acted as its editor, left Paisley before its anonymously in the Harp of Renfreushire. completion for the West Indies, where he shortly after- published meantime Mr. Sim, who had transcribed both ward died. In the meantime the song Vjecame a general In the was called abroad; and after his death his favourite, when Jlr. I.yle laid claim to it as liisonn the pieces, the two songs among his papers and production, and brought forward evidence of the most executors, finding handwriting, naturally concluded that they were onvincing nature to that effect,. So clearly, indeed, in liis of his own genius, and published them did he establish the fact of his authorship that a music- productions Dr. Lyle, «hen upwards of threescore seller in Edinburgh, who had previously purchased the accordingly." age, and his authorship to the piece in question song from the executors of Mr. Sim, at once entered years of acri- by all, still alluiled with considerable into a new arrangement with him for the copyright. admitted to the wrong and injustice which he had been Mr. Lyle, it seems, was in the habit of corresiionding mony being compelled to prove his just claim with Mr. Sim on literary matters, and on one occasion subjected to in Ed. ' to his own property.— sent liira Kelvin Grove,' with another song, to be —

WILLIAM FINLAY. 131

When the glow-worm lits her elfiu lamp, Eliza! with thee in this solitude, And the night breeze sweeps the hill; Life's cares would pass away, It's sweet on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon, Like the fleecy clouds over gray Kilmun, To wander at fancy's will. At the Avake of early day.

WILLIAM FINLAYT

EoRN 1792 — Died 1847.

William Finlay, the son of a weaver, was is a favourable specimen of this class of com- born at Paisley in 1792. At an early age he position. In 1846 Finlay collected a number attended Bell's School, and subsequentlj' the of his pieces, which were published in Paisley Grammar School, where he made such progress in a volume entitled Poems, J/umowus and that before he was nine years of age he could Sentimental. He was fond of music and read and translate Ctesar with facility. For society, and yielding to the fascinations of twenty years he followed his father's occupa- conviviality he sometimes committed excesses tion, after which he was employed in a cotton which he deeply regretted. Frequent and mill at Duntocher. In 1840 he became an touching allusions to his besetting sin are to assistant in the office of Mr. Neilson, printer. be met with in his writings, as well as vain Paisley, with whom he remained for eight regrets at the time squandered among his years. He afterwards removed to a bleachfield friends, to the neglect perhaps of the necessary on the GlenifFer Braes, where he died Novem- pursuits of a labouring man. He says ber 5, 1847. " Wliile others have been busy, bustling As early as his twentieth year Finlay became After wealth and fame, And wisely adding house to house. Icnown as a composer of verses, and ultimately And Bailie to their name; as a successful writer of humorous and satirical I, like a thoughtless prodigal. poems, which he contributed to the Paisley Have wasted precious time, and Glasgow journals. Several of the most And followed lying vanities To string them up in rhyme." agreeable of his productions are those in which there is a combination of the descriptive, the It has been truthfully said that AVilliam Fin- humorous, and the kindly, delicately .spiced lay's pictures of the evils of intemperance arc with the satirical. "The Widow's Excuse" equal to Eodger's or Alexander AVilson's.

THE MIGHTY MUNRO.

Come, brawny John Bai-leycora, len' me your With such pleasing persuasion he blaws in your aid, lug, Though for such inspiration aft dearly I've paid, Ye wad think that the vera inanimate jug Come cram up my noddle, and help me to show, Whilk Stan's on the table, mair hriehtly doth In true graphic colours, the mighty Muuro. glow At the wild witching stories o' mighty JIunro.

! could ye hut hear him his stories rehearse, Whilk the hke was ne'er heard o', in prose or in Such care-killing caper-3—such glorious riggs, verse, Such cantrin' on cuddies, and cadging' in gigs, Ye wad laugh till the sweat dovra your haffets Such rantin,' and jauntin', and shunting, and did flow, show, At the matchless, magnificent, mighty Munro. Could ne'er be displayed but by mighty Munro. : — ; — :

132 WILLIAM FINLAY.

music's Great Goliath o' Gath, who came out and defied, And when our voices mingled sweet in With the gi-eat swelhng words o' vainglory and solemn strains. pride, My youthful blood tumultuously rush'd ting- The brave armies of Israel, as all of ya knnjv, ling through my veins. Was a dwarf-looking bodie compared vvi' Munro. It must have been of happiness a more than And Samson, that hero, who slew men cii masse mortal dream, an ass; Wi' naething but just the jaw bane o' It must have been of heavenly light a bright And drew down a house on himsel' and the foe, unbroken beam; compared wi' JVIunro. Was a puir feckless creatur' A draught of pure unmingled bliss; for to my wither'd heart The chivalrous knight of La Mancha, 'tis tnie, It doth, e'en now, a thri'ding glow of ecstacy And Baron Munchausen, had equals but few; impart. Their exploits have astonished the warl', but lo! Both the Don and the Baron mUst bow to Munro. She now hath gone where sorrow's gloom the brow doth never shade But a tythe o' his merit nae words can impart, on the cheek the ro>y bloom of youth His errors are all of the head, not the heart; Where fade; Though his tongue doth a little too trippingly go. doth never struggle here, till now Yet a guid chiel at bottom is mighty Munro. And I've been left to my locks are gray. Though the lamp o' his fame will continue to bum Yet still I love to think upon this "dream of When even his dust to the dust shall return, life's young day." And for ages to come a bright halo will throw O'er the mouldering remains o' the mighty Munro,

THE WIDOWS EXCUSE. LIFE'S YOUNG DAY. THE DREAM OF " 0, Leezie M'Cutcheon, I canna but say, Your grief hasna lasted a year and a day; more, Eliza, let me look upon tliy smil- Once The crape aff your bannet already ye've tane; ing face, Nae wonner that men ca' us fickle an' fain. with the '•'joy of grief" tliy For there I Ye sich't and ye sabbit, that nicht Johnnie dee't, trace; mother's features I thought my ain heart wad hae broken to see't; Iler sparkling eye, her winning smile, and But noo ye're as canty and brisk as a bee; sweet bewitching air Oh! the frailty o' women I wonner to see: Iler raven locks which clust'ring hung upon The frailty o' women I wonner to see, her bosom fair. The frailty o' women I wonner to see; Ye kiss'd his cauld gab wi' the tear in your e'e; It is the same enchanting smile, and eye of Oh, the frailty o' women I wonner to see. joyous mirth. Which beamed so bright with life and light in "When Johnnie was living, oh little he wist her who gave thee birth That the sound o' the mools as they fell on his And strongly do they bring to mind life's glad- kist. some happy day, While yet like a knell, ringing loud in your lug. AVhen first I felt within my heart love's pulse By anither man's side ye'd be sleeping sae snug. begin to play. Leezie, my lady, ye've surely been fain. For an unco-like man to your aims ye have ta'en; ]\Iy years were few—my heai-t was pure; for John M'Cutcheon was buirdly,but this ane,I trow, vice and folly wore The e'e o' your needle ye might draw him through those green A hideous and disgusting front, iu 0, the e'e o' your needle ye might draw him days of yore through. Destructive dissipation tlien, with her deceit- His nose it is shirpit, his lip it is blue. ful train. Oh, Leezie, ye've surely to wale on had few, Had not, with their attractive glare, confus'd Ye've looted and lifted but little, I trow." and turn'd my brain. " Now, Janet, wi' jibing- and jeering hae dune. Johnnie's Ah! well can I recall to mind liow (piick my Though it's true that anither now fills heart would beat. shoon. ken, To see her, in the house of prayer, so meekly He was lang in sair trouble, and Robin, ye ben. take her seat; Was a handy bit body, and lived but and ;

WILLIAM BEATTIE. 133

was black, to put on, He was unco obliging, and cam' at my wag, 1 had na a steek, that plenty wi' guiding o' John; Whan wi' grief and fatigue I was liken to fag: For wark I had and ought that he wan 'Deed, John couldna want him—for aften I've Now Robin was thrifty, twa notes at corn- seen He took care o't, and aye had man'. His e'e glisten wi' gladness when Robin cam' in. And he lent me as muckle as coft a black gown, Then, how can ye wonner I gied himmyhaun! Sae hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's shoon< Oh, how can ye wonner I gied him my haun; Then hoo can ye wonner he's wearing John's When I needed his help he was aye at comman' shoon, Then how can ye wonner I gied him my haun ? My heart-strings wi' sorrow were a' out o' tune; and twa notes at com- " At length when John dee't, and was laid in the A man that has worth clay, man'. Can sune got a woman to tak him in haun." My haun it was bare, and my heart it was wae;

WILLIAM BEATTIE.

Born 1793 — Died 1875.

of William William Beattie, M.D., the friend and taining memoir, published in 1855, whom he had assisted in the biographer of Thomas Campbell, was born in Henry Bartlett, preparation of several of his illustrated works. the parish of Dalton, Dumfriesshire, Feb. 24, Dr. Beattie was well known as the genial 1793. After receiving the riuUments of his entertainer of men of letters, as a contributor education at the Clarencefield Academy, he magazines, as rendering professional entered the University of Edinburgh in 1813, to the services gratuitously to authors and clergymen, where in 1820 he took the degree of M.D. He a hearty lover of his native land. At then continued his studies in London and on and as upwards of fourscore years of age he continued the Continent for ten years, when he com- mingle in the literary society of London, menced practice in London, where he ever to and to indulge in occasional poetic composi- afterward continued to reside. While actively the tion. He was much esteemed for his amiable pursuing his profession, Dr. Beattie, like for character and ability in his profession. He late Sir Henry Holland, found leisure Lon- first died at his residence in Portman Square, literary pursuits and foreign travel. His years, resi- don, March 17, 1875, aged eighty -two M'ork, giving an account of a four years' followed and was buried at Brighton by the side of his dence in Germany, appeared in 1827, to whom he was married in the summer by "John Huss, a Poem." Dr. Beattie's next wife, of 1822. During the last few years of his poetical publication, "Polynesia, a Poem," hours in in life Dr. Beattie amused his leisure celebrated the labours of the missionaries which of pro- the preparation of an autobiography, the South Seas. He is also the author literary executors, treatise it is to be hoped that his fessional writings, including a Latin one of whom is Dr. Robert Carruthers of In- on pulmonary consumption. His most popu- world. From keep his verness, will ere long give to the lar work, and the one most likely to great me- his residence of half a century in the name before the public, is his admirable personal metropolis, and his wide acquaintance witii moir of the poet Campbell, whose literary and distinguished people, such he enjoyed for many years. It was many friendship Coun- that as Samuel Rogers, Lady Byron, and the through Dr. Beattie's persevering efforts be an Westminster tess of Blcssington, it can hardly fail to a statue of Campbell was placed in attractive book. Abbey. His latest literary work was an enter- —2 — ———! ! ———— ————! — :

134 WILLIAM BEATTIE.

MONODY OX THE DEATH OF THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Hark! —'Tis the death -knell, from Bononia's Retired to pause from intellectual toil; shore, Resign'd the well-fought field, with honours rife, Startles the ear, and thrills in every core! To trim with frugal hand the lamp of life; Pealed from these cUffs, the echoes of our own To solve the mystic writing on the wall Catch, and prolong the melancholy tone. Adjust his mantle ere he let it fall; As fast and far the mournful tidings spread— Weigh life's gi'eat question—commune with his "The light is queuch'd—the ' Bard of Hope' is heart. dead!" Then, hail the welcome signal and depart.

Campbell is dead! and Freedom on her wall And here—tho' health decay'd—his taste still Shrieks—as she shrieked at Kosciusko's fall! warm And warrior-exiles, as the dirge they hear, Conferr'd on all it touch'd a classic charm; Heave tlie deep sigh, and drojj the bitter tear. Dispell'd the gloom, and peopled every shade With foi-ms and visions brilliantly portray'd. Friends of the poet ! —ye to whom belong Thoughts well directed—i-eason well applied The prophet's fire—the mystic powers of song Philosophy with cheering faith allied On you devolves the sad and sacred trust Ins|)ired a fresh and healtlifvil tone of mind To chant the requiem o'er a brother's dust That braced the .sisirit as the body pined; His kindred shade demands the kindred tear While freedom strew'd her laurels at his feet. The poets' homage o'er a poet's bier! And song and science dignified I'etreat. While /—who saw the \atal flame expire. life's current darken'd as it flow'd; And heard the last tones of that bi-oken lyre But soon abode; Closed the dim eye, and propp'd the drooping Gladness forsook the poet's new head His hearth grew sad, and swiftly pass'd away cheerful evening of his well-spent day And caught the spirit's farewell as it fled The With your high notes my lowly tribute blend. The books, the lyre, the lov'd Achaian strain, the fancy, could not lull the pain. And mourn at once the poet and the friend! That charm'd That now, in fatal ambush, hour by hour wasting power. Twice twenty summers of unclouded fame Bore witness to the fever's anguish never wrung Had shed their lustre on our poet's name; Yet pain, depression, regret, or murmiu- from his tongue And found him over arm'd, and in the van, Complaint, his pain, a tear, a sigh To guard the rights and dignity of man. Or if—amidst lip, or trembled in his eye, On Freedom's altar sacrificing wealth. Rose on his 'Twas when sweet memories o'er his spirit came, To Science consecrating life and health; his lips mov'd to some beloved name, In age retaining all the fire of youth And while the soul was yearning to depart, The love of liberty, the thirst for truth Which, Still kept its mansion sacred in his heart ! He spent his days—improved them as they pass'd, But else, unmov'd, he watch'd the close of life— And still reserved the brightest for the last Brac'd on his armour for the final .strife; Resolv'd in death, to fall beneath liis shield, 'T.vas here — whei'e Godfrey's sullen rampart Conqueror not captive to resign the field. frowns^ — — O'er wave-worn cliffs and cultivated downs; The hour arriv'd: the star of Hope arose Where the cool breeze a bracing freshness throws, To light her poet to his last repose! "WTiere shade and solitude invite repose; Life ebbed apace: the seraph, stooping down. And whispering elms, in soothing cadence, wave Illumed his couch, and showed the future crown. O'er Churchill's death-bed and Le Sage's grave^ " Welcome!" she whispered—"welcome be the 'Tvvas here our poet—on the stranger's soil, hour That clothes my votary with celestial power! 1 Boulogne shortly after the poet's decease, Written at Enough hast thou achieved of earthly fame. and now publislied for the first time. Ed. To gild the patriot's and the poet's name; 2 Bononia Galike—the Ge.s.soriacum of antiquity, or Thou hast not pandered to a vicious age, Boulogne-sur-Mer of the present day, " Gessoriacum Nor left thy sins recorded in thy page; quod nunc Bononia." * Godfrey (of Bouillon), whom lus'.ory represents as having been born in the citadel of Boulo^'iie, not in 17C4; and Le Sage, the author of Gil Bla.", in 174T: " engraved Bouillon in Lorraine. Ici est mort I'Auteur de Gil Bias, 1747," is • Churchill— the English Juveual—died at Boulogne on a stone over the door of his house. —— ————— — —!————

WILLIAM BEATTIE. 135

But, kindred with the source from which it came, He loved thee, Poland! with unchanging love; Thy song- hath minister'd to virtue's flame. Shared in the sorrows he could not remove! And now—that longer life were lengthened pain Revered thy virtues, and bewail'd thy woes; In brighter realms revive the hallowed strain; And—could his life have purchas'd thy repose That heaven-born genius to thy keeping given, Proud of the sacrifice, he would have bled, Pure and unsullied, render back to heaven!" And mingled ashes with thy mighty dead! tSo said—the radiant herald waved her torch, And, beckoning onward, showed the dismal And ye—who in the sad or social hour porch Have seen, and felt the minstrel's varied power rejoiced with to share Death's dreary vale, thro' which the fleeting soul Say how his soul you or the night of care Flies to its fount, like streamers to the pole. The noon of sunshine, His heart—to tenderest sympathies awake His mind—transparent as the summer lake As o'er yon headlands,^ where the sun has set, Lent all his actions energy and grace, ' Beams of reflected glory linger yet; And stamped their manly feelings in the face So now—to gild the last and closing scene Feelings— no sordid aim could compromise Fresh on the poet's cheek and brow serene, That feared no foe, and needed no disguise. The setting sun of life's eventful day Has left a soft and sanctifying ray! To you —his cherished friends and old compeers The frank companions of his brightest years; Campbell is dead! —dissolved the spirit's bond Whose friendship strengthened as acquaintance The bourne is pa^t—and all is light beyond!* grew Dead—yet not silent! —still to memory dear. Warmed—glowed, as fate the narrowing circle His latest accents linger on my ear; — drew ; like spirits urn His words—his looks, from the To you—a mournful messenger—I bear With awful force and tenderness return; The minstrel's blessing, and the patriot's prayer. While here I watch, beside the breathless clay. The lines, and fleeting hues of life decay. " Be firm!-" he said; "Freedom shall yet strike home;

All—all is changed ! —the master-lyre unstrung, Worth shall be crowned—the brave shall cease Quenched the bright eye, and mute the inspiring to roam; tongue. The exile shall i-egain his father's hearth. That erst with generous glow, and godlike art. And Justice recommence her reign on earth! Subdued —exalted— sway 'd the stubborn heart; Thrice happy days!—tho' but to gild my ui"n Abashed the proud, dispelled the exile's fears. Fulfil tho prophecy—return! return!" And even from despots wrung reluctant tears In British hearts infused a Spartan zeal, Britons! when next in Freedom's wonted hall That stirred our spirits like a trumpet-peal. Assembled patriots hold high festival; Speak thou, Sarmatia! When the spoiler's hand When, face to face, Sarmatia's sons j^e meet With blood and rapine filled thy smiling land Miss the loved voice, and mark the vacant seat! When beauty wept, and brave men bled in vain. When thro' the soul conflicting passions throng, And reeking slaughter stalked on every plain Your poet vdW be present in his song! Whose voice uprose?—as with a mighty charm, His spirit will be there!—a shadowy guest To shield the weak and foil the despot's arm Unseen—unheard—but felt in every breast! minstrel-chair to claim, Whose voice first taught our sympathies to flow He will be there, the sparks of into flame. In streams of healing through a lanrl of woe ? And fan the freedom 'Twas his! 'twas Campbell's soul-inspiring chord, I knew him well! —how sad to say / liieir! That nerved the heart, and edged the Patriot's That word alone brings all my loss to view sword I knew his \-irtues —ardently and long That changed—nor faltered—nor relaxed the Admir'd the poet for his moral song; song. But soon—when closer intercourse began, Till, roused to vindicate thy nation's wrong, I found tho poet's rival in the Ma» — Britannia, seconding her poet's art. The man, who blended in the minstrel's art Received thy band of heroes to her heart; The brightest genius with the warmest heart. And o'er the wreck of Freedom's gory field Threw the broad shade of her protecting shield! And thus bereaved—in this her two-fold grief Where shall the mourning spirit find relief ? She turns instinctive to his page, and hears 1 The headlands alluded to aie the English cliffs, as The voice of Hope, trimnphant in her tears! fir as Beachy Head: the sunset over which, as seen for him,'' she cries, "who leaves from the wniparts of Boulogne, is often very beautiful, "Weep not and was strikingly so at the time mentioned. behind — — —; : ——; —— — —

