An' lasses milking thrang,
A neebour laird cam ben the byre,
The busy maids amang.
He stood ahint the routin' kye
An' round him glowered a wee,
Then stole to whar young Peggy sat,
The milkpail at her knee.
"Sweet Peggy, lass," thus spoke the laird,
"Wilt listen to my tale?"
"Stan' out the gate, laird," Peggy cried,
"Or you will coup the pail:
"Mind, Hawkie here's a timorous beast,
An' no acquent wi you."
"Ne'er fash," quo' he, "the milking time's
The sweetest time to woo.
"Ye ken, I've aften tauld ye that
I've thretty kye and mair,
"An' ye'd be better owning them
Than sittin' milkin' there.
"My house is bein, and stocket weel
In hadden and in ha',
"An' ye've but just to sae the word
Tae leddy be o' a'."
"Wheesht, laird," quo Peggy, "dinna mak'
Yersel a fule an' me,
"I thank ye, for yer offer kind,
But sae it canna be.
"Maybe yer weel stocked house and farm,
An' thretty lowing kine,
"May win some ither lassie's heart,
They hae nae charms for mine;
"For in the kirk I hae been cried,
My troth is pledged and sworn,
"An' tae the man I like mysel',
I'll married be the morn'."
The laird, dumfoundered at her words,
Had nae mair will to try'r;
But turned, and gaed far faster out,
Than he'd come in the byre.
STANZAS
ON A BUST OF MARSHAL NEY,
_Presented by the Prince De Moskwa to Donald Sinclair,
Esq. Edinburgh._
THERE stands the hero, "bravest of the brave,"
A name well earned, that he to whom alone
NEY, second, scarce to him, in glory shone,
After a hard fought day in honour gave:
And ever shall his laurels greenly wave,--
Still flourishing with time, for time can ne'er
Blight his deserved renown not even _there_,--
Over his bloody and untimely grave.
Where flew the Eagle in its wide domain,
There was he ever foremost in the fight,
Leading his band of heroes, strong in might,
To conquest still,--In Switzerland and Spain,
And where the Rhine, majestic to the main,
Through many fertile lands, doth proudly flow,
His prowess won applause, even from the foe,
Midst blood and carnage on each battle plain.
High rose his genius with the tide of war,
His country's annals of his valour tell,
Impetuous as the torrent, when the swell
Of waters fierce pours onward from afar,
And sweeps before it every stop and bar:
Where'er his sword flashed, with its sunlike ray,
There victory followed closely on the way,
And danger's track was marked by many a scar.
Rednitz and Neuwied well his courage knew,
When yet his early deeds foretold the fame
That soon would throw a halo round his name;
Manheim and Hohenlinden felt it too,
And Elchingen and Jena found him true,
Eylau and Friedland, names of high renown,
Moscow and its retreat, his glory crown,
Which paled not even at bloody Waterloo!
Immortal warrior, could France reward
Thy mighty deeds but with a traitor's death?
The shame is hers, not thine; thy latest breath
Was for thy country, and as one prepared
Thou met'st thy fate, as soldier should on guard:
And still shall time, with every rolling year
The more thy memory to France endear,
And mourned thy fate shall be by patriot and bard.
Thy death has left a blot upon the fame
Of Wellington and England, ne'er to be
Removed or justified,--alas! that he,
Who with a word thy safety could proclaim,
With callous heart refused to speak the same.
The deed, like that which stained, with blackest ray,
Great Nelson's honour in Palermo's bay,
Our history records "with sorrow and with shame." (10)
WINTER.
_Written at Two-Waters, Herts, 11th January 1840,
for a Lady's Album._
COME! we will wander to the lone hill-side,
And, awe-struck, view the winter in its pride;--
Crispy the grass and scant;
The little flowers have vanished, not a trace
Is left of blossom on pale Nature's face:--
Restraint lies mighty on the stream--it sings
No more--dead, dead now,--like all other things;
The trees, as spectres gaunt,
Or churchyard monuments, all scattered stand,
As if they mourned the bareness of the land,--
Meagre as pallid want.
