Dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again;
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
But Connel returns to his Flora no more.
For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death,
O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath;
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies, to return to his Flora no more.
Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep,
Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep!
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar,
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.
MATILDA.
Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep,
Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main,
Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
And cease while ye hear me complain.
For distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
Between my Matilda and me.
How blest were the times when together we stray'd,
While Phoebe shone silent above,
Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side,
And talk'd the whole evening of love!
Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace,
Nor noise could our pleasures annoy,
Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze,
That soothed us to love and to joy.
If haply some youth had his passion express'd,
And praised the bright charms of her face,
What horrors unceasing revolved though my breast,
While, sighing, I stole from the place!
For where is the eye that could view her alone,
The ear that could list to her strain,
Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own,
Nor double the pangs I sustain?
Thou moon, that now brighten'st those regions above,
How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss,
While breathing my tender expressions of love,
I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss!
Ah, then, how I joy'd while I gazed on her charms!
What transports flew swift through my heart!
I press'd the dear, beautiful maid in my arms,
Nor dream'd that we ever should part.
But now from the dear, from the tenderest maid,
By fortune unfeelingly torn;
'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad,
In secret I wander forlorn.
And oft, while drear Midnight assembles her shades,
And Silence pours sleep from her throne,
Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal through the glades,
And sigh, 'midst the darkness, my moan.
In vain to the town I retreat for relief,
In vain to the groves I complain;
Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er soothe my grief,
And solitude nurses my pain.
Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best,
I languish in mis'ry and care;
Her presence could banish each woe from my heart,
But her absence, alas! is despair.
Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep;
Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main--
Oh, shelter me under your cliffs while I weep,
And cease while ye hear me complain!
Far distant, alas! from my dear native shore,
And far from each friend now I be;
And wide is the merciless ocean that roars
Between my Matilda and me.
AUCHTERTOOL.[43]
From the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee,
And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free,
Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full,
To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool.
Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd,
Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd;
The road I explored out, without form or rule,
Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool.
At length I arrived at the edge of the town,
As Phoebus, behind a high mountain, went down;
The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul,
And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Auchtertool.
An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired,
But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fired;
For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool,
"I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool."
With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride;
But, asking, was told there was none else beside,
Except an old weaver, who now kept a school,
And these were the whole that were in Auchtertool.
To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapp'd at the door;
He oped, but as soon as I dared to implore,
He shut it like thunder, and utter'd a howl
That rung through each corner of old Auchtertool.
Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode,
Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road;
Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl,
My wrath I 'll vent forth upon old Auchtertool.
[43] We have ventured to omit three verses, and to alter slightly the
last line of this song. It was originally published at Paisley, in 1790,
to the tune of "One bottle more." Auchtertool is a small hamlet in
Fifeshire, about five miles west of the town of Kirkcaldy. The
inhabitants, whatever may have been their failings at the period when
Wilson in vain solicited shelter in the hamlet, are certainly no longer
entitled to bear the reproach of lacking in hospitality. We rejoice in
the opportunity thus afforded of testifying as to the disinterested
hospitality and kindness which we have experienced in that
neighbourhood.
CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRN.
Carolina Oliphant was born in the old mansion of Gask, in the county of
Perth, on the 16th of July 1766. She was the third daughter and fifth
child of Laurence Oliphant of Gask, who had espoused his cousin Margaret
Robertson, a daughter of Duncan Robertson of Struan, and his wife a
daughter of the fourth Lord Nairn. The Oliphants of Gask were cadets of
the formerly noble house of Oliphant; whose ancestor, Sir William
Oliphant of Aberdalgie, a puissant knight, acquired distinction in the
beginning of the fourteenth century by defending the Castle of Stirling
against a formidable siege by the first Edward. The family of Gask were
devoted Jacobites; the paternal grandfather of Carolina Oliphant had
attended Prince Charles Edward as aid-de-camp during his disastrous
campaign of 1745-6, and his spouse had indicated her sympathy in his
cause by cutting out a lock of his hair on the occasion of his accepting
the hospitality of the family mansion. The portion of hair is preserved
at Gask; and Carolina Oliphant, in her song, "The Auld House," has thus
celebrated the gentle deed of her progenitor:--
"The Leddy too, sae genty,
There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
An' clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair."
The estate of Gask escaped forfeiture, but the father of Carolina did
not renounce the Jacobite sentiments of his ancestors. He named the
subject of this memoir Carolina, in honour of Prince Charles Edward; and
his prevailing topic of conversation was the reiterated expression of
his hope that "the king would get his ain." He would not permit the
names of the reigning monarch and his queen to be mentioned in his
presence; and when impaired eyesight compelled him to seek the
assistance of his family in reading the newspapers, he angrily reproved
the reader if the "German lairdie and his leddy" were designated
otherwise than by the initial letters, "K. and Q." This extreme
Jacobitism at a period when the crime was scarcely to be dreaded, was
reported to George III., who is related to have confessed his respect
for a man who had so consistently maintained his political sentiments.