133 WILLIAM BEATTIE.

The fruits and flowers of an immortal mind. Genius by geniu.s, mind by kindred mind: Weep not for him—the minstrel hath a part Science by science, truthfully defined. A living home in every kindred heart! The features speak: the canvas seems to live Fraught with high powers, his lay in every clime With all the glow that finished art can give. Still warms the soul, and prompts the thought sublime. Apollo answered: and, with smile benign, " His songs, that haunt us in our grief and joy, Said: Painter and physician—both are mine. Time shall not chill, nor death itself destroy! This, witii a Nestor's wisdom I inspire; But, long as love can melt, or hope inspire And that, with all a Zeuxis could desire. One heart imbued with Nature's hallowed fire By my liivine 'afflatus' I reveal-^ So long the lay—to virtuous feeling true The soul to paint; the sacred power to heal. Shall breathe, and burn, with fervour ever new." Patron of arts, god of the silver bow. To me tlieir skill, their excellence tiiey owe.'' Sweet Bard of Hope!—Shrined with the glorious dead, He said; then, soaring to Olympus' height. A nation's love shall guard thy hallow'd bed Around the picture threw a flood of light. While patriots, as their poet's— name they scan. Shall pause, and proudly say "Here lies the man Watson! Avhen closed alongand bright career: Whose upright purpose, force nor fraud could When missed and mourned by friends and col- bend; leagues here: served her to the end; Who, serving Freedom, Be thine, no sacred duty left undone. to her sacred cause all could give, Gave man To hail the rising, in the setting, sun! Nor ceased to love her, till he ceased to live!' In hope rejoicing, take the "promised rest," And leave thy monument in every breast. My task is done; nor care I now to weigh What praise or censure may await my lay: The mournful theme had better poets sung This voice had slept—this harp remained vm- strung; Deep, but not loud—as warriors mourn then- EVENING HYMN OF THE ALPINE chief SHEPHERDS. My heart had grieved, but not confessed its gi-icf. But now—when kindred genius stands aloof Brothers, the day declines, And friendship calls my loyalty to j^roof Above, the glacier brightens; Shall I—tho' least of England's minstrels here Through hills of waving pines Awake no requiem at her poet's bier ? The "vesper-halo" lightens! But, coldly mute, renounce the saddest part ? Now wake the welcome chorus No! silence now were treason to the heart! To Him our sires adored; Grief must have voice—the wounded spirit vent To Him who watcheth o'er us; paid is The debt be —before my day spent Ye shepherds, praise the Lord.* And if—at friendship's call—the numbers flow — glow.i In seemly warmth 'tis sorrow gives the From each tower's embattled crest The vesper-bell has toll'd; 'Tis the hour that bringeth rest To the shepherd and his fold: LINES OX A rORTRAIT.^

months of the poet's life—will present a series of parti- Well bath the master's hand depicted here culars which, if recorded, can hardly fail to a«akeu a worth we love, the veteran we revere! The deep and lasting interest in a reflecting mind. - In a letter to the Editor, dated March, 1S73, Dr.

' Ilaviiig watched at the poet's beUside— (lining the Beattie remarks, "I inclose unpublished lines on a last ten

HENEY FRANCIS LYTE. 137

From hamlet, rock, ami cliulet From blue lakes, calm and soft shroud; Let our evening song be poiir'il. As a virgin in her antliem gatiiers. Till mountain, rock, and valley New strength our 'tis poured; lle-eeho — Praise the Lord! From alp to alp So sang our sainted fathers; Praise the Lord, who made and gave us Ye shepherds, praise the Lord! Our glorious mountain-land! deigned to shield and save us Who Praise the Lord! from flood and fell the despot's iron hand: From Let the voice of old and young, With the bread of life He feeds us; All the strength of Appenzel, Enlightened by His Word, True of heart and sweet of tongue,- Through pastures green He leads us; The grateful theme prolong shepherds, praise the Lord! Ye With souls in soft accord. up our song And hark! below, aloft, Till von stars take Hallelujah to the Lord! From cliffs that pierce the cloud.

HENEY FEANCIS LYTE,

Born 1793 — Died 1847.

of somewhat gentle blood, and having all the Fifty years ago Professor Wilson wrote: advantage of a loving mother's influence " Have you seen a little A'olume, entitled early holy lessons, he was soon made to feel the 'Talcs in Yerse, by the Pvev. H. F. Lyte,' and misery of narrow resources. He, however, which seems to have reached a second edition? matri- poetry. finally entered Trinity College, Dublin, Kow that is the right kind of religious there, and carrying off on three occa- Mr. Lyte shows how the sins and sorrows of culating sions the English prize poem. He took holy men flow from irreligion, in simple yet strong in Ireland, and v.as called to a desolate domestic narrations, told in a style and spirit orders curacy. After several changes reminding one sometimes of Goldsmith and and dreary Irish in the quiet little town of Marazion, sometimes of Crabbe. A volume so humble he settled of the risk Cornwall, on the shores of the beautiful Bay in its appearance and pretensions runs .Ynnc Mount St. Michael. Here he married Miss of being jostled off the highway into by-paths; Maxwell, and finally removed to the parish and indeed no harm if it should, for in such of Brixham, Devonshire, where he laboured retired places it will be pleasant reading- acceptably and successfully for twenty years. pensive in the shade, and cheerful in the sun- of his It was here that he composed most shine. Mr. Lyte has reaped hymns, so remarkable for their pure Christian " 'The harvest of a quiet eye. ;' simplicity of diction, and which That broods and sleeps on its own heart sentiment and of with are held in high estimation by all sections and his Christian tales will be read were the Christian Church. Some of them interest and instruction by many a fireside. He written "from under the cloud"— clouds of ' The Brothers' is exceedingly beautiful. personal suffering, clouds of pastoral difficulty ought to give us another volume." and discouragement. The gentle poet, who did "give us another Failing health induced Lyte to seek for a volume," stands next to James Thomson on climate in the south of Europe. Border poets. They were time a milder the roll of sacred " Before his departure he preached on the Holy both natives of Ednam, a village beautifully significant Communion," and it was solemnly situated on the Eden, a tributary of the Tweed. hear their dying pastor say, "0 brethren! He was the second son of Captain Thomas to experimentally, on this I can speak feelingly, Lyte, and was born June 1, 1793. Though — ! —

138 HENKY FEANCIS LYTE. point; and I stand here among you seasonably which has taken its place in nearly all the to-da}' as alive from tlio dead, if I may hope sacred collections of tiie Protestant English- to impress it upon you, and induce you to speaking world. It was written in September, prepare for that solemn hour wliicli must come 1847, and it was his last hymn upon earth. to all, by a timely acquaintance with, appre- A few days later he reached Nice, and tiiere, ciation of, dependence on, the death of Christ." on November 20, the spirit of the sweet singer This was his last appeal, and for the last time entered into rest. After his death a volume he dispensed the sacred elements to his sor- was published containing a memoir of the rowing flock; and then, exhausted with his faithful pastor and preacher, together with a eifort, he retired with a soul in sweet repose selection of his poems and hymns. Another on that Saviour whom he had preached with beautiful hymn, beginning "Jesus, I my cross his dying breath; and as the evening drew have taken/' the authorship of which has been on he handed to a near relative his undying erroneously attributed to James Montgomery hymn and ethers, was written by Lyte in the year

"Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide," 1833.

When Abram's offering God did own; EVENING. And Jesus loved to be alone.

has not felt that Evening's Sweet evening- hour! sweet evening hour! Who hour Draws forth devotion's tenderest power; That calms the air, and shuts the ilower; That guardian spirits us stand. That brings the wild bird to her nest, round And God himself seems most at hand ? The infant to its mother's breast.

The very birds cry shame on men, Sweet hour! that bids the labourer cease, And chide their selfish silence, then: That g-ives the weary team release, The flowers on high their incense send; That leads them home, and crowns them there And earth and heaven unite and blend. With rest and shelter, food and care.

Let others hail the rising day: O season of soft sounds and hues, I praise it when it fades away; Of twilight walks among the dews, When life assumes a higher tone, Of feelings calm, and converse sweet, And God and heaven are all my own. And thoughts too shadowy to repeat

The weeping eye, that loathes the day. Finds peace beneath thy soothing sway; And fdith and prayer, o'ermastering grief, ON A NAVAL OFFICER BUKIED IN Burst forth, and bring the heart relief. THE ATLANTIC.

Yes, lovely hour! thou art the time There is, in the wide lone sea, When feelings flow, and wishes climb; A spot unmarked, but holy; When timid souls begin to dare, For there the gallant and the free And God receives and answers praj'er. In his ocean bed hes lowly.

Then trembling tlirough the dewy skies, Down, down, within the deep. Look out the stars, like thoughtful eyes That oft to triumph bore him, Of angels, calm reclining there, He sleeps a sound and pleasant sleep. gazing this And on world of care. With the salt waves washing o'er him.

Then, as the earth recedes from sight, He sleeps serene, and safe Heaven seems to ope her fields of light. From tempest or from billow, And call the fettered soul above. Where the storms, that high above him chafe. From sin and grief, to peace and love. Scarce rock his peaceful pillow.

Sweet hour! for heavenly musing made The sea and him in death When Isaac walked, and Daniel prayed; They did not dare to sever: ; —

HENEY FRANCIS LYTE. 139

" still, child, we should but go to share It was his home while he had breath; Be my grave." 'Tis now his rest for ever. their watery

come, tiie Sleep on, thou mighty dead! Again tliey shriek. "Oh, fatiicr, A glorious tomb they've found thee. Lord our guide will be: The broad blue sky above thee spread, A word from him can stay tiic blast, and tame The boundless waters round thee. the raging sea." skiff x\nd lo! at length her plea prevails; their No vulgar foot treads here; is on the wave. No hand profane shall move thee; Protect them, gracious Heaven! protect the But gallant fleets shall proudly steer, gentle, kind, and brave! And warriors shout, above thee. They reach the rock, and, wond'rous sight to there, And when the last trump shall sound. those they succour boldest men And tombs are asunder riven, A feeble girl achieving more tiian Like the morning sun from the wave thou'lt would dare! bound, Again, again her venturous bark bounds o'er To rise and shine in heaven. the foaming tide; Again in safety goes and comes beneath its heavenly guide. Nor shrinks that maid's heroic heart, nor fails GRACE DARLING'S DEATH-BED. her willing hand. ferried Till all the remnant of the wreck are wipe the death-dews from her brow I— prop safe to land. relaxes then, and tears up her sinking head I — The cord o'erstrung welcome And let the sea-breeze on her face its begin to fall; whose fresliness shed! But tears of love and praise to Him She loves to see the western sun pour glory mercy saved them all. o'er the deep; not be hiel. Upon tlie And the music of the rippling waves may sing A deed like this could her into sleep. wings of fame, for corner of our if.le, flew forth Grace Her lieart has long, 'mid other scenes, To every these poured out the sigh Darling's name; loud in just applause, and And now back to her Higliland home she And tongues were comes—but comes to die. bosoms highly beat. And tributes from the great and good were pro- feet; Yes, fearful in its loveliness, that cheek's lavished at her the midnight blast, phetic bloom; While she, who braved world stormy swell. That lustrous eye is lighted from a and rode the from the praise that beyond the tomb; Shrank timid, trembling, the well. Those thin transparent fingers, that hold she had earned so book of prayer; snow, did they tempt her forth to scenes she ill That form, which melts like summer Why ^ was formed to share] too plainly speak despair. bid her face the curious crowd, the ques- And they that tend around her bed, oft turn Why and the stare? tear tion, to wipe the earn the thus, so She did not risk her life that night to That starts forth, as they view her world's applause: fleeting, and so dear. Her own heart's impulse sent her forth in o'er holy cause. Not such was she that awful night when pitv's repaid, and well her North umbria's foam And richly were her toils The shipwrecked seaman's cry was heard within soul content sweet thought of duty done, of suc- that rocky home. With the and timely lent. Amid the pauses of the storm it loud cour louder came. Oh, bear the and nerved Ilcr tender spirit sinks apace. And tiirilled into her inmost soul, drooping flower fragile frame: her its own secluded and try Back to its native soil again— "Oh, father, let us launch the boat, bower! their lives to save." — : —: —

140 HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

Amidst admiring multitudes, she sighs for In Thy service pain is pleasure; With Thy favour, loss is gain. home and rest: have called thee Abba., Father; Let the meek turtle fulJ her wing witliin her I I have stayed my heart on Thee own wild nest; Sto:*ms may howl, and clouds may gather; And drink the sights and sounds she loves, All must work for good to me. and breathe her wonted air, with them a quiet hour for thought- And find Man may trouble and distress me; prayer! fulness and 'Twill but drive me to Thy breast. Life with trials hard may press me; And she has reached her sea-girt liomc—and Heaven will bring me sweeter rest. she can smile once more; Oh, 'tis not in grief to harm me! But ah! a faint and moonlight smile, without While Thy love is left to me! the glow of yore! Oh, 'twere not in joy to charm me. breathes not as once it did upon The breeze Were that joy unmixed with Thee. her fevered brow; The waves talk on, but in her breast awake no Take, my soul, thy full salvation; echoes now; Rise o'er sin, and fear, and care; For vague and flickering are her thoughts, her Joy to find in every station soul is on the wing Something still to do or bear! For Heaven, and has but little heed for earth Think what Spirit dwells within thee; or earthly thing. What a Father's smile is thine; What a Saviour died to win thee, "My father, dost thou hear their shriek? dost Child of Heaven, shouldst thou repine '< hear their drowning cry?" from grace to glory, "No, dearest, no; 'twas but the scream of the Haste then on by faith, and winged by prayer; curlew flitting by." Armed Heaven's eternal day's before thee; Poor panting, fluttering, hectic thing, thy God's own hand shall guide thee there. tossings soon will cease; Soon shall close thy earthly mission; Thou art passing through a troubled sea, but Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days; to a land of peace! Hope soon change to full fruition. And He, who to a shipwrecked world brought Faith to sight, and prayer to praise. rescue, O may He Be near thy dying pillow now, sweet Grace, to succour thee! ABIDE WITH ME.

"LO, WE HAVE LEFT ALL, AND Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; with me abide! FOLLOWED THEE." The darkness deepens: Lord, When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Jesus, I my cross have taken, Help of the helpless, abide with me! All to leave and follow thee; Destitute, despised, forsaken, Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; pass away; Thou from hence my all ghalt be. Earth's joys grow dim; its glories Perish every fond ambition, Change and decay in all around I see; All I've sought, or hoped, or knowai; Thou, who changest not, abide with me! Yet how rich is my condition, God and heaven are still my own! Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word. But as Thou dwell'st with thy disciples. Lord, despise and leave me; Let the world Familiar, condescending, patient, free, They have left my Saviour too; Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me! Human hearts and looks deceive me: them, untrue; Thou art not, like Come not in terrors, as the King of kings; shalt smile upon me, And while Thou But kind and good, with healing in thy wings; God of wisdom, love, and might, Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea, Foes may hate, and friends may shun me Come,Friendof sinners,and thus abide with me! Show thy face, and all is bright!

head in early youth didst smile, Go then, earthly fame and treasure! Thou on my rebellious and perverse meanwhile. Come, disaster, scorn, and pain! And,though :

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 141

Thou hast not left me. oft as I left Thee. AVhere is death's sting? where, grave, thy vic- Ou to the close, Lord, abide with me! tory?

I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. I need Thy presence every passing hour. What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes; power ? Shine through the gloom, and point me to the Who like Thyself mj' guide and stay can be? skies: Through cloud and sunshine, O abide withuie! Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain

I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless shadows flee. Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. In life, in death, Lord, abide with mc!

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHAET.

Born 1794 — Died 1854.

John Gibson Lockhart, a poet of fine genius torial pleading, he would have been the most and a distinguished miscellaneous writer, was persuasive of sijent orators, for during the trial born in the manse of Cambusnethan, near of a cause his pen was occupied, not in taking Glasgow, June 12, 1794. From both his notes, but in sketching caricatures of the pro- parents he inherited an honourable descent. ceedings, the drollery of Avhich Avould have His father, the Itev. Dr. John Lockhart, who overcome both judge and jury. As it was he for nearly fifty years was minister of Black- proved a briefless barrister, and decided to friars' Church, Glasgow, was well known for abandon law for literature. He made a happy his remarkable Avit and extreme absence of allusion to this strange professional infirmity mind—two qualities which are seldom found at a dinner Avhich Avas given by his friends in united in the same character. Of this pious Edinburgh on his departure to assume the and amiable divine John Gib.son Lockhart was charge of the Quarterly Bevlem. He attempted the second son, and the eldest by a second mar- to address them, and broke doAvn as usual, but riage, his mother having been a daughter of coA'ered his retreat Avith, " Gentlemen, you the Eev. Dr. Gibson, one of the ministers of knoAv that if I could speak A\'e Avould not have Edinburgh. At an early age he prosecuted been here." his studies at the University of Glasgow, and In 1817 Blackwood's Magazine was estab- with such success that he received one of the lished, and Lockhart became, Avith John Wil- richest tokens of approval in a Snell exhibition son, the principal contributor. It Avas now to Baliol College, Oxford. Here lie could pro- that the Avhole torrent of thought, Avhich the secute with increased facilities those classical bar may have kept in check, burst forth in studies to which he was most addicted. At full profusion. Eloquence, and wit, and learn- his graduation, in his eighteenth year, he was ing distinguished his articles, and imparted numbered in the first class — an honour rarely a character to the Avork Avhicli it long after attained by the most accomplished Oxonians. retained; but unfortunately Avitli these attrac- His studies at Baliol, which were directed tive qualities there Avas often mingled a caus- to the law, were followed by a continental ticity of satire and fierceness of censure that tour, and on his return to Scotland he Avas engendered much bad feeling and hatred. In called to the bar in 1816. It Avas, however, 1819 Lockhart's first separate publication soon evident that Lockhart Avas not likely to appeared, entitled Piter's Letters to his Kins- Avin fame or fortune by the profession of an folk— a Avork in Avhich an imaginary Dr. Morris advocate—he could not make a speech. Had gives a series of eloquent, vigorous, and truth- his success depended upon Avriting, or on pic- ful sketches of the more distinguished literary !