Where be the fairies now, the little fays,
That dance in buttercups in summer days,
Though only Poets view
Their gambols in the flowers and in the rays
Of noonday, which the common sight gainsays,
To Fancy ever new!
The grasshopper is gone. Ah, me! can death
Have will to stop _its_ modicum of breath?
Swift fly the clouds, why should they fly so swift?
Come they like Angel-spirits, with a gift
Of mercy to mankind?
In this drear time, the heart asks where are they
That tell of sunshine being on the way?
The harbingers of light and genial heat,
That make the meadows and the valleys sweet
When softly sighs the wind:
Make rich the upland grass to mountain goat,
When balm and beauty through the ether float,
Like gossamer reclined.
Oh! for a cheerful note from blackbird--gone,
All gone, the songster and his song are flown;
There's nought to cheer the ear.
Oh! now to list the mavis in the wood,--
The psalms of Nature's singers, always good,
Bring solace to the year.
Oh! for one glimpse of sunshine, to remind
The Earth of summer, ever bland and kind.
HUMAN CONDUCT.
WHY is it that the heart of man
So full is of vagary,
That when he's told what's right, he jerks
The rein, and does contrary.
Like skittish horse, or stubborn pig,
Or other self-willed creature,
That in the public highways shows
Its vile and perverse nature.
There's many a lesson taught to man,
But little does he mind them,
Many's the warning given to him,--
He throws them all behind him.
But let me a short tale relate
Instead of moralising,
You'll prize it more, I dare to say,
Than any such premising.
The sun was shining on the hills,
The countryside looked sweeter,
And brighter and more beautiful
Than I can tell in metre.
It was the spring-time of the year,
That pleasant balmy season,
When freshness passes o'er the earth,
And come the buds the trees on.
When Nature young looks, and is young,
But though she dresses gaily,
The time grows old, for Time, like man,
Grows older daily, daily!
Ah me! that men should be so weak
As not to read the lesson,--
Ripe fruits are offered them, but they
The garbage love to mess on.
One day along a country road
With hedge and hawthorn bristling,
A country lad was passing, and
In merry mood was whistling.
Stout was he and his joints well knit,
And firm as time-tried timber,
But light withal and agile too,
No sapling yet was limber.
Anon a horseman came that way
Who sat on horseback rarely,
This the horse knew as well as he,
And so had bolted fairly.
The young man eyed him as he came
And was by no means idle,
For as he passed he leapt in front,
And caught him by the bridle.
The horse reared back, and with the shock
His rider fell right over
Among the mud, and well for him
The place was soft as clover.
Brought to his feet, without a hurt,
But all o'er very muddy,
He thanked the lad, well-pleased to find
He sound was and unbloody.
He was a thin spare man, and past
Mid-life, and looking sickly;
Not that his health was touched at all,
Or that his limbs were weakly;
But he had been for many years
In towns a constant dweller,
Confined to business close, and this
On health is oft a teller.
He had an eye for bales and goods,
And turnings of the market;
But for the country's picturesque,
His shadow rare did dark it.
He rode out had to breathe the air,
And give his nerves a bracing,
His steed unruly had become,
His horsemanship disgracing.
The countryman pulled up some grass,
No readier thing appearing,
And rubbed him down in ostler style,
The mud from off him clearing.
And then for having saved his life,--
To cut my tale the shorter,--
He offered him, as a reward,
To take him as his porter;
And if he showed capacity,
To give him education,
To make him fit in course of time,
To fill a higher station.
The youth agreed to't, for he thought,
(While handing back the bridle)
He'd like the change, besides just then
He happened to be idle.
In Glasgow busy city now,
Behold this country clown bred,
First porter and then junior clerk,
And learning to be town bred.
