A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and
power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at
Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had
witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With
only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on
his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a
house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since
prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius,
he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has
sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a
small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches
of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord
Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss
Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an
originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is
the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and
stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has
given to a poor invalid?"
Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at
present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled,
"Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical
epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.
The days, when write wad minstrel men
To ane anither thus, are gone,
And days ha'e come upon us when
Bards praise nae anthems but their own:
But I will love the fashion old
While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,
And joy when I my tale have told
Anent the Bard of Alloa.
Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.
Far mair through nature's power than art's,
Pouring them frae thine ain, that they
Might reach and gladden other hearts;
Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,
And say't alike in cot and ha'--
Sublime thro' pure simplicity
Is he--the Bard of Alloa.
Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,
And make to mankind their appeal;
'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,
While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:
The swains shall sing them on the hill,
The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,
And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,
The gifted Bard of Alloa.
E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,
And clouted hose, and pinafores,
Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon
As they can staucher 'boot the doors:
Sae shall they sing anent themsells
To nature true, as its ain law;
For minstrel nane on earth excels
In this the Bard of Alloa.
Fresh as the moorland's early dews,
And glowing as the woodland rose,
Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,
As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--
With me, my native land, rejoice,
And let the bard thy bosom thaw,
As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice
Of him wha sings frae Alloa.
Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,
And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,
I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'
Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;
'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--
But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'
When death has come, and flowers shall bloom
Aboon the Bard of Alloa?
Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,
And glory shall your brows adorn,
And else than this, by none or few,
The poet's wreath will long be worn.
Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings
O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--
Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,
Your strains like him of Alloa.
Possess maun he a poet's heart,
And he maun ha'e a poet's mind
Wha deftly plays the generous part
That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.
Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers
Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'
Into a sordid sink--like yours--
But bless the Bard of Alloa.
Ah! little ye may trow or ken
The mony cares, and waes, and toils,
'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men
Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;
It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,
When she begins her face to thraw,
That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune
As his that sounds frae Alloa.
And as for me, ere this I'd lain
Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,
Had it not made the joys my ain
When a' life's other joys were gane.
If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,
Unknown, my early joys I sung,
When cares and woes wad life belay,
How could my harp away be flung?
The dearest power in life below,
Is life's ain native power of song,
As he alone can truly know,
To whom it truly may belong.
Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,
And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,
And lighted up the rays o' hope,
Ay, and it up shall light them still.
Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,
Ambition win the wreath o' fame,
Wealth gies reputed wit and power,
And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.
But be my meed the generous heart,
For nought can charm this heart o' mine,
Like those who own the undying art
That gies a claim to Ossian's line.
Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale
Be every heart belonging thee,--
The day whan fortune gies ye kale
Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.
Ilk son o' song is dear to me;
And though thy face I never saw,
I'll honour till the day I dee
The gifted Bard o' Alloa.