142 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

Scotchmen of the period. Of this volume Sir Spanish ballads ; and such Avas the classical Walter Scott thus wrote to its author: — " Wliat taste, melody of versification, and rich com- an acquisition it would have been to our gene- mand of language Avhicli these translations ral information to have had such a work evinced, that the regret Avas general that he written, I do not say fifty, but even five-and- had not been more exclusively a poet, instead twenty years ago; and how much of grave and of a prose Avriter. Tickner, in his Historij of gay might then have been preserved, as it were, Spanish Lilerature, characterizes the collection in amber which have now mouldered away as " the admirably spirited translations of

When I think tiiat, at an age not much younger Mr. Lockhart. ... A Avork of genius than yours, I knew Black, Ferguson, Robert- beyond any of the sort known to me in any son, Erskine, Adam Smith, John Home, &c., language;" and the historian Brescott alludes and at least saw Burns, I can appreciate better to the poems as "Mr. Lockhart's picturesque than any one the value of a work which, like version of the Moorish ballads." this, would have handed them down to poste- Lockhart's next publications Avere in the rity in their living colours." department of biography, in Avhich he gave In 1820 Lockliart married Sophia, Sir Wal- an earnest of his fitness to be the literary ter's eldest daughter. Tlie marriage took place executor and biographer of his illustrious at Edinburgh, and the "Great Unknown," father-in-hiAv; these Avere the Life of Boherl who was the worshipper as well as recorder of Burns and the Lfe of Napoleon Bonaparte. good old Scottish fashions, caused the wedding At this period he resided in Edinburgh, spend- to be held in the evening, and "gave a jolly ing some of the summer months at the cottage supper afterwards to all the friends and con- of ChiefsAvood. The varied attainments of nections df the young couple." Lockhart and Lockhart, and the distinction he had Avon in so

Ills M'ife took up their abode at the little cot- many departments of authorship, obtained for tage of Chiefswood, about two miles from him at the close of 1825 the editorship of the Abbotsford, which became their usual summer Quarterly Bevlew, the great champion of residence; and thither Sir AValter, Mlien inun- Toryism, a position for Avhich he Avas admir- dated by sightseers and hero-worshippers, Avas ably fitted, and Avhich he held for more than a occasionally glad to escape, that he might quarter of a century. On the death of Sir breathe in a tranquil atmosphere, and write a AValter in 1832 he became his literary executor, chapter of the novel that was in hand, to and in 1838 published the memoirs of his despatch to the Edinburgh publisher. father In-laAv, Avhich is one of the most inter- Continuing to furnish varied and sparkling esting biographies in the language, and Avill contributions to Blackwood, Lockhart now probably remain the best-known and most began to exhibit powers of prolific authorship. enduring of Lockhart's productions. During In the course of a few years he produced the latter years of his life his health Avas Valerius, one of the most classical tales de- greatly impaired; but for this his intellectual scriptive of ancient Rome and the manners of exertions, as Avell as family calamities and its people which the English language has as bereavements, Avill sufficiently account. In yet embodied, .\fter this came Adam Blair, the last volume of Scott's memoirs Lockhart a tale which, in spite of its impossible termi- thus mournfully Avrites: — "Death has laid a nation, so opposed to all Scottish canon law, heavy hand upon that circle— as happy a circle, abounds with the deepest feeling as Avell as I believe, as ever met. Bright eyes now closed descriptive power. Tlic next Avas Eetjinald in dust, gay voices for ever silenced seem to

Dalton, a three-volume novel, in which he haunt me as I Avrite. . . . She Avhom I largely brought forward his reminiscences of may noAV sadly record as, next to Sir AValter

student life at Oxford, and the town-and-gown himself, the chief ornament and delight at all

affrays Avith Avhich it Avas enlivened. The last those simple meetings — she to Avhose love I of this series of novels Avas Mattliew Wald, OAved my place in them— Scott's eldest daugh- Avhich fully sustained the high character of ter, the one of all his children Avho in counte-

its predecessors. In 1823 he came forth in a nance, mind, and manners most resembled new character by his translations from the himself, and Avho indeed Avas as like in all JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 143

return, and went to things as a gentle, innocent woman can ever be don he left it never to elder brother, :Mr. Lockhart, to a great man, deeply tried and skilled in the reside witli his Lockhart, near Lanark. struggles and perplexities of active life—she M.P., at Milton of his strength rapidly failed, and he was too is no more." Here that his dying pillow In the summer of 1853 Locl^hart resigned removed to Abbotsford, by his only surviving child, his editorship, and spent the following winter might be smoothed Scott. Here he breathed his last in Italj-; but the maladies under Avhich he Mi-s. Hope in his sixty -first year. laboured, like Scott's, although assuaged for a November 25, 1854, interred in Dryburgh Abbey, time, came back with renewed violence on his His remains were of his illustrious father-in-law. i-eturn home. Arranging his affairs in Lon- near those

CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.^

he picked well Touch once more a sober measure, In dirty days His footsteps with his rattan; And let punch and tears be shed, you ne'er could see the least speck For a prince of good old fellows, Oh! the shoes of Captain Paton. That, alack-a-day! is dead; On entering the coffee-room For a prince of worthy fellows, And on About two, all men did know And a pretty man also, They would see him with his Courier That has left the Saltmarket, the middle of the row. In sorrow, grief, and woe. In we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Oh! no mo'e! Paton no mo'el Paton and then, npon a Sunday, His waistcoat, coat, and breeches Now He invited me to dine Were all cut off the same web, On a herring and a mutton chop. Of a beautiful snuff-colour, Which his maid dress'd very fine. Or a modest genty drab; There was also a little Malmsay, The blue stripe in his stocking. And a bottle of Bordeaux, Hound his neat slim leg did go. Which between me and the Captain And his ruffles of the cambric fine, nimbly to and fro! were whiter than the snow. Pass'd They Captain Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e! Paton no mo"e!

Or if a bowl was mentioned, His hair was curled in order. The Captain he would ring, At the rising of the sun. And bid Nelly run to the Westport, In comeiy rows and buckles smart, And a stoup of water bring. That about his ears did run; Then would he mix the genuine stuff. And before there was a toupee. As they made it long ago. That some inches up did grow. With limes that on his property And behind there was a long queue. In Trinidad did grow! That did o'er his shoulders flow. Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain ne'er shall see the like of Captain Oh! we Paton's punch no mo'e! Paton no mo'e! And then all the time he Avould discourse whenever we forgather'd, And So sensible and courteous. took off his wee three-cockit; He Perhaps talking of last sermon you his snuff-box. And he profFer'd He had heard from Dr. Porteous; Which he drew from his side-pocket; Of some little bit of scandal Burdett or Bonaparte And on About Mrs. So-and-so, He would make a remark or so, and lived for And then along the plainstones 1 Captain Paton was a veal pereonage, in a tenement of Like a provost he would go. many years with two maiden sisters Exchange, Glasgow. He died shall see the like of Captain liis own opposite the Old Oh ! we ne'er Paton no mo'el in 1S07.—Ed. — — — ;

144 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

Which he scarce could credit, having heard Oh! the broadswords of old Scotland! The con. but not the^jro./ And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.

Oh ! Ave ne'er shall see the like of Captain Taton no mo'e! Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave Or when the candles were brought forth, Let him flee from our board, let him sleep And the night was fairly setting in, with the slave. He would tell some fine old stories Whose libation comes slow while we honour About Minden field or Dettingen; his grave. How he fought with a French major, Oh! the broadswords, &c. And despatch'd him at a blow, ^Yhile his blood ran out like water Tho' he died not like him amid victory's roar. On the soft grass below! Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore; Oh I we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e! Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.

Oh ! the broadswords, &c. But at last the captain sickened. And grew worse from day to daj', Yea a place with the fallen the living shall And all miss'd him in the coffee-room, claim. From which now he staid away; We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd Kirk name, Made a melancholy show. The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the All for wanting of the presence Graham. or our venerable beau! All the broadswords, &c.

Oh I we ne'er shall sec the like of Captain Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves Paton no mo'e! of the Forth—

And in spite of all that Cleghorn Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven And Corkindale could do. of the north It was plain from twenty symptoms Then go blazon their numbers, their names, That death was in his view; and their worth. So the captain made his test'ment. All the broadswords, &c. And submitted to his foe, The highest in splendour, the humblest in And we laid him by the Ram's-horn Kirk place. 'Tis the way we all must go! Stand united in glory, as kindred in race; Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. Paton no mo'e! Oh! the broadswords, &c.

Join all in chorus, jolly boys. Then sacred to each and to all let it be, And let punch and tears be shed, Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us For this prince of good old fellows free. That, alack-a-day! is dead; Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and 7or this prince of worthy fellows Dundee. And a pretty man also — Oh! the broadswords of old Scotland! That has left the Saltmarket And oh ! the old Scottish broadswords In sorrow^ grief, and woe! For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e! THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN.

(from the SPANISH.') BROADSWOPtDS OF SCOTLAND. At the gate of old Grenada, w hen all its bolts Now there's peace on the shore, now there's are barred, calm on the sea. At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a tramp- Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us ling heard; free,

Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and 1 "Long esteemed," says Scrymgeoiir, " for the spirit Dundee. and elegance with which the poet has exliibited the "——• ; ; — d — —

JOHN tJIBSON LOCKHART. 145

There is a trampling heard, as of horses tread- And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in ing slow. upon their wailing. And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy Its sound is like no earthly sound— "Alas! sound of woe! alas for Celin!" "AVhat tower is fallen, what star is set, what maid at the lattice stands,—the chief come these bewailing?" The Moorish iloor stands at his door, "A tower is fallen, a star is set —Alas I alas is wringing of her hands, and one is for Celin!" One maid weeping sore; Three times they knock, three times they cry Down to the dust men bow their heads, and and wide the doors they throw ashes black they strew Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; Upon their broidered garments of crimson, lu gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath green, and blue; the hollow porch, Before each gate the bier stands still, — then Each horseman grasping in his hand a black bursts the loud bewailing, and flaming torch From door and lattice, high and low— "Alas! Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around alas for Celin!" is wailing, she For all have heard the miserj-— "Alasl alas An old, old woman cometh forth, when for Celin! hears the people cry, Her hair is white as silver, like horn her Him, yesterday, a Jloor did slay, of Bencer- glazed eye; raje's blood, 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast—that 'Twas at the solemn jousting —around the nursed him long ago; nobles stood; She knows not whom they all lament, —but The nobles of the land were there, and the soon she well shall know! ladies bright and fair With one deep shriek, she through doth break, Looked from their latticed windows, the when her ears receive their wailing, haughty sight to share; kiss mv Celin ere I die—Alas! alas Let me " But now the nobles all lament— the ladies are for Celin!" bewailing For he was Grenada's darling knight — "Alas! alas for Celin!"

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO. two, (from the SPANISH. ^) With ashes on their turbans spread, most piti- ful to view; With some ten of his chosen men, Bernardo Behind him his four sisters— each wrapped in hath appear sable veil — Before them all in the palace hall, the lying Between the tambour's dismal strokes, take up king to beard; their doleful tale; With cap in hand, and eye on ground, became When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their in reverend guise. brotherless bewailing, But ever and anon he frown'd, and flame broke And all the people far and near cry— "Alas! from his eyes. alas for Celin!"

curse upon thee," cries the king, "who Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above tlie "A comest unbid to me; purple pall, — But what from traitors' blood should spring The flower of all Grenada's youth, the loveliest save traitors like to thee? of them all; lords, had a traitor's iieart; perchance His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is His sire, our champion brave pale. think it were a pious part to share Don The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his May Pancho's grave." burnished mail;

1 Spanish ballads are known to our public, peculiar beauties of tliis literature in our Englisli These with inconceivable advantage, by the dress;" and another critic remariss, " Fine spirit-stirring but generally animated translations of Mr. Lockhart. strain in general, translated and transfused into our very fine and tongue with admirable felicity."—Ed. —Henry Hallam. Vol. II.—K - ——— ——— — : —

146 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

"Whoever told this talc, the king hath rash- Fain would I know who dares his point ness to repeat," king, CondtJ, or grandee!" Cries Bernard; "here my gage I fling before Then to his mouth the horn he drcAV (it hung THE Liar's feet! below his cloak). No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in His ten true men the signal knew, and through mine doth lie the ring they broke Below the throne, what knight will own the With helm on head, and blade in hand, the coward calumny t knights the circle brake, " The blood that I like water shed, when Ro- And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the land did advance, false king to quake. By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France; "Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what this warlike guise? The life of King Alphonso I saved at Ronces- means val— Ye know fall well I jested— ye know your Your words, lord king, are recompense abun- worth I prize." turn'd his heel, and smil- dant for it all. But Bernard upon ing, pass'd away; "Your horse was down—your hope was flown; Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting I saw the falchion shine, of that day. That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not ventured mine; But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate, ZAKA'S E.\R- RINGS. for life crown And ye've thank'd the son and (from the SPANISH.') by the father's bloody fate. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropped upon your kingly faith to set Don "Ye swore into the well. Sancho free; And what to say to Mu?a I cannot, cannot But curse upon your paltering breath, the tell."— light he ne'er did see 'Twas thus, Grenada's fountain by, spoke Al- in dungeon cold and dim, Alphon- He died by buharez' daughter, so's base decree, " The well is deep— far down they lie, beneath blind, and stiflTen'd limb, were all And visage the cold blue water; they gave to me. To me did Mu?a give them, Avhen he spake his sad farewell, "The king that swerveth from his word hath what to say when he comes back, alas! stain'd his purple black; And I cannot tell. No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back: "My car-rings! my ear-rings! — they were vengeance shall be mine, But noble an open pearls in silver set. hate I'll show That, when my Moor was far away, I ne'er The king hath injured Carpio's line, and Ber- should him forget; nard is his foe." That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale. "Seize— seize him!" loud the king doth remember he lips had kissed, pure as scream There are a thousand here- But my those ear-rings pale. Let his foul blood this instant stream—What! When he comes back, and hears that I have catiflTs, do ye fear? dropped them in the well, Seize — seize the traitor!"— But not one to will Mu?a think of me I cannot, move a finger dareth, Oh! what — cannot tell! Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth. "My ear-rings! my ear-rings! — he'll say they should have been He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high. I "All other translations fade away before them," And all the hall was still as death: Cries — says Allan Cunningham; and Miss Mitford speaks of Bernard, " Here I; am " Mr. Lockhart's siiirited volume of Spanish ballads, to And here is the sword that owns no lord, ex- which the art of the modern translator has given the cepting Heaven and me charm of the vigorous old poets."— Ed. —• - — • ;

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 14/

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and Sweet modest flowers of spring, glittering sheen, How fleet your balmy day! Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining And man's brief year can bring clear. No secondary May. — Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere; No earthly burst again That changeful mind unchanging gems are not Of gladness out of gloom; befitting well: Fond hope and vision wane, Thus will he think, — and what to say, alas! Ungrateful to the tomb. I cannot tell. But 'tis an old belief That on some solemn shore. " He'll think, when I to market went, I loi- Beyond tiie sphere of grief. tered by the way; Dear friends shall meet once more. He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; Beyond the sphere of time, He'll think some other lover's hand among my And sin and fate's control, tresses noosed, Serene in endless prime From the ears where he had placed them my Of body and of soul. rings of pearl unloosed; He'll tJiink when 1 w;;s sporting so beside this That creed I fain would keep. marble well, That hope I'll not forego; My pearls fell in, —and what to say, alas! 1 Eternal be the sleep. cannot tell. Unless to waken so.

" He'll say I am a Avoman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper LINES WRITTEN ON TWEEDSIDE, of his flame, But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth September the 18th, 1831. had broken, And thought no more of Jlu^a, and cared not A day I've seen whose brightness pierced the for his token. — cloud My ear-rings! my ear-rings! —oh! luckless, Of pain and sorrow, both for great and small luckless well. A night of flowing cups, and pibrochs loud, For what to say to Mu9a, alas! I cannot tell. Once more within the minstrel's blazon'd hall.