Years passed, the sun shines once a day,
But days make years, and every
Sun that rises counts one, thus time
Flows on, as water rivery.
Through all gradations of the desk
The youth, still true and steady,
Had risen till, from senior clerk,
He partner was already.
The merchant now, as commerce had
To counting-house long held him,
Resolved to take his ease at last,
And came to business seldom:
The junior partner and head-clerk
Care of the cash-box keeping,
While he himself had chosen to be
What's called the partner sleeping.
The countryman, no longer young,
Had toiled both late and early,
And gained some wealth, and 'twas his boast
That he had won it fairly.
But with it he had learnt betimes
And aye the more the faster,
Some of the city's ways that were
Not pleasing to his master.
He ne'er had married, and was fond
Of being hospitable;
For 'twas his pride always to have
His friends around his table:
And so extravagant became,
To feasting much addicted,
And rich wines drinking, which of course
His income much restricted.
One night his master was in town
And heard he had a party,
An old man now, not wanting sense,
But humorous and hearty;
Yet this he to himself oft thought,
He thought that 'twas a pity,
His clerk should spend his money in
Thus feasting all the city.
And so resolved to call on him
And bring him to his senses,
Not by a lecture commonplace
Of prudence and expenses:
But by a something which he had,
A sort of old memento,
That in his judgment was well worth
Of lectures grave a cento.
It was a frosty night, and there
Had been a fall of snow on,
The slippery streets required great skill
And caution them to go on.
With but one fall, he reached the house,
The entrance well he knew there,
Sudden and unexpected burst
Amidst the jovial crew there.
The gas burnt clear, the host looked blue,
And not the lights, as use is
When one particular guest appears
That no one introduces.
He said, "Lies the skeleton frost
On one street and another,
"I tripped and fell, and where I lay
One skeleton hugged his brother.
"His breath is on each pane congealed,
Cold enters through each portal,
"How my teeth chatter with the cold,
A sign that we are mortal.
"What's this, a banquet spread and rich,
The wines all bright and glowing,
"No thought of this when you I met
Along the road-side going."
He then produced a bundle which
He opened with derision,
And singly held up the contents
To their astonished vision.
There was the wellworn hairy cap,
The corderoys to back it,
His host had owned, and there too was
His former fustian jacket.
These were the clothes the country lad
Had on at their first meeting,
And these he now brought forth to be
To him his present greeting;
That he might pause in his career
Of jollity and revel,
Lest in his age, reduced he should
Be to his former level.
'Tis strange that human conduct oft
So reckless is and hollow,
That when the right path reason shows,
It seeks the wrong to follow.
The master having said and done,
Quick vanished from them after:
The host attempted at the time
To turn it off with laughter.
Next morn reflection made him take
The hint,--and to be brief then,--
Though roughly put, 'twas kindly meant,--
He turned o'er a new leaf then.
MORAL.
To be of any use, reproof
Still strong should be and home put,
A lecture grave or saying wise
The mind is quickly from put;
Instead of gen'ral moral saws,
Facts personal lay stress on,
And like a surgeon probing deep,
Reform is in the lesson.
COURTSHIP LINES.
OH! let not sorrow cloud thine eye,
Or doubt oppress thy heart,
For love, like truth, can never lie,
Nor truth, like love, depart.
To be mine own, I've chosen thee,
From all the world deems fair;
And I've vowed thine own to be,
Then wherefore cherish care?
Thou canst not think a love like mine,
Could e'er to thee cause pain;
Or make thy gentle heart repine
That it has loved in vain:
Thee still mine eyes desire to see,
Like sunlight from above;
For all my heart is full of thee,
And all my heart is love.
1833.
LOVE-WEAKNESS.
I canna' get my mouth about it,
It lies so deeply on my heart,
That aye when trying to divulge it,
My thoughts fly somehow all apart.
Were I to learn the best confession
That e'er by pen of man was writ,
To try to speak it in her presence
I should not have the power or wit.
