[WE consider ourselves and our readers very fortunate indeed in
having procured the following as the first of a series of contributions
from Mr William Allan, Sunderland, whose recent publication--"Heather
Bells, or Poems and Songs"--has been so favourably received by the
Reviewers. A prior publication--"Hame-spun Lilts"--was also well
received. Of the author, the _Inverness Courier_ of 19th August,
says--"You will fail, if you try, to find from first to last the
slightest imitation of a single one of the many that, within the last
hundred years, have so deftly handled the Doric lyre. Before
the appearance of this volume, Mr Allan was already favourably
known to us as the author of 'Hame-spun Lilts,' 'Rough
Castings,' and by many lively lilts besides in the poets'
column of the _Glasgow Weekly Herald_. There is about
everything he has written a sturdy, honest, matter-of-fact
ring, that convinces you that, whether you rank it high or low,
his song--like the wild warblings of the song-thrush in early
spring--is from the very heart. All he says and sings he really
means; and it is something in these days of so many artificial,
lack-a-daisical, 'spasmodic' utterances, to meet with anybody
so manifestly honest and thoroughly in earnest as Mr William
Allan." The _Dundee Advertiser_ of August 17th concludes a long
and very favourable review of "Heather Bells, &c."--"The 'Harp
of the North,' so beautifully invoked by Sir Walter in his
'Lady of the Lake,' has been long asleep--her mountains are
silent--and what if our Laureate of Calydon--our Modern
Ossian--were destined to hail from Bonnie Dundee?" _The
Scotsman_ of Oct. 1st, says--"There is true pathos in many of
the poems. Such a piece as 'Jessie's Leavin'' must find its way
to the hearts in many a cottage home. Indeed, 'Heather Bells,'
both deserves, and bids fair to acquire, popularity."]
Dark Winter's white shroud on the mountains was lying,
And deep lay the drifts in each corrie and vale,
Snow-clouds in their anger o'er heaven were flying,
Far-flinging their wrath on the frost-breathing gale;--
Undaunted by tempests in majesty roaring,
Unawed by the gloom of each path-covered glen,
As swift as the rush of a cataract pouring,
The mighty Montrose led his brave Highlandmen:--
Over each trackless waste,
Trooping in glory's haste,
Dark-rolling and silent as mist on the heath,
Resting not night nor day,
Fast on their snowy way
They dauntlessly sped on the pinions of death.
As loud as the wrath of the deep Corryvreckan,
Far-booming o'er Scarba's lone wave-circled isle,
As mountain rocks crash to the vale, thunder-stricken,
Their slogan arose in Glen Spean's defile;--
As clouds shake their locks to the whispers of Heaven;
As quakes the hushed earth 'neath the ire of the blast;
As quivers the heart of the craven, fear-riven,
So trembled Argyle at the sound as it passed;--
Over the startled snows,
Swept the dread word "Montrose,"
Deep-filling his soul with the gloom of dismay,
Marked he the wave of men,
Wild-rushing thro' the glen,
Then sank his proud crest to the coward's vile sway.
To Arms! rung afar on the winds of the morning,
Yon dread pennon streams as a lurid bale-star:
Hark! shrill from his trumpets an ominous warning
Is blown with the breath of the demon of war;--
Then bright flashed his steel as the eye of an eagle,
Then spread he his wings to the terror-struck foe;
Then on! with the swoop of a conqueror regal,
He rushed, and his talons struck victory's blow:--
Wild then their shouts arose,
Fled then their shivered foes,
And snowy Ben-Nevis re-echoed their wail;
Far from the field of dread,
Scattered, they singly fled,
As hound-startled deer, to the depths of each vale.
Where, where is Argyle now, his kinsmen to rally?
Where, where is the chieftain with timorous soul?
On Linnhe's grey waters he crouched in his galley,
And saw as a traitor the battle blast roll:--
Ungrasped was the hilt of his broadsword, still sleeping,
Unheard was his voice in the moment of need;
Secure from the rage of fierce foemen, death-sweeping,
He sought not by valour, his clansmen to lead.
Linnhe, in scornful shame,
Hissed out his humbled name,
As fast sped his boat on its flight-seeking course;
Sunk was his pride and flown,
Doomed then his breast to own
A coward-scarred heart, ever lashed with remorse.