"I'll tell the truth to Mu?a and I hope he — " Upon this frozen hearth pile crackling trees; will believe— Let every silent clarshach find its strings; I thought of at morning, and thought That him Unfurl once more the banner to the breeze; of him at eve: No warmer welcome for the blood of kings!" That, musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone. From ear to ear, from eye to glistening eye, the foun- His ear-rings in my hand I held, by Leap the glad tidings, and the glance of glee; tain all alone; Perish the hopeless breast that beats not high sea, when from And that my mind was o'er the At thought beneath his roof that guest to my hand they fell, sse! And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in tlie well!" What prince) v stranger comes?— what e.\iled lord From the far East to Scotia's strand returns. To stir with Joy the towers of Abbotsford, And "wake the minstrel's soul?" —The boy BEYOND. of Burns.

the chains. When youthful faith hath fled. 0, sacred Genius! blessing on entwine! Of loving take thy leave; Wherein thy sympathy can minds kindred veins, Be constant to the dead, — Beyond the conscious glow of The dead cannot deceive. A power, a spirit, and a charm are thine. • — ; — ! — • — —

148 JOHN GIBSON LOCKHAET.

Thine offspring share them. Thou hast trod From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are the land— flowing, the It breathes of thee—and men, through rising And the lovely lute doth speak between tears, trumpet's lordly blowing; Behold the image of thy manhood stand. And banners bright from lattice light are Avav- More noble than a galaxy of peers. ing everywhere. And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bride- And he— his father's bones had quaked, I ween. groom floats proudly in the air: But that with holier pride his heart-strings Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion bound. down; Than if his host had king or kaiser been, Rise up, come to the window, and gaze Avitli And star and cross on every bosom round. all the town

High strains were pour'd of many a Border "Arise, arise, Xarifa. I see Andalla's face spear. He bends him to the people with a calm and While gentle fingers swept a throbbing shell; princely grace: A manly voice, in manly notes and clear. Through all the land of Xeres, and banks of Of lowly love's deep bliss responded well. Guadalquivir, Rode bridegroom forth so brave as he, so brave The children sang the ballads of their sires: and lovely never! Serene among them sat the hoary knight; Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple And, if dead bards have ears for earthly lyres. mixed with white, The Peasant's shade was near, and drank I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will delight. wed to-night: As through the woods we took our homeward Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion way. down gaze with Fair shone the moon last night on Eildon Rise up, come to the window, and Hill; all the town! Soft rippled Tweed's broad wave beneath her "What aileth thee, Xarifa! — what makes i"ay. thine eyes look down? And in sweet murmurs gush'd the Huntly Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze rill. with all the town? Heaven send the guardian genius of the vale I've heard you say, on many a day— and sure Health yet, and strength, and length of you said the truth ! — honoured days. Andalla rides without a peer, among all Gren- To cheer the world Avith many a gallant tale, ada's youth. And hear his children's children chant his Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white lays. horse doth go. Beneath his stately master, with a stately step Through seas unruffled may the vessel glide. and slow: That bears her poet far from Melrose' glen! Then rise —oh, rise, Xarifa! lay the golden And may his pulse be steadfast as our pride, cushion down; AVhen happy breezes waft him back again! Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town!"

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA down, Kor came she to the window, to gaze with all (from the SPANISH. the town; But, though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in " Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden vain her fingers strove. cushion down; And though her needle pressed the silk, no Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with flower Xarifa wove: all the town!

masculine in execution. . . . What was tame l.e 1 These translations derive, as I have said, not a inspired; wliat was lofty gained additional grandeur; little of their excellence from Mr. Lockliart being him- and even the tender grew still more pathetic under his self a jioet— of fine genius, clear in his conceptions and touch.— i>)-. D. M. Moii: —

JANET HAMILTON. 149

One bonny rosebud she had traced, before the Hear—hear the trumpet how it swells, and noise drew nigh, how the people cry! That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping He Slops at Zara's palace-gate! —why sit ye from her eye. still — oh, why?" "Xo, no!" she sighs; "bid me not rise, nor — "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate! ia him lay my cusliion down, shall I discover To gaze upon Andalhi, with all the gazing The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth, town!" with tears, —and was my lover. I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my "Why rise ye not, Xarifa! —nor lay your cushion down, cushion down? To gaze on false Andalla, with all the gazing Why gaze ye not, Xarifa! with all the gazing town!" town ]

JANET HAMILTON,

Born 1795 - Died 1873.

The Scottish muse found Burns at the hope. Early on Thursday, October 27, 1873, plough Avhen turning over the "wee, modest, the day of her death, Jlrs. Hamilton made crimson-tippet flower," and once more she has reference to a proposed testimonial in happy shown that there is no royal road to poetic and cheery tones, evidently gratified by the fame, for she "threw her inspiring mantle" interest being taken in her affairs by a number over JIrs. Janet Hamilton amid the greatest of wealthy friends and admirers; and during poverty and under the most unfavourable cir- the afternoon of the same day her blindness cumstances, Janet Thomson was born in the had passed away. She entered into the light of village of Corshill, parish of Shotts, Lanark- that sinless land of which she had so often and

.shire, October 12, 1795, and on her mother's so sweetly sung. Her remains were honoured side was a descendant of the Covenanter John with a public funeral, at which some five Whitelaw, who was executed at Edinburgh in iiundred persons were present, including all 1683 for his share in the battle of Bothwell the clergymen of the place. Bridge. At the age of fourteen she married Janet Hamilton, the daughter, wife, and John Hamilton, a young man Avho worked mother of working men, all struggling with with her father at the trade of shoe-making. the vicissitudes of life, received her education Although before the age of nineteen she had at a shoemaker's hearth, her only teacher composed a few religious pieces, Mrs. Hamil- being a hard-working mother, who, Mhile she ton was fifty before she learned to write, and plied the spinning-wheel, taught her daughter fifty-five before she again attempted poetical by her side to read the Bible, the only educa- composition. She made her first appearance tion that either ever received. She furnishes as a writer of verses in Cassell's Working-man's the world with another examjde of success in Friend. In 1863 she published a volume of the pursuit of knowledge under the greatest Poems and Sonffs; in 1865 Poems and Sketches difficulties. Her handwriting, viewed at arm's appeared; three yeai-s later Poems and Ballads length, seems something akin to Greek manu- was issued; and in 1871 she increased her script written with a very blunt pen. She fame by bringing out a fourth volume, being composed some good English verses, but it is in part a reprint of her former collections of to her Scottish poems that she owes her fame poetical and prose sketches. Prefixed to the as more than a local writer. In the introduc- to her last volume Dr. Alexander Wallace work is a portrait of the venerable poetess, tion — who, though poor, old, and blind, seems to says " It is remarkable that she has never have bated no jot of either poetic heart or seen a mountain, nor the sea, nor any river but : - — ! ! ——

150 JANET HAMILTON. the Clyde, the Falls of which she never visited, wilding flowers' covered with slag." It is not and she has never been the distance of twenty easy to understand how the Coatbridge poetess miles from her dwelling. Her region of song, — certainly one of the most remarkable Scot- so far as scenery is concerned, has been very tish singers of the present century—could have before limited. It may be comprised in the glen of the lived to such a comparatively great age Calder and the bosky dells and breckan-covered her poetic genius was evinced, and it is hard banks of her favourite stream, the Luggie (poor to say what she might have accomplished had David Gray"s Luggie), before it was polluted she enjoyed the early advantages of a Joanna withtlie refuse of the furnaces, and its 'sweet Baillie or Lady Nairne.

That, mounting, "sings at heaven's gate," THE SKYLAEK—CAGED AXD FREE. hark These rapturous notes are all his own; Sweet minstrel of the summer dawn. Bard of the sky, he sings alone! Bard of the sky, o'er lea and lawn Sweet captive, though thy fate be mine, Thy rapturous anthem, clear and loud. I will not languish, will not pine; Rings from the dim and dewy cloud Nor beat my wings against the wires. That swathes the brow of infant morn. In vain regrets, and strong desires Dame Nature's first and fairest born! To roam again, all blythe and free. From grassy couch I saw thee spring. Through Nature's haunts— again to see Aside the daisy curtains fling, The blooming, bright, and beauteous things Shake the bright dew-drops from thy breast, That in her train each season brings: Prune thy soft wing, and smooth thy crest Spring's bursting buds and tender leaves, Then, all the bard within thee burning, The summer flowers, the autumn sheaves, Heaven in thine eye, the dull earth spurning; The purple hills, the shining streams, Thou soar'dst and sung, till lost on high AVhere lingering memory broods and dreams; In morning glories of the sky! But, never more—ah! never more Not warbling at thine own sweet will. To climb the hill, or tread the shore Far up yon " heaven-kissing hill." With foot untiring, swift and free AVith quivering wing, and swelling throat, It may not—nay, it cannot be. On waves of ambient-air afloat — Ah! cannot be! my eyes are dark Not so, I saw thee last, sweet bird; A prisoner too, like thee, sweet lark: I heard thee, and my heart was stirred, But I have sought and found content; Above the tumult of a street, And so our songs shall oft be blent AVhere smoke and sulphurous gases meet; I, singing in my hermitage. Where, night a id day, resounds the clamour Thou, warbling in thy prison cage. Of shrieking steam, of wheel, and hammer Aspire! thou to thine own blue skj', A Babel rude of many a tongue I to a loftier sphere on high There, high o'erhead, thou blithely sung. Caged, "cribb'd, confin'd," j'et full and clear, As silver flute, fell on my ear Tliy joyous song: as void of sorrow the sun good morrow. As when, to bid GRAN'FAITHER AT CAM'SLANG. Just rising from his couch of gold. Thou sung, and soar'dst o"er mead and wold. Thy prison song, bird beloved, He donn'd his bannet braid and blue. gray, ^ly heart hath strangely, deeply moved. His hame-spun suit o' hodden drew o'er his knees. In reverie, a waking dream His blue boot-hose the gate at skreigh o' day. Steals o'er my senses, and I seem An' teuk The joyous girl that knew no care, "When fields were green, and skies were fair; His Bible had he in his pouch, And, sweetest of the Avarbling throng, O' scones an' cheese a guidly whang; The thrilling, gushing, voice of song An' staflf in haun', he's off" to see. I seem to hear— Ah! 'tis the lark, The godly wark at auld Cam'slang. — —

THOMAS CAELYLE. 151

day, frae a' the kintra roun'. " star that greets the morn"' Neist The lingcrin' there. By tens o' hunners folk cam Was twinkliu' thro' the misty blue; To hear the words o' grace and truth The muireoek craw'd, the paitriek whirr' tl, Frae preachers in the open air. An' rouu' his head the peesweep flew. He thocht to sit within the kirk He trampit on ower muir an' moss He rather wad than sit ootbye, Fortliritty miles an' mair, I ween, gaed, an' there he sat auld Cam'slang Sae in lie Till to the kirk o' sky. Till stars were blinkin' in the He cam' on Saturday at e'en. saw, Xae cries he heard, nae fits he He lodged him in a hamely hoose, But sabs were rife, an' tearfu' een Syne daunerd oot intil the nicht; That ne'er leuk'd aff tiie preacher's face, The mune was down, the win's were lown, that could be heard or seen. bricht. Was a' But a' the lift wi' stars was The dews were fa'in on the yirth Nae soon' o' youngsters oot at e'en, a heart the dews o' grace whisp'ring lovers there; On mony Nae voice o' they sat Had fa'en that day, e'en while He heard nae soun' but that o' praise At Jesus' feet, in Mary's place. He heard nae voice but that o' prayer. rose At dawnin' o' the morn he bush o' whin or broom. By ilka Monday—hame he bou'd to gang; back or braeside green, On By lown dyke forgat \nd a' his days he ne'er greetin'. prayin', praisin' there, Folk at auld Cam'slang. seen. That Sabbath-day A' sittin', kneelin', roun' war years had gane, a printed beuk his heid, Wlien He teuk the bannet aff seen, Cani' oot, whilk I hae aften liftit up to heaven his e'e; An' it was sign'd, An' it was seal'd, an' solemn awe, an' holy fear, Wi' By ministers a guidly whccn. His heart was fu' as fu' could be. souls, It said that mony hunner ahint a boortree bush, ^ He kneel'd the wark was at Cam slang, see, What time Whaur but the e'e o' God could days hear— War turn'd to God, an' a' their Whaur but the ear o' God could shoud gang. Had leev'd an' gane as saints An' pray'd baith lang and fervently.

THOMAS CAELYLE.

which those im- childhood, and the influence the " censor of the age,' Thomas Carlyle, landscapes, and sur- pressions, such as places, than exercised his powers who has rather tried upon his mind. The and rounding scenery, made belongs to the common people, took as a poet, which his father sometimes comes from cattle-fairs to countryman Robert Burns passing like his apparition of the mail-coach peasantry. He him the better class of the Scottish seeming to the day through the village, Annan in Dum- twice a was born at Ecclefechan, near from he knew him some strolling world, coming 1795, and so has lived friesshire, December 4, he knew not whither- his not where, and going fourscore years. Proud of and to complete describes with a freshness could say all this he once popular and noble, he are birth, at clearly indicate that they works he says vivacity which himself what in one of his childhood. Be- of ineffaceable impressions of plebeians like him- the of Burns and Diderot, two received another sides this education Carlyle " kings, how many princes self— How many of Annan, where he ac- Sartor at the high -school so well born!" In are there, not rudiments of his scholastic training. impressions of his quired the Besnrtm he tells us of the 152 THOMAS CAELYLE.

Here he had for a schoolfellow Edward Irving, found a deep under-current of affection for his the distinguished orator and divine, whom native land, and although so many years Carlyle afterwards nobly delineated. absent from her heathery hills, he has not for- It was the ambition of liis parents to see gotten Scotland, nor has Scotland forgotten Thomas "wag his pow in a poopit," and he her gifted son. If one thing more than another was accordingly, after the necessary prepara- could gratify him in his declining years, it tion, sent to the University of Edinburgh, must have been this public recognition of his where his life was one of comparative poverty services to literature, and of his talents as a and privation. After having graduated, he teacher of men, by his native land. was for several years tutor in a gentleman's After a happy married life of forty years family. He could not like this office— in Mr. Carlyle, who is childless, lost his wife. many, and indeed most families, one of de- The epitaph he placed on her tombstone is one pendence and drudgery, unbefitting a strong- of the most eloquent and loving memorials hearted, self-reliant man, and accordingly he ever penned. Since her death his household abandoned it, launching out in 1823 on the has been presided over by his niece, Mary career of a man of letters— a calling which he Carlyle Aitken, who in 1874: gave to the world has so well described as "an anarchic, nomadic, an admirable collection of Scottish song. In and entirely aerial and ill-conditioned profes- 1872 the great writer was called to mourn the sion." His first efforts were published in a death of his eldest brother, John Carlyle, who the of eighty-one. country paper ; then came translations of died in Canada, at age Legendre's Geometrij and Goethe's Wilhelm Another brother, tiie translator of Dante, re- Melster, followed by hXa Life of Schiller, which sides at Dumfries, which is also the residence led to a lengthened correspondence between of their sister, Mrs. Aitken, to whom the phi- him and Goethe. Then appeared some of his losopher makes an annual visit after the close finest essays, and Sartor Resartus, which was of the London season. On his eightieth birth- published in Fraser's Magazine. His brilliant day Carlyle received from various quarters of articles on "Burns," "Charactei-istics," and the globe, far and near, congratulatory ad- "Signs of the Times," contributed to the Edln- dresses, epistles, and gifts, commemorative of hurcjh lieview, marked the advent of a man of the completion of fourscore years. genius. Finding the inconvenience of residing The opinions of Carlyle's youth are not in among the moors of Dumfriesshire, he decided all cases the opinions of his old age. In early to remove to London, the great centre of books, life he had some claim to the title of a poet, as of learning, and intellectual movement. Here the following pieces will testify, but in 1870 he has since resided at Cheyne Row, Chelsea, he wrote a characteristic letter in which he producing his French Revolution, Past and gives it as his mature opinion that the writing Present, Oliver Cromwell, and many other of verse, in this age at least, is an unworthy valuable contributions to literature, including occupation for a man of ability. It is by no his remarkable Life of Frederick the Great. means impossible that the "Philosopher of His latest work, The Earlij Kings of Norioay, Chelsea" may be indebted to some of the poets appeared in 1874. whom in his curious letter he beseeches not to In November, 186.5, Carlyle was elected to write except in prose, for embalming in death- the rectorship of the Edinburgh University, less strophes his own craggy and majestic char- which, in spite of his stoicism, real or assumed, acter, and transmitting through the magic of must have sent a thrill of pleasure to his heart. rhyme his name and fame to the remotest Throughout many of his works there is to be generations of mankind.

TRAGEDY OF THE NIGHT-MOTH. MAGNA AUSUS.

'Tis placid midnight, stars are keeping Save pale recluse, for knowledge seeking. Their meek and silent course in heaven; All mortal things to sleep are given. ; !

THOMAS CAELYLE. 153

gained we, little motli? Thy ashes, But see! a wandering nigbt-moth enters, What show; Allured by taper gleaming bright; Thy one brief parting pang may soul that dashes A while keeps hovering round, then ventures And thoughts like these, for death more slow On Goethe's mystic page to light. From deep to deep, are —

With awe she views the candle blazing; A universe of fire it seems To moih-savaute with rapture gazing THE SOWER'S SOXG. Or fount whence life and motion streams. Now hands to seedshect, boys, What passions in her small heart whirling, AVe step and we cast; old Time's on wing; Hopes boundless, adoration, dread; And would ye partake of harvest's joys. At length her tiny pinions twirling, The corn must be sown in spring. She darts and— puflF: —the moth is dead! Fall gently and still, good corn. Lie warm in thy earthy bed; The sullen flame, for her scarce sparkling. And stand so yellow some morn. Gives but one hiss, one fitful glare; For beast and man must be fed. Now bright and busy, now all darkling, pleasure to see She snaps and fades to empty air. Old earth is a In sunshiny cloak of red and green; this year will be Her bright gray form that spreads so slimly, The furrow lies fresh; past have been. Some fan she seemed of pigmy queen; As years that are gently, &c. Her silky cloak that lay so trimly. Fall Her wee, wee eyes that looked so keen, Old mother, receive this corn, Tlie son of six thousand golden sires; Last moment here, now gone for ever, All these on thy kindly breast were born; To naught are passed with fiery pain; One more thy poor child requires. And ages circling round shall never Fall gently, &c. Give to this creature shape again! Now steady and sure again. I lament thee, Toor moth ! near weeping And measure of stroke and step we keep; form, thy instant woe; Thy glossy Thus up and thus down we cast our grain; 'Twas zeal for "things too high" that sent thee Sow well and you gladly reap. From cheery earth to shades below. Fall gently and still, good corn. Lie warm in thy earthy bed Short speck of boundless space was needed And stand so yellow some morn, For home, for kingdom, world to thee! For beast and man must be fed. Where passed, unheeding as unheeded. Thy little life from sorrow free.