As in the rose's opening petals
Devotion pure is ever spread,
So in the flushings of my countenance
She my heart's feelings must have read.
Oh! gladly anywhere I'd venture,
Dare anything to prove it true;
But to disclose my ardent passion
Is just the thing I canna' do.
I canna' get my mouth about it,
It lies so deeply on my heart,
That aye when trying to divulge it,
My thoughts fly somehow all apart.
LINES
TO THE REV. HENRY DUDLEY RYDER,
_On reading his volume, entitled "The Angelicon, a Gallery
of Sonnets, on the Divine Attributes, and the Passions, the
Graces, and the Virtues."_
THY strains, sweet poet, have the power
To give a solace to the mind,
What time the clouds of sadness lour,--
Like sighs of thine own "lyrëd wind."
For when thy page I deeply trace,
Where thoughts and fancies thickly throng,
It brings to mind free nature's grace,
Where wood-birds tune their mystic song;
And pleasant streams in ways remote,
Where sweetest music loves to reign;
Where solitude gives birth to thought,
And thought is born of thought again;
Visions of earth, the pure and bright,
As poet only hath divined,
When high-toned genius pours her light,
Upon the rapt and feeling mind.
Well hast thou sung the grace and love
Th' Almighty deigns bestow on man,
When seeking mercy from above
By His own sole appointed plan.
And well, too, hast thou shown the sway
The passions have o'er mortal kind,
Avarice, Ambition, Jealousy,
And other turmoils of the mind.
These, like the rays that burst from heaven,
Shine brightly forth in verse of thine,
For the proud gift to thee is given,
To charm, to waken, to refine.
Go on thy way, thy song must claim,
From a dull world its ardent praise;
With saintly Herbert's twine thy name,
And bind with Herbert's verse thy lays.
THE POET.
I WAS told yesterday by one with wise
Solemn aspect, and wrinkles 'bout his eyes,
That poetry is an idle trade, alack!
He had a good black coat upon his back,
And deemed himself respectable,--he said, too,
That he who verses writes will never do
Well in the world, that his character is gone,
And he himself no better than a drone.
So having said he walked away well pleased;--
Now that's a man, I say, whose mind's diseased.
Has he in summer ever watched a rose
Burst into blossoming, and as it grows
More and more beautiful, sweeten all the air
With its rich perfume,--poetry was there.
A sunbeam thrown across
The clouds, that makes them glow
With light ineffable
To eyes from earth below;
A small wave of the sea
When the vast ocean waits
The coming of the storm,
That slightly agitates
Its surface passing,--as
When of danger near
First made aware, the roused
Lion, though not in fear
Looks up, the watchfire then
Kindling in his eye,
His mane scarcely as yet
Moved, nor erected high
His head, but his proud glance
Circling keen, rapid, stern,--
There poetry is seen
By one that can discern.
A priest of Nature's own,
One she herself ordains,
The poet walks in brightness,
And still new blessings gains.
The sky above hath in it
More beauty to his sight,
Than to the world it shines
In its canopy of light.
The flowers his kindred are
That grow in fields remote;
They waken in his heart
The pure wellsprings of thought:
They speak to him alone
With low and whispering voice,
Like gentle maiden to
The lover of her choice.
And none but he can tell
What is it that they say,
For a most sweet communion
Is their's to cheer his way.
The ocean in its vastness,
He loves, too, as he sees
It driven by the tempest,
Or slumbering in the breeze.
It brings into his vision
The coming of that day,
When Time within Eternity
Shall merge itself away.
The forest trees antique
Are his familiar friends,
With the spirit of the woods
His own for ever blends:
And voices of the past,
With fancies of old times,
Do their murmurings recall
Which he fondly puts in rhymes.
Echoes of distant lands
Beyond the western sea,
Or in the burning east,
Where'er they chance to be,
Are brought to him at night
And cheer his spirit then,
When sleep forsakes the eyes
Of care-worn worldly men.