But syren hopes from out thy dwelling Enticed thee, bade thee earth explore,— ADIEU. Thy frame so late with rapture swelling, chance combine, combine, is swept from earth for evermore! Let time and Let time and chance combine: above. Foor moth! thy fate my own resembles; The fairest love from heaven was mine, Me too a restless asking mind That love of yours Hath sent on far and weary rambles, ;My dear. yours was mine. To seek the good I ne'er shall find. That love of

past is fled and gone, and gone, Like thee, with common lot contented. The With humble joys and vulgar fate, The past is fled and gone; If nought but pain to me remain, I might have lived and ne'er lamented, in memory on, Moth of a larger size, a longer date! I'll fare Jily dear, But nature's majesty unveiling I'll fare in memory on. AVhat seemed her wildest, grandest charms, The saddest tears must fall, must fall. Eternal truth and beauty hailing, The saddest tears must fall; Like thee, I rushed into her arms. • ——— — ——

154 THOMAS CARLYLE.

In weal or woe, in this world below, Ask ye, Who is this same? I love you ever and all, Christ Jesus is his name. M}' dear, The Lord Zebaoth's Son I love you ever and all. He and no other one Shall conquer in the battle. A long road full of pain, of pain, A long road full of pain; And were this world all devils o'er. One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part^ And watching to devour us. AVe ne'er can meet again, We lay it not to heart so sore j\ly dear. Not they can overpower us. We ne'er can meet again. And let the prince of ill Look grim as e'er he will, Hard fate will not allow, allow. He harms us not a whit; fate will not allow; Hard For why? His doom is writ the angels We blessed were as arc, A word shall quickly slay him. Adieu for ever now,

Jly dear, God's word, for all their craft and force, Adieu for ever now. One moment will not linger; But, spite of hell, shall have its course- 'Tis written by His finger. And though they take our life. Goods, honour, children, wife. CUI BONO] Yet is their profit small; These things shall vanish all— What is hope? smiling rainbow A The city of God remaineth. Children follow through the wet; 'Tis not here, still yonder, yonder; Never urchin found it yet.

What is life? A thawing iceboard MASON-LODGE. On a sea with sunny shore;— Gay we sail; it melts beneath us; (from the GERMAN OF GOETHE.^) We are sunk, and seen no more. The mason's ways are What is man? A foolish baby. A type of existence. Vainly strives, and fights, and frets; And his persistence Demanding all, deserving nothing; Is as the days are One small grave is what he gets. Of men in this world.

The Future hides in it Gladness and sorrow: We press still thorow. PSALM XLVI. Nought that abides in it (from the GERMAN OF MARTIX LUTHER. Daunting us, — onward.

safe stronghold our God is still, A 1 Originally published in Past and Present, and A trusty shield and weapon; introduced there by the following words:—" My ingenu- He'll help us clear from all the ill ous readei-s, we will march out of this Third Book with That hatli us now o'ertaken. a rhythmic word of Goethe's on our lips—a word which The ancient prince of hell perhaps has already sung itself, in dark hours and in heart. To me, finding it Hath risen with purpose fell; bright, through many a

devout, yet wholly credible and veritable ; full of pity, Strong mail of craft and power jet free of cant: to me, joyfully finding much in it, and He weareth in this hour— joyfully missing so much in it, this little snatch of On earth is not his fellow. music, by the greatest German man, sounds like a stanza in the grand ' Road Song' and ' Marching Song' By force of arms we nothing can of our great Teutonic Kindred— winding, winding, Full soon were down-ridden; we valiant and victorious, through the undiscovered Deeps But for us fights the proper man of Time! lie calls it Mason-lodge, not Psalm or Hymn." Whom God himself hath bidden. —Ed. — : :

DANIEL WEIR. 155

And solemn before us, Then spake his frogling: " Father o' me, Veiled, the dark Portal, It boots not, let tliy blowing be; Goal of all mortal: Thy nature hath forbid this battle. Stars silent rest o'er us, Thou canst not vie with the black cattle." Graves under us silent! Nathless let be the frog would not. Such prideful notion had he got; While earnest thou gazest, Again to blow right sore 'gan he, Comes boding of terror, And said, " Like ox could I but be error. Comes phantasm and In size, within this world there were Perplexes the bravest No frog so glad to tiiee, I swear." AVith doubt misgiving. and The son spake: "Father, me is woe Thou shouldst torment thy body so: But heard are the voices, I fear thou art to lose thy life Heard are the sages. Come, follow me, and leave this strife: The Worlds and the Ages Good father, take advice of me, Choose well : your choice is And let thy boastful blowing be." Brief and yet endless; Frog said: " Thou needst not beck and nod, Here eyes do regard you, I will not do it, so help me God! In Eternity's stillness: Big as this ox is, I must turn, Here is all fulness, ]\Iine honour now it doth concern." Ye brave, to reward you He blew himself, and burst in twain; AVork, and despair not. Such of that blowing was his gain.

The like hath oft been seen of such AVho grasp at honour overmuch; They must with none at all be doing, THE FROG AXD THE STEER. But sink full soon, and come to ruin. (FKOM the GERMAN OF ULKICH BONER.) He that, with wind of pride accurst, Much puffs himself, will surely burst; A frog with frogling by his side He men miswishes and misjudges. Came hopping through the plain, one tide; Inferiors scorns, superiors grudges, There he an ox at grass did spy: Of all his equals is a hater. Much angered was the frog thereby: Much grieved he is at any better; He said: " Lord God, what was my sin, Therefore it were a sentence wise. Thou madest me so small and thin? Were his whole body set with eyes, Likewise I have no handsome feature, WIio envy hath, to see so well And all dishonoured is my nature, What lucky hap each man befell. To other creatures far and near. That so he filled were with fury, For instance, this same grazing steer." And burst asunder in a hurry; The frog would fain with bullock cope, And so full soon betid him this 'Gan brisk outblow himself in hope. Which to the frog betided is.

DANIEL WEIK.

Born 1796 — Died 1831.

Daniel Weir, a poetical bookseller of Green- for improving his education by reading, and ock, was born in that town, March 31, 1796. of gratifying his verse- making propensities. Of humble parentage, he received but a limited At nineteen he left his amiable employer to education, and at the age of twelve years he follow the calling on his own account. Weir to Smith's M-as apprenticed to a bookseller in his native contributed several pleasing songs Glas- place. Here he enjoyed many opportunities Scottish Minstrel, and himself edited for a — — —— — —

156 DANIEL WEIR gow firm tlircro volumes of songs unchr the to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the titles of The National Minstrel, The Sacred ludicrous, he had at command a store of Lyre, and Lyrical Gems. In these compila- delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with tions a majority- of his own poems first appeared, a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to while others were published in the Glasgow render the force of the humour totally irresis- newspapers. In 1829 the poet published a tible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread History of the Town of Greenock, and at his to his opponents in burgh politics. His death (November 11, 1831) left behind him appearance was striking. Rather malformed, numerous unpublished pieces, and a long MS. he was under the middle size; his head seemed poem entitled " The Pleasures of Religion." large for his person, and his shoulders Avere of "Possessed," -writes Rev. Charles Rogers, unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, "of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided was lit up on the recitation of .some witty tale claims to remembrance. His conversational he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. talents were of a remarkable description, and Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to of action, he was seriously impressed by reli- whom his poetical talents were unknown. He gious principle. Some of his devotional com- was familiar with the whole of the British positions are admirable specimens of sacred poets, and had committed their best passages poetry."

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

I've listened to the midnight wind, The melting voice of one we loved. Which seem'd, to fancy's ear. Whose voice was heard no more, The mournful music of the mind, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved. The echo of a tear; Still breathing as before. And still methought the hollow sound. Which, melting, swept along, I've listen'd to the midnight wind, The voice of other days had found. And sat beside the dead. With all the powers of song. And felt those movings of the mind AVhich own a secret dread. I've listened to the midnight wind, The ticking clock, which told the hour. And thought of friends untrue Had then a sadder chime; Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined. And tiiese winds seem'd an unseen pow'r. That nought could e'er undo; Which sung the dirge of time. Of cherish'd hopes once fondly bright Of joys Avhich fancy gave I've listen'd to the midnight wind, Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light AVhen, o'er the new-made grave Were darken'd in the grave. Of one whose heart was true and kind. Its rudest blasts did rave.

I've listen'd to the midnight wind Oh ! there was something in the sound When all was still as death; A mournful, melting tone When nought was heard before, behind AVhich led the thoughts to that dark ground Xot e'en the sleeper's breath. Where he was left alone. And I have sat at such an hour. And heard the sick man's sigh; I've listen'd to the midnight wind. Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r. And courted sleep in vain, At that lone moment die. While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. I've listen'd to the midnight wind, .\nd even when slumber, soft and deep. And wept for others' woe; Has seen the eyelid close. Nor could the heart such music find The restless soul, which cannot sleep. To bid its tear-drops flow. Has stray 'd till morning rose. — !! : 1

WILLI.\:M MOTHERWELL. 157

Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on; 'XEATH THE WAVE. 'Midst the teare that are shed, his eye is unmoved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone; 'Neath the wave thy lover sleeps, Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest And cold, cold is his pillow; When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! O'er bis bed no maiden weep^, Where rolls the white billow. The woi'ld, to him, with its sorrows and sighs. And though the winds have sunk to rest Has fled hke a dream when the morn appears; Upon the troubled ocean's breast, WhUe the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, Yet still, oh still there's left behind No more to revisit this valley of tears; A restless storm in Ellen's mind. Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand"rer sleeps on his couch of rest Her heart is on yon dark'ning wave,

Few, few were liis years; but, had they been more. Where all she lov'd is lying, The sunshine which smiled might have vanished And where, around her William's grave. awaj'. The sea-bird is crying. And he might have fallen on some far friendless And oft on Jura's lonely .'ihore, shore, Where surges beat and billows roar, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate She sat —but grief has nipt her bloom, baj" And there they made young Ellen's tomb. Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest

WTien the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest I

Like a rosebud of promise.when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered RAVEN'S STREAM. here; Jly love, come let us wander But now from thy love, from thine anus he is torn. Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere: Where Raven's streams meander, Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest And where, in simple grandeur, When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest The daisy decks the plain. Peace and joy our hours .shall measure; How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Come, oh come, my soul's best treasure! "Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and Then how sweet, and then how cheerie, woes; Raven's braes will be, my dearie. Then rejoice at his rest, for son-ow no more start on his di-eams, or disturb his repose Can The silver moon is beaming, Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest On Clyde her light is streaming, \Mien the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest! And, while the world is dreaming. We'll talk of love, my dear. Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, will this bosom, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sor- None, my Jean, share Where thine image loves to blossom, rowful day • WTio would not rejoice at his journey's end, .\nd no storm will ever sever ever. When perils and toils encompass'd his way ? That dear flower, or part us

WILLIAM MOTHEEWELL.

Born 1797 — Died 1835.

William Motherwell, an antiquary, jour- pathos, was born in Glasgow, October 13, nalist, and poet, and the author of two Scot- Ed. tish ballads unsurpassed for tenderness and 1 A small stream in tlieneighbouihoodof Greenock.— —

158 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

1797. His father was an ironmonger in that In 1832 there appeared from the press of his city, and came of a Stirlingshire family who friend David Robertson a small volume of his for thirteen generations had possessed a small best poetical compositions, entitled Poems, property named Muirmill on the banks of the Narrative and Lyrical. With the publication Carron. His mother was the daughter of a of this little book, containing such lyrics as prosperous Perthshire farmer, from whom she "Jeanie Morrison," "My Held is like to rend, inherited a considerable property. The family Willie," and " Wearie's Well," compositions removed to Edinburgh early in the century, which for soft melancholy and touching ten- and in 1805 William became a pupil of Mr. W, derness of expression have never been excelled, Lennie, in whose school he met the heroine of William Motherwell at once took rank among his beautiful song. The year following he Scotland's sweetest singers. Miss Mitford entered the high -school, but was soon after says— "Burns is the only poet with whom, sent to reside with an uncle at Paisley, where for tenderness and pathos, Jlotherwcll can be he completed his education at the grammar- compared. The elder bard has written much school, with the exception of attending the more largely, is more various, more fiery, more Latin and Greek classes in the University of abundant; but I doubt if there be in the whole Glasgow during the session of 1818-19. He of his collection anything so exquisitely fin- was placed as an apprentice in the office of the ished, so free from a line too many or a word sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and his ability and out of place, as the two great lyric ballads of diligence combined secured for him at the age Motherwell ; and let young writers observe, of twenty-one the honourable position of that this finish was the result, not of a curious sherifF-clerk depute of Renfrewshire. felicity, but of the nicest elaboration. By While fulfilling the duties of this office touching and re-touching, during many years, Motherwell steadily pursued those literary did 'Jeanie Morrison' attain her perfection, occupations upon which his claims to public and yet how completely has art concealed art! notice are founded. He early evinced a taste How entirelj' does that charming song appear for poetry, and in his fourteenth year had pro- like an inexpressible gush of feeling that would duced the first draft of "Jeanie Morrison.'" find A'ent. In 'My Held is like to rend, In 1818 he contributed to a small work pub- Willie,' the appeai'ance of spontaneity is still lished at Greenock called the Visitor, and in more striking, as the passion is more intense the following year he edited an edition of the intense, indeed, almost to painfulness." conjunction with Harp of Renfren'sliire , a valuable collection In 1835, in the Ettrick of songs. In 1827 he published his Minstrelsy, Shepherd, Motherwell edited an edition of A ncient and Modern, a work of great merit and Burns, to which he contributed the principal research, which at once gave him rank and influ- part of the biography, with copious notes; and ence as a literary antiquary. In the introduc- he was collecting material for a life of Tanna- tion Motherwell exhibits a thorough acquaint- hill, when he Avas suddenly struck down by ance with the ballad and romantic literature of apoplexy, and died after a few hours' illness, his native land. In 1828 he commenced the Nov. 1, 1835, in the thirty-eighth year of his PaisZej/Tl/aj/rt^/ne, the pagesof which heenriched age. His remains were interred in the Glasgow with some of his best poetical productions; and Kecropolis, where an elegant monument with during the same year he assumed the editor- a life-like bust has been erected to his ship of the Paisley Advertiser, a Tory news- memory. paper previously under the management of As a poet Jlotherwell was happiest in pathe- his friend William Kennedy. In January, tic and sentimental lyrics, though his own 1830, he was appointed editor of the Glasrjoiv inclinations led him to prefer the chivalrous Courier, an influential journal conducted on and martial style of the old minstrels. The Tory principles. In his hands the journal translations of Scandinavian poetry which he maintained its high character as an able produced are among the most successful and exponent of ultra-Tory opinions, and he con- vigorous which have appeared. After his

tinued its editorship up to the date of iiis death a new edition of his poems was published, death. accompanied by a memoir written by his friend — —"

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 159 and physician James Jl'Coneclij-, who con- intellect, lie has been led by the natural cludes with the following paragraph:— " Upon bent of his genius to the old haunts of inspi- the whole his place as a minor poet is a distin- ration—the woods and glens of his native guished one. He has undoubtedly enriched the country—and his ears delight to drink the language with many noble specimens of manly music of her old songs. Many a beautiful song; and when it is remembered that he pro- ballad has blended its pensive and plaintive secuted his poetical studies in silence and pathos with his day-dreams, and while reading retirement, animated alone by the love of his some of his happiest effusions we feel art, and sustained through many long years of ' Tlie ancient spirit is not dead, trial by the distant gleam of posthumous fame, Old times, we say, aio breathing there.' it will not be disputed that his motives to action were exalted, and his exertions in the His style is simple, but in his tenderest move- cause of human improvement disinterested." ments masculine: he strikes a few bold knocks Another competent critic— Christopher North at the door of the heart, which is instantly — said of Motherwell: "All his perceptions opened by the master or mistress of the house, are clear, for all his senses are sound: he has or by son or daughter, and the welcome visitor fine and strong sensibilities, and a powerful at once becomes one of the family."

THE MASTER OF WEEMYS.

The Master of Weemys has biggit a ship, And shee gliskit round and round about, To saile upon the sea; Upon the waters wan; And four-and-twenty bauld marineres, nevir againe on land or sea Doe beare him companie. Shall be seen sik a faire woman.

They have hoistit sayle and left the land, And shee shed her haire aff her milk-white They have saylit mylis three; bree When up there lap the bonnie merniayd. Wi' her fingers sac sma' and lang;

• All in the Norland sea. And fast as saylit that gude ship on, Sae louder was aye her sang. "0 whare saile ye," quo' the bonnie mermayd, " Upon the saut sea faem 1" And aye shee sang, and aye shee sang "It's we are bounde until NorroAvay, As shee rade upon the sea; God send us skaithless hame!" "If ye bee men of Christian moulde Throwe the master out to mee.

"Oh Norroway is a gay gay strande, "Thro we out to mee the master bauld And a merrie land 1 trowe; If ye bee Christian men; But nevir nane sail see Norroway But an' ye faile, though fast ye sayle, Gin the mermayd keeps her vowe!" Ye'll nevir see land agen!" doukit then the mermayden, Down "Sayle on, sayle on, sayle on," said shee, intil the middil sea; Deep "Sayle on and nevir blinne. And merrie leuch that master bauld, The winde at will your saylis may fill. his jollie companie. With But the land ye shall never win !

They saylit awa', and they saylit awa', It's never word spak that master bauld, They have saylit leagues ten; But a loud laugh leuch the crewe; When lo! uplap by the gude ship's side And in the deep then the mermayden The self-same mermayden. Doun drappit frae their viewe.

Shee held a glass intil her richt hande, But ilk ane kythit her bonnie face. In the uthir shee held a kame. How dark dark grew its lire; And shee kembit her haire, and aye she sang And ilk ane saw her bricht bricht eyne As shee flotterit on the faem. Leming like coals o' fire. " " —— ; —

160 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

And ilk ane saw her lang bricht hair 'Come doun, come doun, my ae best man, Gae flashing through the tide, For an ill weird I maun drie;

And tiie sparkles o' the glass shee brake Yet, I reck not for my .sinful .self, " Upon that gude ship's side. But thou my trew companie!