And ever for his kind
Doth his spirit warmly yearn,
And his verses speak of things
Which only he can learn.
The human heart, and all
Its feelings, hopes and fears,
All that it fondly loves,
All that it blindly fears,
Its sympathies, affections,
Its duties and desires,
All that its doubts foreshadow,
All that its pride inspires,
Its sorrows and its faintings,
Its buoyancy and glee,
Its passions and its promptings,
Its truth and constancy;
He knows, and can depicture,
For of the human mind
He is the chosen minister,
The prophet of his kind.
Such, yea and more, the poet is,
Had he had a choice
Of destinies, if in his fate
Had been heard his voice;
It might have been so that he had
Been a worldling born,
And looked solemn like his scorners,
And had gravely worn
A black coat too, of fashion's cut,
And smoothed trim his beard,
And shook his head wisely, and been
Sententious, and feared
The world's opinion, and condemned
Poetry as idle,
But in his vocation he can
Ne'er his feelings bridle.
His thoughts are in a stronger hand
Than his own, his mind
Has thinks passing in it still, that
Cannot be confined:
Like the birds flying as they list
Through the summer air,
Or the clouds driven by the breeze
Floating everywhere.
LIGHT AND SHADOW.
SHINE down, fair sun, on vale and hill,
And light each height and hollow;--
No shade rests in the air, but still
On earth the shadows follow.
Grow green, old trees, where'er you may
Your festival be keeping;--
On branch and stem, on leaf and spray,
Decay is slowly creeping.
Bloom bright, fair flowers, in wild or mead,
Around you all perfuming;--
The blight that mingles with each seed,
The blossom is consuming.
Grow well, sweet fruit, on garden walls,
Or in hot-houses hasting;--
The sooner ripe, the sooner falls
Corruption with its wasting.
Flow on, calm river, still flow on
With ever constant motion;--
Soon shalt thou mingle, all unknown,
Forgotten in the Ocean.
Play up, sweet music, to the ear,
A merry note of gladness;--
The chords that lively stricken cheer,
Give also tones of sadness.
Shine bright, young Summer, o'er the earth,
And fill the land with laughter;--
Soon Autumn comes to mar thy mirth,
And winter follows after.
Burn high, fair hope, within the breast,
By pleasant things attended;--
Misdoubt and fear do still molest
Our life, till it is ended.
Fill slow, oh! Time, the rounded cup
Of numbered hours that's set us;
Soon shall our days be gathered up,
And even our own forget us.
Then shine, fair sun, on vale and hill,
On tower and town and meadow;--
'Tis Heaven that sends the brightness still,
Earth only gives the shadow.
THE EARLY DEAD.
_On my youngest Daughter, died 20th March 1845, aged twenty-one
months._
SHE rests within her little grave,
A bud of promise too soon taken,
And wanting the sweet smile she gave,
We deem ourselves as if forsaken.
Life wore for her no luring guise,
She tasted time, and found it dreary,
Calmly she closed her gentle eyes,
As one that falls asleep aweary:
Like to a star whose little ray
Is quenched ev'n when 'tis brightly shining;
Or as a flower that fades away
While yet its bloom tells nought of pining.
And when her latest sigh was spent,
And fled her spirit to its Giver,
We felt as with it also went
A lapsed part of our heart for ever.
Oh! twice before we knew the blight
Upon the heart that deeply falleth,
When death for ever from the sight,
Of our own life a portion calleth:
But though it has the power to slay,
Still is this consolation given,
It cannot take the hope away
That we shall meet again in heaven.
There is a place of rest above,
A home for children there provided,
To which away from earth, in love
Their guileless spirits still are guided.
And when our hearts with sorrow sink
And our weak eyes are sore with weeping,
'Twill soothe and cheer us still to think
That they sweet watch are o'er us keeping.