"Steer on, steer on, thou master bauld. The wind blaws unco hie;" "0 there's not a sterne in a' the lift To guide us through the sea!" THE WOOING SONG.

"Steer on, steer on, thou master bauld, Bright maiden of Orkney, star of the blue sea! I've swept o'er the to The storm is coming fast;'' waters gaze upon thee; I've "Then up, then up, my bonnie boy, left spoil and slaughter, I've left a far strand, Unto the topmost mast. sing « To how I love thee, to kiss thy small hand!

Fair daughter of Einar, golden-liaired ! "Creep up into the tallest mast, maid The lord of yon brown bark, and lord of this Gae up, my ae best man; blade; Climb up until the tall top-mast The joy of the ocean, of warfare and wind, And spy gin ye see land." Hath bonne him to woo thee, and thou must be kind. "Oh all is mirk towards the eist, So stoutly Jarl Egill wooed Torf Einar's daughter. And all is mirk be west; Alas there is not a spot of light In Jutland, in Iceland, on Neustria's shore, Where any eye can rest! Where'er the dark billow my gallant bark bore. Songs spoke of thy beauty, harps sounded thy "Looke oute, looke oute, my bauldest man, praise. Locke out unto the storme. And my heart loved thee long ere it thrilled in And if ye cannot get sicht o' land, thy gaze. see o' Do ye the dawin morn]" Aye, daughter of Einar, right tall mayst thou stand "Oh alace! alace! my master deare," It is a Vikingir who kisses thy hand; Spak' then that ae best man; It is a Vikingir that bends his proud knee. "Nor licht, nor land, nor living thing, And swears by great Freya his bride thou must Do I spy on any hand." be! So Jarl Egill swore when his great heart was " Looke yet agen, my ae best man, fullest. And tell me what ye do see;" " Lord ! 1 spy the false mermayden Thy white arms are locked in broad bracelets Fast say ling out owre the sea! of gold; Thy girdle-stead's gleaming with treasures "How can j^e spy the fause mermayden untold; Fast sayling on the mirk sea. The circlet that binds up thy long yellow hair, For there's neither mune nor mornin' licht Is starred thick with jewels, that bright are rare; In troth it can nevir bee." and But gifts yet more princely Jarl Egill bestows: For girdle, his great arm around thee lie throws; "0 there is neither mune nor mornin' licht, The bark of a sea-king, for palace, gives he, Nor ae star's blink on the sea; While mad waves and winds shall thy true But as I am a Christian man, subjects be. That witch woman I see! So richly Jarl Egill endowed his bright bride.

"Good Lord! there is a .scaud o' fire Nay, frown not, nor shrink thus, nor toss so Fast coming out owre the sea; thy head, And fast therein the grim mermayden 'Tic a Vikingir asks thee, land-maiden, to wed! Is sayling on to thee! He skills not to woo thee, in trembling and fear. Though lords of the land may thus troop with "Shec hailes our ship wi' a shrill shrill cry the deer. Shee is coming, alace! more near:" The cradle he rocked in so sound and so long, "Ah wae is now," .said me the ma.ster bauld, Hath framed him a heart and a hand that are "For I both do see and hear! strong; ; !

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. IGl

He comes then as Jarl should, sword belted to This likes me, — this likes me, stout maiden of side, mould. To win thee and wear thee with gloi-y and pride. Thou wooest to purpose; bold hearts love the So sternly Jarl Egill wooed, and smote his long; bold. brand. So shouted Jarl Egill, and clutched the prouil maiden. Thy father, thy brethren, thy kin keep from Away and away then, I have thy small hand; me. J.y with me,—our tall bark now bears toward The maiden I've sworn shall be Queen of the the strand; sea! I call it the Raven, the wing of black night, A ti'uco with that folly, yon sea-strand can — That shadows forth ruin o'er islands of light; show Once more on its long deck, behind us the gale. If this eye missed its aim, or this arm failed Thou shalt see how before it great kingdoms its blow; do quail; I had not well taken three strides on this land, Thou shalt see then how truly, my noble-souled Ere a Jarl and his six sons in death bit the sand. maid. Nay, weep not, pale maid, though in battle The ransom of kings can be won by this blade. should fall So bravely Jarl Egnll did soothe the pale trembler. The kemps who would keep thy bridegroom from the hall. Aye, gaze on his largo hilt, one wedge of red So carped Jarl Egill, and kissed the bright weeper. gold; But doat on its blade, gilt with blood of the Through shadows and horrors, in worlds un- bold. derground, The hilt is i-ight seemly, but nobler the blade, Through sounds that apjjaU and through sights That swart Vehnt's hammer with cunning spells that confound, made. I sought the weird women within theh dark I call it the adder, death lurks in its bite. cell, Through bone and proof-harness it scatter., And made them surrender futurity's spell pale light. I made them rune over the dim scroll so free, Fair daughters of Einar, deem high of the fate And mutter how fate sped with lovers like me; That makes thee, like this blade, proud Egill's Yes, maiden, I forced them to read forth my loved mate doom. So Jarl Egill bore off Torf Einar's bright daughter. To say how I should fare as jolly bridegroom. So Jarl Egill's love dared the world of grim siia- dows. THE MERRY SUMMER MOXTHS. They waxed and they waned, they passed to and fro. They come! the merry summer months of While lurid fires gleamed o'er their faces of beauty, song, and flowers; snow; They come! the ghuisorae montlis that bring Their stony eyes, moveless, did glare on me thick leafiness to bowers. long. Up, up, my heart! i^nd walk abroad; fling Then sullen they chanted: "The sword and cark and care aside; the song hills, or rest thyself where peaceful Prevail with the gentle, sore chasten the rude, Seek silent And sway to their purpose each evil-shaped waters glide; mood!" Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal Fair daughter of Einar, I've sung the dark lay tree, That the weird sisters runed, and which thou Sean through its leaves the cloudless sky in mu.st obey. rapt tranquillity. So fondly Jarl Egill loved Einar's proud daughter. The grass is soft, its velvet toucli is grateful to the hand; The curl of that proud lip, the flash of that eye, And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze The swell of that bosom, so full and so high. is sweet and bland Like foam of sea-billow thy white bosom shows. ; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding Like flash of red levin thine eagle eye glows; courteously; Ha! firmly and boldly, so stately and free. It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless Thy foot treads this chamber, as bark rides thee; the sea; and welcome Vol. II.—L ; " — —

162 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

And mark how with thine own thin locks Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the they now are silvery gray calm, unclouded sky. That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whis- Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the

! pering, ' • Be gay days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of me dark and cold, yon sky, I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse— a heart But hath its own winged mariners to give it that hath waxed old! melody; Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold; And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. JEAIflE MOEKISON.i God bless them all, these little ones, who, far above this earth, I've wandered east, I've wandered west. Can make a scoff" of its mean joys, and vent a Through mony a weary way; nobler mirth. But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, —from The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en yonder wood it camel May weel be black gin Yule; The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe But blacker fa' awaits the heart his own glad name;— Where first fond luve grows cule. Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft The thochts o' bygane years western wind Still fling their shadows ower my path. Cuckoo! cuckoo! he sings again, — his notes are And blind my een wi' tears: void of art; They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears. But simplest strains do soonest sound tJie deep And sair and sick I pine. founts of the heart. As memory idly summons up Tlie blithe blinks o' lang.syne. Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought- crazed wight like me. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, To smell again these summer flowers beneath 'Twas then we twa did part; this summer tree! Sweet time —sad time! twa bairns at scule, To suck once more in every breath their little Twa bairns, and but ae heart! souls away. 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink. And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youtii's To leir ilk ither leir; bright summer da}', And tones and looks and smiles were shed, When, rushing forth, like untamed colt, the Ecmembered evermair. reckless truant boy 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy! When sitting on that bink. Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof. I'm sadder now— I have had cause; but, oh! What our Avee heads could think. I'm proud to think When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet Wi' ae bulk on our knee. delight to drink; — Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

1 Tlie heroine of this sonpr. Miss Jane Morrison, after- wards Mrs. Murdoch, was daughter of Mr. Ebeuezer girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair,"headds, "was Morrison, brewer in Alloa. lu the autumn of 1807, of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr. dark, and had a sweet and gentle expre.«sion; her tem- Lennie, and for sever;il months occupied the same per was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823 class room w ith young Motherwell. Of the flame wliich Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr. John Murdoch, she had e.xcited in the susceptible lieart of lier boy- commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1820. She lover she was totally unconscious. Mr. Lennie, how- never met the poet in after life, and the ballad of ever, in a statement published by the editor of Mother- "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several well's poems, refers to the strong impression which she years before she became aware that she was the heroine. made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty —Ra-. Charles Rogen. ! — —— — —————

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. 163

0, mind ye how we hung our heads, And channels deeper, as it rins, How cheeks brent red \\i sliame, The hive o' life's young day. Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', .said

We cleeked thegitlier hame ? 0, dear, dear Jeanie Jlorrison, And mind ye o' the Saturdays Since we were sindered young (Tiie seule then skail't at noon), I've never seen your face, nor heard When we ran uff to speel the braes, Tiie music o' your tongue; The brooiny braes o' June? But I could hug all wretchedness;, And happy could I die. My head rins round and round about Did I but ken your heart still dreamed JMy heart flows like a sea. 0' bygane days and me! As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' sculetime and o' thee. mornin' life! mornin' hive! lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, AVILLIE. Like simmer blossoms sprang! My heid is like to rend, Willie O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left My heart is like to break; deavin', dinsome toun, The I'm wearin' aff my feet, AVillie the green burn side, To wander by I'm dyiu' for your sake! its waters croon? And hear 0, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, ower our heads, The simmer leaves hung Your hand on my briest-bane, flowers burst round our feet, The 0, say ye'll think on me, Willie, in the gloamin' o' the wood And When I am deid and gane! The throssil whusslit sweet; It's vain to comfort me, Willie, The throssil whiisslit in the wood. Sair grief maun hae its will; The burn sang to the trees But let me rest upon your briest And we, with nature's heart in tune, To sab and greet my fill. Concerted harmonies; Let me sit on your knee, Willie, on the knowe abune the burn And Let me shed by your hair, For hours thegither sat, And look into the face, AVillie, In the silentness o' joy, till baith I never sail see mair! AVi' very gladness grat.

I'm sittin' on j'our knee, AVillie, Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, For the last time in my life, Tears trinkled doun your cheek A puir heart-broken thing, AVillie, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane A mither, yet nae wife. Had ony power to speak Aj', press your hand upon my heart. That was a time, a blessed time. And press it mair and mair, When hearts wei-e fresh and young, Or it will burst the silken twine, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Sae Strang is its despair. Unsyllabled—unsung! wae's for the hour, AVillie, 1 mai'vel, Jeanie Morrison, 0, me AVhen we thegither met, Gin I hae been to thee wae's for the time, AVillie, As closely twined wi' earliest thochts 0, me our first tryst was set! As ye hae been to me? That wae's me for the loanin' green 0, tell me gin their music fills 0, AVhere Ave were wont to gae, Thine ear as it does mine! And wae's me for the destinie 0, say gin e'er your heart grows grit That gart me luve thee sae! Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 0, dinna mind my words, AVillie I've borne a weary lot; I downa seek to blame; But in my wanderings, far or near. But 0, it's hard to live, AVillie, Ye never were forgot. And dree a warld's shame! OAver your cheek. The fount that first burst frae this heart Ilet tears are hailin' chin: Still travels on its way. And hailin' ower your —— "— — " ; —

164 WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

Wliy weep ye sue for wortlilessness, " And whare is that bouir, my bonnie maiden, For .sonow, and for sin? If on land it sud na be ? "Oh! my blythe bouii- is low," said the mer- I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, maiden, And sick v,i a' I see, " In the bonny green howes o' the sea: I canna live as I hae lived. My gay bouir is biggit o' the gude ships' keels, Or be as I should be. And the banes o' the drowned at sea: But fauld unto rour lieart, Willie, The fisch are the deer that fill my parks. The heart that still is thine, And the water waste my dourie. And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek " Ye said was red langsyne. And my bouir is sklaitit wi' the big blue waves, And paved wi' the yellow sand; A stoiin' gaes through my heid, Willie — And in my chaumers grow bonnie white flowers A sair stoun' through my heart; That never grew on land. Oh, hand me up, and let me kiss And have ye e'er seen, my bonnie bridegroom, That brow ere we twa pairt. A leman on earth that wud gi'e Anither, and anither yet! — Aiker for aiker o' the red plough'd land. I'll How fast my life-strings break ! As gie to thee o' the sea?

Fareweel, fareweel ! through yon kiikyard

' Step lichtly for my sake! ' The mune will rise in half ane hour, And the wee bricht sternes will scliine; The laverock in the lift, Willie, Then we'll sink to my bouir 'neath the wan water That lilts far ower our heid, Full fifty fathom and nine." Will sing the morn as merrilie A wild, wild skreich gied the fey bridegroom. Abune the clay-cauld deid; And a loud, loud laugh the bride; And this green turf we're sittin' on, For the mune raise up, and the twa sanli down Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, Under the silver'd tide. Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen.

But 0, remember me, AVillie, On land where'er ye be WEARIE'S AVELL. And 0, think on the leal, leal heart, Tliat ne'er luved ane but thee! In a saft simmer gloamin', think the cauld, cauld mools And 0, on In yon dowie dell. That fill yellow hair, my It was there we twa first met, kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin That By AVearie's cauld well. never sail kiss mair! Ye We sat on the broom bank. And looked in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn. THE MERMAIDEX. The corncraik was chirming " The nicht is mirk, and the wind blaws shill, His sad eerie cry, And the white faem weets my bree, And the Avee stars were dreaming And my mind misgi'es me, gay maiden. Their path through the sky That the land we sail never see! The burn babbled freely Then up and spak' the mermaiden, Its love to ilk flower, And she spak' blythe and free, But we heard and we saw nought " I never said to my bonny bridegroom, In that blessed hour. That on land we sud weddit be. We heard and we saw nought. " Oh! I never said that ane crthlie preest Above or around; Our bridal blessing should f^d'e, We felt that our love lived, And I never said that a landwart bouir loathed idle sound. Should bald my luve and me." And ' I gazed on your sweet face ' And whare is that preest, my bonny maiden, filled e'e, If ane erthlie wicht is na hei" Till tears my " Oh! the wind will sough, and the sea will rair, And they drapt on your wee loof When weddit we twa sail be." A warld's wealth to mc. ——!— ——

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. IGil

Now the winter snaw's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, THE DYING POET.i And the caiild wind is strippia' Ilk leaf afF the tree. When I beneath the cold red earth am sleephig, But the snaw fa's not faster, Life's fever o'er, Kor leaf disna part Will there for me be any bright eye weeping frae th-e bough, as Sae sune That I'm no more • Faith fades in your heart. Will there be any heart still memory keeping

Of heretofore .- Ye've waled out anither You're bridegroom to be; When the great winds, through leafless forests But can his heart luve sae rushing, As mine luvit thee? Like hxW hearts break, gully Ye' 11 get biggings and mailings, When the swollen streams, o'er crag and And mony braw claes; gushmg, But they a' winna buy back Sad music make; despair is cnishing The peace o' past days. Will there be one whose heart Mourn for my sake^ Fareweel, and for ever, the bright sun upon that spot is shining My first luve and last; When With purest ray, Jlay thy joys be to come the small flowers, their buds and blossoms Jline live in the past. And twining. In sorrow and sadness Burst through that clay; This hour fa's on me; Will there be one still on that spot repining But light, as thy luve, may Lost hopes all day 1 It fleet over thee!

^^^le^ the night shadows, with the ample sweeping Of her dark pall; The world and all its manifold creation sleeping, The great and small THE MIDNIGHT "WIND. Will there be one, even at that dread hour, weeping

For me—for all ? Mournfully! 0, mournfully eye of glory. This midnight wind doth sigh, Vv'hcn no star twinkles with its low mound; Like some sweet plaintive melody On that storms have with their ruins hoary Of ages long gone by! And wintry Its loneness crowned; It speaks a tale of other years, there be then one versed in misery's story Of hopes that bloomed to die,— Will Pacing it roimd? Of sunny smiles that set in tears. And loves that mouldering lie! It may be so,—but this is selfish sorrow To ask such meed, Mournfully! 0, mournfully. A weakness and a wickedness to borrow, midnight wind doth moan! This From hearts that bleed, some chord of memory It stirs The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow dull, heavy tone; In each Shall never need. The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon, Lay me then gently in my naiTow^ dwelling, All, all my fond heart cherished Thou gentle heart; Ere deaUi had made it lone. very month of 1 This pathetic poem was written the Mournfully! 0, mournfully friend a few days the poef s death. He handed it to a midnight wind doth swell in a Glasgow This before his decease. On its first publication pensive minstrelsy,— remark that no slight With its quaint, paper it was accompanied by the in noticing how Hope's passionate farewell interest had been excited in that city poet for the memory To the dreamy joys of early years. the prophetic yearning of the dying realized -his grave having been Ere vet grief's canker fell of affection had been by a young female, keeping fresh the the^earfs bloom— ay! well may tear- frequently visited On offered there.- Ed. floral memo:ials of love and grief Start at that parting knell •—

106 DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

And though thy bosom should with grief be And, oh! the thundering presse of knightes, sweUing, When as their war-cryes swelle, Let no tear start; May tole from heaven an angel bright.. knelling— It were in vain, for time hath long been And rowse a fiend from hell. Sad one, depart!

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your heimes amaine; THE CAVALIER'S SOXG. Deathe's couriers, fame and honour, call Us to the field againe. A steed! a steed of mutchlesse speed! No shrewish tears shall fill our eye A sword of metal keene! "When the sword-hilt's in our hand; All else to noble heartes is drosse— Hearte-whole we'll parte, and no wliit sighe All else on earth is meane. For the fayrest of the land. The neighynge of the war-horse prowde, Let piping swaine, and craven wight, The rowlinge of the drum, Thus weepe, and puling crye; The clangour of the trumpet lowde Our businesse is like men to fighte. Be soundes from heaven that come. And like to Iicrocs, die!

DAYID MACBETH MOIE.

Born 1798 — Died 1851.

David Macbeth ]\Ioir, an accomplished and it was greatly relished for its simplicity, poet and miscellaneous writer, was born at shrewdness, and exhibition of genuine Scottish

Musselburgh, Jan. 5, 1798. He received his character. Moir's biographer says of this en- education at the grammar-school of his native tertaining autobiography: " Burns has almost town, and subsequently attended the medical completely missed those many peculiar features classes of the University of Edinburgh. In of the national character and manners which his eighteenth year he obtained the diploma are broughtout so inimitably inil/foi-s/e Wauch. of surgeon, and entered into partnership with Mansie himself is a perfect portraiture; and Dr. Brown of Musselburgh. Dr. Moir wrote how admirably in keeping with tlie central verses from an early age, and in 1816 pub- autobiographer are the characters and scenes lished anonymously a volume called The Bom- which revolve around his needle!" hordment of Algiers, and other Poems, which In 1831 appeared Outlines of the Ancient was distributed almost Avholly amongst his History of Medicine. During the fearful visi- friends. From its commencement he was a tation of cholera which swept over Europe at contributor to Constable's Edinhiinjh Maga- this time, when many physicians abandoned it terror, zine, and during a long series of years wrote their duty in despair or fled from in for Blackwood's Magazine, subscribing his Moir was to be found daily and hourly at the graver pieces for the latter witli the Greek letter bedsides of the infected, endeavouring to alle- A (Delta). In 1821 he published his Legend viate the sufl'erings of the sick by the resources of Genevieve, icith other Tales and Poems, of his skill, or to comfort the dying with the Avhich comprised selections from his contribu- consolations of religion. In 1832 he issued a tions to the magazines and several new pieces. pamphlet entitled Practiced Observations on His next volume was an admirable imitation Malignant Cholera, which he followed by of the style of Gait, under the title Juto- Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera. hiography of Mansie Waugli, Tailor in Dal- In 1843 another volume of poems appeared, de- keith, ilost of this amusing book had pi-e- entitled Domestic Verses. In 1851 he viously appeared in Blackicood's Magazine, livered a course of six lectures at the Edin- Engraved by W Hotfe from a Photojrapli.

[D)/Sv DEL'

• " ! ——

DAVID MACBETH MOIE. 16^ burgli Philosophical Institution on the poeti- known of his poems, was written by Dr. Moir cal literature of the pa^*t half century, whicii on tlie death of his favourite child, Charles was afterwards publislied and met with a very Bell— familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy," large sale. In June of that year his health a self-conferred pet name— who died at the age became mucli impaired, and in July he pro- of four years. It is one of the most tender and ceeded to Dumfries for a change of air and touching effusions in the Engli.sh language. scene, but he died there suddenly, July 6, 1851. We cannot conclude this notice of the Chris- His remains were interred in his native place, tian poet and accomplished gentleman without where a beautiful monument has been erected quoting a few lines from an old volume of to his memory. Mat/a: "His, indeed, was a life far more de- After Dr. Moir's death a collected edition of voted to the service of others than to liis own his best poems was publislied in Edinburgh, personal aggrandizement—a life whose value under the editorial superintendence of Thomas can only be appreciated now, when he has been Aird, who prefixed to the work an interesting called to receive his reward in that better world, memoir of his friend. Lord Jeffrey in a letter the passport to which he sought so diligentlj' to Moir said of his Domestic Verses, a new in youth as in manhood, in happiness as in sor- edition of which appeared recently, "I cannot row—to obtain. Bright as the flowers may be resist the impulse of thanking you with all which are twined for the coronal of the poet, my heart for the deep gratification you have they have no glory when placed beside the wreath afforded me, and the soothing, and I hope which belongs to the departed Christian. We

bettering, emotions which you have excited. I have represented Delta as he was—as he must am sure that Avhat you have written is more remain ever in the affectionate memory of his genuine pathos than anything almost I have friends: and with this brief and unequal tribute

ever read in verse, and is so tender and true, to his surpassing worth we take farewell of the so sweet and natural, as to make all lower re- gentlest and kindest being, of the most true commendations indiflferent." JeflTrey has very and single-hearted man, whom we may ever correctly set forth the character of Moir's hope to meet with in the course of this earthly poetry. " Casa AVappy," perhaps the best pilgrimage.

CASA WAPPY.

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, So dear to us thou wert, thou art Our fond dear boy — Even less thine own self than a part The realms where sorrow dare not come, Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Where life is joy? Casa Wappy Pure at thy death as at thy birth. Tliy bright, brief day knew no decline Thy spirit caught no taint from earth, 'Twas cloudless joy; Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, and night alone were thine. Casa Wappy! Sunrise Beloved boy! Despair was in our last farewell, This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; As closed thine eye; That found thee prostrate in decay; Tears of our anguish may not tell And ere a third shone, clay was clay, When thou didst die; Casa Wappy: Words may not paint our grief for thee, Gem of our hearth, our household pride. Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Earth's undefiled, Of our unfathom'd agony, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died. Casa Wappy! Our dear, sweet ciiild! Thou wert a vision of delight Humbly we bow to Fate's decree: To bless us given; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Beauty embodied to our sight, Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, A type of heaven. Casa Wappy! — ————I ——— — —— ———

138 DAVID MACBETH MOIE.

busy Do what I maj', go where I will, The cuckoo, and "the lee," Thou meet'st my siglit; Return—but with them bring not thee, There dost thou glide before me still — Casa AYappy! A form of light! 'Tis so; but can it be— while flowers I feel thy breath upon my cheek I'evive again I see thee smile, I hear thee speak. ]\Ian's doom, in death that we and ours Till oh! my heart is like to break, For aye remain? Casa Wappy! Oh! can it be, that, o'er the grave, should yearly wave, ilethiuks thou smil'st before me now, The grass renewed AVith glance of stealth; Vet Cod forget our child to save? Casa AVappy! The hair thrown back from thy full brow In buoyant health: It cannot be; for were it so I see thine eyes' deep violet light Thus man could dife. Thy dimpled cheek carnationed bright Life were a mockerj'— thought were woe — Thy clasping arms so round and white And truth a lie; Casa "Wappy Heaven were a coinage of the brain I'eligion frenzy— virtue vain The nursery shows thy pictured wall. And all our hopes to meet again, Thy bat— tiiy bow— Casa Wappy! Thy cloak and bonnet— club and ball; But where art tliou ? Then be to us, dear, lost child! corner holds thine empty ciiair; A AVith beam of love, Thy playthings, idly scatterd there. A star, death's uncongenial wild But speak to us of our despair, Smiling above! Casa Wappy! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, Even to the last, thy every word That led thee back from man to God, To glad—to grieve Casa AA'appy! AVas sweet, as sweetest song of bird On summer's eve; Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, iindecayed. In outward beauty Fond, fairest boy. Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, That heaven is God's, and thou art there, didst fade, And, like the rainbow, thou AVith him in joy; Casa AVappy! There past are death and all its woes. There beauty's stream for ever flows. We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Tlie chamber fills; Casa AVappy! AVc pine for tiiee, when morn's first light Eeddens the hills; Farewell then—for a while, farewell The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, Pride of my heart! wild pea All — to the wallflower and It cannot be that long we dwell, Aro changed; we saw the world thro' thee, Thus torn, apart. Casa AVappy! Time's shadows like the shuttle flee: And, dark how'e'er life's night may be. And though, perchance, a smile may gleam Beyond the grave I'll meet with thee, Of casual mirth. Casa AVappy! It doth not own, wiiate'er may seem. An inward birth; AVe miss thy small step on the stair; AA'e miss thee at thine evening prayer; All day we miss thee—everywhere TIIE AVIXTER AVILD. Casa AVappy! How sudden hath the snow come down! Snows mufllcd earth wlien thou didst go. Last night the now moon show'd her horn, In life's spring bloom, And, o'er December's moorland brown, Down to the appointed house below Rain on the breeze's wing was borne; Tiie silent tomb. But, when I ope my shutters, lo! Dut now the green leaves of the tree, Old earth hath changed her garb again, — — —; — — ——————

DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 169

underneath the boughs And, with its fleecy whitening, snow Now skimming gliding lone— O'ermantles hill and cumbers plain. Amid the crowd now Where down the rink the curler throws, Briijht snow, pure snow, I love thee well, With dext'rous arm, his booming stone. Thou art a friend of ancient days; Whene'er mine eyes upon thee dwell, Eehold! upon the lapsing stream Long-buried thoughts 'tis thine to raise; The frost-work of the night appears— Far—to remotest infancy Beleaguer'd castles round which gleam My pensive mind thou hurriest hack, A thousand glittering crystal spears; When first, pure blossoms of the sky, Here galleys sail of shape grotes(iue; I watch'd to earth your mazy track There hills o'erspread with palmy trees; And, mixed with temples Arabesque And upward look'd, with wondering eyes. Bridges and pillar'd towers Chinese. To see the heavens with motion teem. bring to And buttei-flies, a thousand ways Ever doth winter me Down flaking in an endless stream Deep reminiscence of the past; and leafing tree— The roofs around all clothed with white, The opening flower cloud o'ercast And leafless trees with feathery claws, The sky without a and throw And horses black with drapery bright— Themselves of beauty speak, joy around. Oh, what a glorious sight it was! A gleam of present But, at each silent fall of snow, to boyhood's pulses bound Each season had its joys in store, Our hearts From out whose treasury boyhood chose; What though blue summer's reign was o'er, To boyhood turns reflection back. pleasure to behold '. mournful Had winter not its storms and snows With sunny track The giant then aloft was piled. Life's early morn, the mingled with the mould; And balls in mimic war were toss'd, Of feet, now those years ? And thumps dealt round in trickery wild, Where are the playmates of Hills rise and oceans roll between: As felt the passer to his cost. We call—but scarcely one appears— shall be what once hath been. The wintry day was as a spell No more Unto the spirit—'twas delight Yes! gazing o'er the bleak, green sea, To note its varying aspects well, peaks and desert plain, From dawn to noon, from noon to night, The snow-clad thought, methinks to me Pale morning on the hills afar Mirror'd in past comes back again: The low sun's ineffectual gleam The spectral retrospection's eyes, The twinkling of the evening star Once more in to second life restored, Reflected in the frozen stream: As 'twere The perish'd and the past arise, early lost, and long deplor'd! And when the silver moon shone forth The O'er lands and lakes, in white array'd, And dancing in the stormy North The red electric streamers play'd; tinkling trees, 'Twas ecstasy, 'neath HEIGH-HO! All low-born thoughts and cares exiled, To listen to the Polar breeze. young maiden sat on the grass- And look upon " the winter wild." A pretty ! Sing lieigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho by a blythe young shepherd did pass, Hollo! make way along the line: — And summer morning so early. Hark how the peasant scuds along— In the Said he, " My lass, will you go with me, His iron heels, in concord fine. cot to keep and my bride to be; Brattling afar their under-song: My Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And see, that urchin, ho-ieroe! will love you rarely." His truant legs they sink from under, And I And to the quaking sheet below, " no!" the maiden said- Down thwacks he, with a thud like thunder! 0! no, no, Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! bashfully turn'd aside her head. The skater then, with motion nice, And On that summer morning so early. In semicirque and graceful wheel, " mother is old, my mother is frail. Chalks out upon the dark clear ice My cottage it lies in yon green dale; His chart of voyage with his heel; Our —" — — ——

170 DAVID MACBETH MOIE.

I dare not list to any such tale, How rocks in every path are piled, For I love my kind mother rarely." AVhich few unharm'd can clamber o'er.

The shepherd took her lily-white hand- Sweet bud of beauty! how wilt thou Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! Endure the bitter tempest's .strife? And on her beauty did gazing stand, Shall thy blue eyes be dimm'd — thy brow On that summer morning so early. Indented by the cares of life? "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave, Alone in her frail old age to grieve; If years are destined thine, alas! But my home can hold us all, I believe It may be— ah! it must be so; Will that not please thee fairly? For all that live and breathe, the glass Which must be quaf}"d, is drugg'd with " no, no, no! I am all too young" (J, woe. Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! " I dare not list to a young man's tongue, Yet, could a father's prayers avail, On a summer morning so early." So calm thy skies of life should be. to gain her heart was bent; But the shepherd That thou should' st glide beneath the fail strove to go, but she never went; Oft she Of virtue, on a stormless sea: And at length she fondly blush'd consent— Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly. And ever on thy thoughts, my child. His sacred truth should be impres.s'd Grief clouds the soul to sin beguiled. Who liveth best, God loveth best. TO MY INFANT. DAUGHTER. Across thy path Religion's star There is no sound upon the night. Should ever shed its healing ray. As by the shaded lamp I trace, To lead thee from this world's vain jar. My babe, in smiling beauty bright. To scenes of peace, and purer day. The changes of thy sleeping face. Shun vice— the breath of her abode Hallow'd to us shall be the hour, Is poison'd, though with roses strewn! Yea, sacred tlirough all time to come, And cling to virtue; though the road Wliich gave us thee, —a living flower. Be thorny, boldly travel on! To bless and beautify our home! Yes: travel on— nor turn thee round. Thy presence is a charm, which wakes Though dark the way and deep the shade; A new creation to my sight; Till on that shore thy feet be found. Gives life anotlier liue, and makes Where bloom the palms that never fade. The wither'd green—the faded bright. For thee I ask not riches—thou Pure as a lily of the brook. AVert wealthy with a spotless name: Heaven's signet on thy foreliead lies; I ask not beauty — for thy brow And Heaven is read in every look; Is fair as fancy's wish could claim. My daughter, of thy soft blue eyes. Be thine a spirit loathing guilt. In sleep, thy little spirit seems To duty wed, from malice free: To some bright realm to wander back; Be like thy mother, — and thou wilt And seraphs, mingling with thy dreams. Be all my soul desires to see. Allure thee to their shining track.

Already, like a vernal flower, I see thee opening to the light, MARY DHU, And day by day, and hour by hour. divinely bright. Becoming more Sweet, sweet is the rose-bud Bathed in dew; Yet in my gladness stirs a sigh. But sweeter art thou, Even for the blessing of thy birth, My JIary dhu. Knowing how sins and sorrows try Oh! the skies of night. Mankind, and darken o'er the earth I With their eyes of light, Ah! little dost thou ween, my child, Are not so bright The dangers of the way before; As my Slary dhu. — : —

DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 171

Whenever thy radiant face I see, The clouds of sorrow depart from me; MOONLIGHT CHURCHYARD. As the shadows fly From day's bright eye. Round thee, pure moon, a ring of snowy clouds Thou lightest life's sky, Hover, like children round their mother dear My Mary dhu! In silence and in joy, for over near The footsteps of her love. Within their shrouds, Sad, sad is my heart, Lonely, the slumbering dead encompass nie! float, When I sigh. Adieu! Thy silver beams the mouldering Abbey about; Or gaze on thy parting. Black rails, memorial stones, are strew'd hollow tree. My ]\Iary dhu! And the leaves rustle on the out the undulating graves; Then for thee I mourn, Shadows mark tranquilly the departed lie!— Till thy steps' return Tranrpiilly, and mankind the waves Bids my bosom burn, Time is an ocean, That reach the dim shores of eternity; ]\[y Mary dhu. silence, 'mid the evening hills, Death strikes; and I think but of thee on the broom-clad rills; gloom, I muse but of thee by the moorland Sits spectre-like the guardian of the tomb! In the morning light. In the moonshine bright, Thou art still in my sight, My Mary dhu. RURAL SCENERY. Tliy voice trembles through me Like the breeze. Receded hills afar of softened blue. trees, through which the sun- That ruffles, in gladness, Tall bowering The leafy trees; beams shoot waveless lake, birds never mute. 'Tis a wafted tone Down to the around of every hue From heaven's high throne. And wild flowers all knee-deep stand. Making hearts thine own, Sure 'tis a lovely scene. There, the fierce sun, the o'ershadowed kine, My JNIary dhu. Safe from where cultured fields expand, Be the flowers of joy ever round thy feet, And to the left, of scented thorn, the sheep recline, AVith colours glowing and incense sweet; 'JMid tufts ever please; And when thou must away, Lone quiet farmsteads, haunts that inviting to the traveller's eye Jtlay life's rose decay how yonder uplands, 'mid your trees In the west wind's sway, Ye rise on

! Every sound from these My Mary dhu! Of shade and shelter Is eloquent of peace, in earth and sky. And pastoral beauty and Arcadian case.

THE SABBATH.

to us of heaven, THE SCHOOL BANK. If earth hath aught that speaks leafy dell, 'Tis when, within some lone and Upon this bank we met, my friend and I— Solemn and slow, we list the Sabbath bell years had intervening pass'd through the clear ether driven; A lapse of On music's wings seen him last; " 'twere Since I had heard his voice or Say not the sounds aloud, Oh man, The starting tear-drop trembled in his eye. well we thought upon the school-boy days nor walk in sins nnshnven! Silent Hither to come, ever flown; hear, Of mirth and happiness for Haste to this temple, tidings ye shall When rushing out the careless crowd did raise Ye who are sorrowful, and sick in soul. Their thoughtless voices—now, we were alone. Your doubts to chase—your downeastness to Alone amid the landscape—'twas the same; cYlQQY' were our loud companions? Some, alas! wounds, and make you whole; Where To bind affliction's among the church-yard grass. thongh, with Tynan dye Silent reposed Hither—come hither; and most unknown, tc as snow. And some were known, Guilt hath polluted you, yet, white this altar fame Cleansed by the streams that from And some were wanderers on the homeless deep; flow, , „ all were happy—we did weep. Maker s eye. And where they Home yo shall pass to meet your 172 ALEXANDEK SMAET.

ALEXANDER SMAET

Born 1 798— Died 1866.