And in the dark and lonely night,
When sleep our eyelids have forsaken,
We'll see again the faces bright
Of our three babes so early taken.
A DIRGE.
MOURN for the untimely dead!
Early blossoms quickly shed!
Soon taken to their long long rest,
Now there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast,
On their graves.
Neither care nor sorrow now
Leaves its trace upon their brow,
Nor can pain them more molest,
For there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast,
On their graves.
Little flowers their heads begem,
But they cannot look at them,
For death's cold hand their eyes have prest,
And there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast
On their graves.
Winds sigh through the shadowing trees,
Summer brings the hum of bees;
But no sounds can their ears invest,
Where there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast
On their graves.
Still they lie in their low beds,
To sleep till the last morn sheds
Its light upon their place of rest:
Now there waves
The green grass thickly o'er their breast
On their graves.
A BENEDICTION.
GOD bless thee! is my fervent prayer,
At morn and eve, from day to day,
Ev'n as thou tend'st, with anxious care,
Thy children dear with love alway.
God keep thee ever in His grace,
And still new mercies on thee shower,
Ev'n as thou fold'st in thy embrace
Thine infants tender every hour.
God love thee, with the love he shows
Still to his own, in earth and heaven,
Ev'n as thou lov'st, with true love, those
Who to thy keeping have been given.
God guide thee still through all thy days,
And let no evil on thee light,
Ev'n as thou guid'st and guard'st the ways,
Of thy dear offspring day and night.
God comfort thee in all thy grief,
And ever thy sure Hope remain,
Ev'n as thou comfort'st with relief
Thy little ones in woe and pain.
God cherish thee throughout thy life,
In weal and woe thy guardian be,
Ev'n as a mother and a wife
Thou still hast cherished them and me.
HEALTH.
OH! what a thing is health to lose,
And what a prize to gain,
Most valued when the spirit woos
Its coming back again.
After long days and restless nights,
Reclined on weary bed,
How sweet when first its blessing lights
Upon the aching head.
Its coming turns the life, as doth
The ocean with its tide,
Or as the spring renews the growth
Of what Earth's stores provide.
Power, fame, and with them cherished gold,
That form man's constant aim,
All would be gladly overtold
Its halcyon bliss to claim.
It passes life and death between,
From heaven's own portals borne,
Like the sweet under-light scarce seen
That parts the night from morn.
An emblem of the peace that springs,
To chase away all strife,
An earnest of the grace, that brings
Life to the inner life.
THE GAME OF LIFE.
WATCHING the game of life as daily played,
One marvels at the blunders that are made;
Few trust to chance alone to gain their aim,
But with the means they use 'tis just the same.
Low cunning some employ, and call it skill,
Or substitute for Reason headstrong Will;
And when they win the prize for which they strive,
To their own genius they the credit give;
But when they lose, the blame on fate is thrown;
They never think the fault may be their own.
Others who boast that cunning they disdain,
Affect by Pride their purposes to gain;
High-reaching objects do their minds devise,
By which they blind their own and neighbours' eyes;
Aiming at lofty things, they highly rate
Their own designings, but they find too late
That for success mere unassisted Pride
Does not all necessary means provide;
So thinking surely to promote their aim,
And win the stake of their ambition's game,
But not particular as to how 'tis played,
They call, Pride's contrast, meanness to their aid:
Yet ev'n though Fortune should their hopes attend,
It does not change the matter in the end;
Meanness and Pride may climb the highest hill,
But Pride and meanness they continue still.
Since Life's a game where all their part must play,
Reason and Truth should in it have the sway,
Or wanting these, as is too oft the case,
Folly and Passion will usurp their place.
When this weak body dwindles into dust,
And man becomes the nothing that he must,
How puny then will to the soul appear
All that man toils and struggles for when here!
Bound to the narrow aims and views of Earth,
At death his spirit finds that all is dearth
That to this world relates, and well that he
Makes Time provide still for Eternity.
CONSUMPTION.