Alexander Smart, tlie author of numerous sive of (and inspired by) those gentle affections,

excellent songs, was born at Montrose, April and just and elevated sentiments, which it is 26, 179S. A portion of his school education so delightful to find in the works of persons of Avas received from one Korvai, a teacher in the the middling class, on whose time the calls of Jlontrose Academy, and a model of tlie tyrant a necessary and often laborious industry must pedagogues of the past, whose mode of infusing press so heavily. I cannot tell you the pride knowledge was afterwards satirized by Smart and the pleasure I have in such indications, in hfs poem entitled " Ivecollections of Auld not of cultivated intellect only, but of moral Langsyne." He was apprenticed to a watch- delicacy and elegant taste, in the tradesmen maker in his native town, and on the completion and artisans of our country." A second and of Ills time of service removed to Edinburgh, enlarged edition was issued in 18-1.5. Smart where he followed the vocation of a compositor. is also the author of numerous excellent prose In 183i he issued a volume of- poems and sketches, some of which have appeared in songs, entitled Ramhllng E/njmes, from Avhich Hogij's Instructor. He died at Morningside, we make the subjoined selections. His vol- near Edinburgh, October 19, 1866, after a ume attracted considerable attention, and protracted mental illness, bringing to a close Francis Jeffrey—wrote to its author in the fol- a life of strenuous toil, generous thoughts, and lowing terms: "I had scarcely read any of noble aspirations. Many of Smart's sweetest your little book when I acknowledged thereceipt lyrics were the offspring of his happy domestic of it. I have now, however, gone tlirough relationships and his tender friendships. Seve- every word of it, and find I have more to thank ral of his short pieces, such as " Better than you for than I was then aware of. I do not Gold" and "The Empty Chair," breathe a allude so much to the very flattering sonnet spirit of true poetry. His Songs of Labour you have been pleased to inscribe with my contain many admirable compositions, and in name, as to the many passages of great poetical his Elnjines for Little Headers the fables of beauty, and to tlie still greater number expres- yEsop are admirably versified.

SPRING-TIME.

Tlie catild north wind has soiiglicd awa', Now springs the docken by the dyke, The snaw has left the hill. The nettle on the knowe; And briskly to the wastlin' breeze The puddock's croakin' in the pool. Reels round yon bonny mill; Where green the rushes grow; The cheery spring, in robes o" green, The primrose nods its yellow head. Comes laughin' ower the lea, The gowan sports its charms; While burnies by their flowery bankrs The Ijurrie thistle to the breeze Ivin singin' to the sea. Flings out its prickly arras.

Tiie Untie whids amang the whins, Now moudiewarts begin to ho« k Or whistles on the thorn; And bore the tender fallow; The bee comes liummiu' frae his byke, And deuks are paidlin' in the pool, And tunes his bugle-horn; AVhere skims the gapiu' swallow; The craik rins rispiu" through the corn, The clockin' hen,.wi' clamorous din. The hare scuds down the furrow; The midden scarts an' scrubs; The merry lav'rock frae the lift The guse brings a' her gaislius out. Pipes out his biythe gude-morrow. To daidle through the dubs. — — —

ALEXANDER SMART. 17:i

Xow bairns get aff tlieir hose an' shoon, To the whir o' the wheel while auld bandrons And riu' tlier'out a' barctit; would sing, But rantiu' through the bioomin' wliins, On stools, wee an' muckle, a' ranged in a ring. Ilk idle bit ui'chin, wha glowered aff his book. The rogues get niony a ?air fit. caught in a twinklin' by Madie's dread look. Ill fares it then, by busli or brake, Was ne'er spak' a word, but the taws she would If on th& nest they light, She fling! Of buntlin' wi' the tuneless beak, The sad leather whang up the cul;rit maun Or ill starred yellow-yitc. bring, While bis sair bluthered face, as the palniies The gowk's heard in the leafy wood, would fa'. lambs frisk o'er the field; The Proclaimed through the schule an example to a'. The wee bird gathers taits o' woo. busk its cozy bield; To But though Madie cculd punish, .she wcel could The corbie croaks upon the tree. reward, His auld paternal tower; The gude and the eydant aye won her regard While the sentimental cushie doo A Saturday penny she freely would gi'e, Croods in her greenwood bower. And the second best scholar got aye a bawbee. It .sweetened the joys o' that dear afternoon. The kye gae lowin' o'er the loan, When free as the breeze in the blossoms o' June, As cheery daylight fades; And bly the as the lav'rock that sang ower the lea. Were the happy wee laddies frac bondage set free. And bats come flaffin' through tlie fauld, And birds gae to tlieir beds; Then jinkin' out by bent an' brae, And then when she washed we were sure o' the When they are seen by no man, play, washin' The lads and lasses blithely meet, And Wednesday aj-e brought the gi-and And cuddle in the gloamin'. day, W^hen Madie relaxed frae her sternness a wee. And announced the event wi' a smile in her e'e; The cauld nortli wind has soughed awa', The tidings were hailed wi' a thrill o' delight— has left the hill, Tlie snaw E'en dro.wsyauld baudrons rejoiced at the sight, breeze And briskly to the Avastlin" While Madie, dread Madie! would laugh in her Eeels round j'on bonny mill; chair. The cheery spring, in robes o' green. As in order we tript down the lang timmer stair. Comes laugh in' ower the lea. tlieir flowery banks While burnies by But the schule is now skailt, and will ne'er again l»ia siniiin' to tlie sea. meet Nae mair on the timmer stair sound our wee feet; The taws and the penny are vanished for aye, And gane is the charm o' the dear washin' day. Her subjects are scattered—some lang dead and MADIE'S SCHULE. gane But dear to remembrance wi' them wha remain, Are the days when they sat on a wee creepy stool. When weary wi' toil, or when cankered wi' care, An' conned ower their lesson in auld Madie's Remembrance takes wing like a bird o' the air, schule. And free as a thought that ye canna confine, It flees to the pleasures o' bonnie langsyne. In fancy I bound o'er the green sunny braes, And di-ink up the bliss o' the lang summer days, Or sit sae demure on a wee creepy stool, on, LE.WE ME KOT. And con ower my lesson in auld Jladie's schule.

Oh, leave me not! the evening hour, Up four timmer stairs, in a gaiTet fu' clean, So soft, so still, is all our own; In awful authority Madie was seen; The dew descends on tree and flower, Her close-lug-git mutch towered aloft in its pride, They breathe their sweets for thee alone. Her lang winsey apron flowed down by her side. Oh. go not yet! the evening star, The taws on her lap like some dreaded snake lay. all bid thee stay; Aye watchin' an' ready to spring on its prey; The ri.sing moon, The wheel at her foot, an' the cat on her knee, And dying eciioes, faint and far, Nae queen on her throne mair majestic than she! Invite our lingering steps to stray. —— — —

174 JOANNA B. PICKEN.

Far from the city's noisy din, Let fortune fling her favours free Beneath the pale moon's trembling light, To whom she will, I'll ne'er repine; That lip to press, those smiles to win. Oh, what is all the world to me Will lend a rapture to the night. While thus I clasp and call thee mine!

JOANNA B. PICKEN.

BoRX 1798 — Died 1859.

Joanna Belfrage Picken, authoress of city of Montreal, and during her residence several admired Scottish songs and vers de there contributed under the signature of society, was born at Edinburgh, May 8, 1798. "Alpha" to the Llterarn Garland and Tran-

She was a daughter of the "Poet of Paisley," script. She maintained herself principally by- as Ebenezer Picken was familiarly called, and teaching music, in which art she was a thorough Robina, sister of the Eev. Dr. Henry Belfrage, proficient. Miss Picken died at Montreal, the Christian author and philanthropist. Her March 21, 1859. Her poems were never col- earliest poems were contributed to iheGlasgoio lected for publication in a volume, and the Courier and Free Press in 1828. Miss Picken manuscript of some forty-five pieces is now in emigrated to Canada in 1842, settling in the the possession of her brother H. B. Picken.

AN AULD FPJEXD WF A NEW FACE.

A queer kind o' lott'ry is marriage An' the Pa is as cross as twa sticks. Ye never ken what ye may draw, A' the week she is makin' their parritcli. Ye may get a braw hoose an' a carriage. An' turnin' auld frocks into new; Or maybe get nae hoose ava. An' on Sunday she learns them their carritch, I say na 'tis best to be single. Puir wife! there's nae rest-day for you. But ae thing's to me unco clear: Warkin' an' fechtin' awa, Far better sit lane by the ingle Saturday, Sunday, an' a';

Than thole what some wives hae to bear. In troth she is no that ill afF It's braw to be dancin' and gaffin' That never gets married ava. As lang as nae trouble befa' But hech! she is sune ower wi' daffin' In nae time the cauld an' the wheesles Get into your family sae That's woo'd, an' married, an' a'. sma'. An' the chincough, the croup, or the measles She maun labour frae sunrise till dark, Is sure to tak' aflf ane or twa. An' aft tho' her means be but sma'. An' wi' them gang the puir mither's joys, She gets little thanks for her wark Nae comfort seems left her ava Or as aften gets nae thanks ava. As she pits by the claes an' the toys She maun tak just whatever may come, That belanged to the wee things awa'. An' say nocht o' her fear or her hope; Doctors an' drugs an' a',

There's nae use o' lievin' in Pome, Bills an' buryin's an' a', An' tryin' to fecht wi' the Pope. Oh surely her heart may be lichtcr Hectored an' lectured an' a, That never was married ava. Snubbed for Avhate'er may befa', Than this, she is far better afF The married maun aft bear man's scornin', That never gets married ava'. An' humour his capers an' fykes; But the single can rise in the mornin', Oh, then come the bairns without number, An' gang to her bed when .she likes; An' there's naething but kisses an' licks An' when ye're in sickness and trouble. Adieu then to sleep an' to slumber. Just tell me at wha's door ye ca'; — — ——;

EESKINE CONOLLY. 175

It's no whar ten bairns mak' a bubble, For my heart beats quick But at hers that has nae bairns ava. As thy tic, tic, tic, Usefu', an' peacefu', an' cantie, Eesounds from the old green shelf.

Quiet, an' canny, an' a'.

It's glide to ha'e sister or auntie AVhcn I cease to weep. That never was married ava. When I strive to sleep, Tiiou art there with thy tiny voice; A wife maun be humble an' hamely, And thoughts of the past Aye ready to rise, or to rin; Come rushing fast, An' oh! when she's brocht up a family, E'en with that still, small voice. It's then her warst sorrows begin; For the son, he maun e'en ha'e a wife; 'Tis said thou hast power. An' the dochter a hoose o' her ain; At the midnight hour. An' then, thro' tlie battle o' life, Of death and of doom to tell They ne'er may forgather again. Of rest in the grave. Cantie, an' quiet, an' a', That the world ne'er gave, Altho' her bit niailin be sma', And I love on this theme to dwell. In truth she is no that ill aft' That never gets married ava. Dost thou call me home? It's far better still to keep single Oh! I come, I come; Than sit wi' yer face at the wa', For never did lone heart pine An' greet ower the sons and the dochters For a quiet berth Ye've buried and married aAva'. In its mother earth, I fain wad deny, but I canna, With a deeper throb than mine. Altho' to confess it I grieve, Folks seldom care muekle for grannie, Then tic, tic, tic Unless she has something to leave. Let thy work be quick; It's nae that I seek to prevent ye, I ask for no lengthen'd day be rhyme thrown awa'; For that wad 'Tis enough, kind one. But, lassies, I pray, just content ye, If thy work be done ve're ne'er married ava. Altho' In the merry month of May.

For birds in the bowers, THE DEATH-WATCH. And the blooming flowers, Then gladden the teeming earth;

Tie, tic, tic! And methinks that I I've a qiiarrel to pick Would like to die AYith thee, thou little elf— In the month that gave me birth.

EESKINE CONOLLY.

Born 1798 — Died 1843.

Erskine Coxolly, author of the popular the small town of Colinsburgh, but after a few Edinburgh. song of "Mary Macneil," was born at Crail, years gave it up and went to voca- Fifeshire, June 12, 1798. He was educated Here he became a messenger-at-arms— a inferred, of all at the burgh-school of his native place, and tion, it would naturally be afterwards apprenticed to a bookseller in An- others unsuited for a poet; but in "Auld messenger's busi- struther — the birthplace of Chalmers, Ten- Eeekie" a great part of the formal writs, nant, and Charles Gray. He then started ness consists in serving merely scenes of real business on his own account as a bookseller in and he is rarely a witness to — ; ;

17G ERSKINE CONOLLY.

distress. Cono'.ly's manner was exceedingly had considerable versatility; he could be witty, gentle and refined — his disposition amiable quizzical, dignified, or sentimental, as the and affectionate. He never married, and his humour prompted. In his piece "The Greetin' friends surmised that some mystery in this Bairn" there is much weird power, and several respect overshadowed his life. He was a of liis songs and poems are highly finished. favourite in society, and had a Avide circle of He was fastidious in polishing his verses, and friends, among whom may be mentioned the had a happy faculty of imitating some of the poets Gilfillan, Gray, Tedder, and Latto, to early bards, especially "Peter Pindar" and the last-mentioned of whom the Editor is chiefly the author of "Anster Fair." Conolly's poems indebted for the information contained in this were never collected or published. He died brief notice. ConoUy did not write much, but at Edinburgh, January 7, 1S43.

On my lintel the red thread and rowan-tree is THE GREETIN' BAIRN. rife. And ye daunia lodge wi' me !'' Why hies yonder wicht wi' sic tremblin' speed

Whar the saughs and tlie fir-trees grow ? Sair, sair she prigget, but prigget in vain, And why stands he wi' sic looks o' dreid For the auld carle drove her awa' Whar the waters wimplin flow ? And loud on the nicht breeze she vented her mane. eerie the tale is that I could impart, As she sank wi' her bau-n, ne'er to waken again, How at Yule's black and dreary return Whar the burn ran dark through the snaw. Cauld curdles the bluid at the bauldest heart, As it crosses the Dennan Burn! And aften sin' .syne has her ghaist been seen Whar the burn winds down by the fern 'Twas Yule's time, dread when the spirits hae And aft has the traveller been frighted at e'en power By the screams o' the greetin' bairn. Through the dark yetts o' death to return ; 'Twas Yule's dread time, and the midnieht hour When the witches astride on the whirlwinds ride On theii- way to the Dennan Burn! MARY MACNEIL. The ill-bodin' howlet screight eerily by, And loudly the tempest was ravin', The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', When shrill on the blast cam' the weary Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fare- woman's cry, weel; And the screams o' the greetin' bairn! An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil. "0, open the door, for I've tint my gate, A' glowin' wi' gladness she leaned on her lover, And the frost winds snelly blaw! Her een tellin' secrets she thought to conceal; save my wee bairn frae a timeless fate, And fondly they wander'd whar nane might dis- Or its grave is the driftin' snaw!" cover The tryst o' yoimg Ronald an' Mary Macneil, "Now get on your gate, j-e fell weird wife—

Ower my hallan ye sail na steer; Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily, Though ye sicker can sweep thro' the tempest's That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal; strife, Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley On my lintel-stane is the rowan-tree rife, Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. And ye daurna enter here!" She moved, and the gi-aces playecl sportive aromid her; "0 nippin' and cauld is the wintry blast. She .smil'd, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad And sadly I'm weary and worn; thrill; save my wee bairn—its blood's freezin' fast. She sang, and the mavis cam' listenin' in wonder. And we'll baith live to bless ye the morn!" To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.

"Now get on your gate, ye unco wife; But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Nae scoug to sic gentry I'll gi'e; Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; M ! — a!

EOBERT GILFILLAN. 17'

An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in, For the woes, or in ire for the errors of youth f Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can To speak of thy parent's companionship past, heal. Or proclaim that thy master will follow thee The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hicin'; fast? The autumn, his corse on the red battletiel'; ark-dove, commissioned to say The winter the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; Comest thou like waters of life are fast ebbing away, An' spring spread the green turf owor Mary That the tempest-toss'd bark be at Macneil. And soon shall my rest ? Or, avenger of talent-buds recklessly slain. Art thou sent like the mark to the forehead of TO MY FIRST GRAY HAIR. Cain ? Thou art silent, but deeply my heart is fmpress'd Herald of old age, or offspring of care, \Yith all thy appearance should stimulate How shall I greet thee ? my first gray hair there it lessons, first gray hair Comest thou a soother, or censor i in ruth May cherish thy my

EOBEET GILFILLAN

Born 179S — Died 1850.

for compos- Robert Gilfill.vx was born, July 7, 1798, While thus engaged he found time A-olume of Ori'ji- at Dunfermline, in tlie county of Fife. His ing, and in 1831 published a parents were in humble circumstances, but nal Soiiijs, Avhich was favourably received. were much respected in their neighbourhood. Encouraged by his succe.ss, Gilfillan i.ssued in Robert, their second son, received the rudi- 1835 another edition, containing fifty addi- ments of his education at a Dunfermline school, tional songs. Soon after the publication of entertained at a public and at tiie age of thirteen his parents removed this volume lie was splendid silver to Leith, where he was bound apprentice to dinner in Edinburgh, when a he was the trade of a cooper. To this handicraft, cup was presented to him. In 1837 however, he seems never to have taken kindly; appointed collector of police-rates at Leith— which lie retained yet he faithfully served his employers the usual highly respectable position, he published a ihird -period of seven years, giving liis earnings from until his death. In 1839 his original volume, week to week to his mother, and enlivening and still larger edition of being added to the his leisure hours by reading every book lie sixty new songs and poems died of apoplexy at could borrow, composing verses, and playing collection. Mr. Gilfillan Leith, Dec. 1850, aged on a one-keyed flute, which he purchased with Hermitage Place, 4, was erected a small sum of money found by him in the fifty -two. A handsome monument admirers over his grave streets of Leith. It was at this time, and ever by a few friends and Leith, where also afterward, his practice to read to his mother in the churchyard of South remains of John Home, the eminent and sister (he never married) his songs as he rest the wrote them; and he was entirely guided by dramatic poet. death a fourth edition of their judgment regarding them. This was an The year after his Edinburgh, improvement on Moli^re and his housekeeper. his poetical works was published in memoir of the gentle poet, At the end of his apprenticeship he became with an interesting frequently referred to in the Xoctes an assistant to a grocer in his native town, who is Ettrick Shepherd as the with whom he remained for three years. He Ambrosiauce by the Leith." His biographer subsequently returned to Leith, and from his "fine chiel doun at fills a place in Scottish poetry twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year acted says— "He difterent and distinct from any of as clerk for an extensive wine-merchant. altogether YoL. II.—