In her youth, Carolina Oliphant was singularly beautiful, and was known
in her native district by the poetical designation of "The Flower of
Strathearn." She was as remarkable for the precocity of her intellect,
as she was celebrated for the elegance of her person. Descended by her
mother from a family which, in one instance,[44] at least, had afforded
some evidence of poetical talents, and possessed of a correct musical
ear, she very early composed verses for her favourite melodies. To the
development of her native genius, her juvenile condition abundantly
contributed: the locality of her birthplace, rich in landscape scenery,
and associated with family traditions and legends of curious and
chivalric adventure, might have been sufficient to promote, in a mind
less fertile than her own, sentiments of poesy. In the application of
her talents she was influenced by another incentive. A loose ribaldry
tainted the songs and ballads which circulated among the peasantry, and
she was convinced that the diffusion of a more wholesome minstrelsy
would essentially elevate the moral tone of the community. Thus, while
still young, she commenced to purify the older melodies, and to compose
new songs, which were ultimately destined to occupy an ample share of
the national heart. The occasion of an agricultural dinner in the
neighbourhood afforded her a fitting opportunity of making trial of her
success in the good work which she had begun. To the president of the
meeting she sent, anonymously, her verses entitled "The Ploughman;" and
the production being publicly read, was received with warm approbation,
and was speedily put to music. She was thus encouraged to proceed in her
self-imposed task; and to this early period of her life may be ascribed
some of her best lyrics. "The Laird o' Cockpen," and "The Land o' the
Leal," at the close of the century, were sung in every district of the
kingdom.
Carolina Oliphant had many suitors for her hand: she gave a preference
to William Murray Nairn, her maternal cousin, who had been Baron Nairn,
barring the attainder of the title on account of the Jacobitism of the
last Baron. The marriage was celebrated in June 1806. At this period, Mr
Nairn was Assistant Inspector-General of Barracks in Scotland, and held
the rank of major in the army. By Act of Parliament, on the 17th June
1824, the attainder of the family was removed, the title of Baron being
conferred on Major Nairn. This measure is reported to have been passed
on the strong recommendation of George IV.; his Majesty having learned,
during his state visit to Scotland in 1822, that the song of "The
Attainted Scottish Nobles" was the composition of Lady Nairn. The song
is certainly one of the best apologies for Jacobitism.
On the 9th of July 1830, Lady Nairn was bereaved of her husband, to whom
she had proved an affectionate wife. Her care had for several years been
assiduously bestowed on the proper rearing of her only child William,
who, being born in 1808, had reached his twenty-second year when he
succeeded to the title on the death of his father. This young nobleman
warmly reciprocated his mother's affectionate devotedness; and, making
her the associate of his manhood, proved a source of much comfort to her
in her bereavement. In 1837, he resolved, in her society, to visit the
Continent, in the hope of being recruited by change of climate from an
attack of influenza caught in the spring of that year. But the change
did not avail; he was seized with a violent cold at Brussels, which,
after an illness of six weeks, proved fatal. He died in that city on the
7th of December 1837. Deprived both of her husband and her only child, a
young nobleman of so much promise, and of singular Christian worth, Lady
Nairn, though submitting to the mysterious dispensations with becoming
resignation, did not regain her wonted buoyancy of spirit. Old age was
rapidly approaching,--those years in which the words of the inspired
sage, "I have no pleasure in them," are too frequently called forth by
the pressure of human infirmities. But this amiable lady did not sink
under the load of affliction and of years: she mourned in hope, and wept
in faith. While the afflictions which had mingled with her cup of
blessings tended to prevent her lingering too intently on the past,[45]
the remembrance of a life devoted to deeds of piety and virtue was a
solace greater than any other earthly object could impart, leading her
to hail the future with sentiments of joyful anticipation. During the
last years of her life, unfettered by worldly ties, she devoted all her
energies to the service of Heaven, and to the advancement of Christian
truth. Her beautiful ode, "Would you be young again?" was composed in
1842, and enclosed in a letter to a friend; it is signally expressive of
the pious resignation and Christian hope of the author.
After the important era of her marriage, she seems to have relinquished
her literary ardour. But in the year 1821, Mr Robert Purdie, an
enterprising music-seller in Edinburgh, having resolved to publish a
series of the more approved national songs, made application to several
ladies celebrated for their musical skill, with the view of obtaining
their assistance in the arrangement of the melodies. To these ladies was
known the secret of Lady Nairn's devotedness to Scottish song, enjoying
as they did her literary correspondence and private intimacy; and in
consenting to aid the publisher in his undertaking, they calculated on
contributions from their accomplished friend. They had formed a correct
estimate: Lady Nairn, whose extreme diffidence had hitherto proved a
barrier to the fulfilment of the best wishes of her heart, in effecting
the reformation of the national minstrelsy, consented to transmit
pieces for insertion, on the express condition that her name and rank,
and every circumstance connected with her history, should be kept in
profound secrecy. The condition was carefully observed; so that,
although the publication of "The Scottish Minstrel" extended over three
years, and she had several personal interviews and much correspondence
with the publisher and his editor, Mr R. A. Smith, both these
individuals remained ignorant of her real name. She had assumed the
signature, "B. B.," in her correspondence with Mr Purdie, who appears to
have been entertained by _the discovery_, communicated in confidence,
that the name of his contributor was "Mrs Bogan of Bogan;" and by this
designation he subsequently addressed her. The _nom de guerre_ of the
two B.'s[46] is attached to the greater number of Lady Nairn's
contributions in "The Scottish Minstrel."
The new collection of minstrelsy, unexceptionable as it was in the words
attached to all the airs, commanded a wide circulation, and excited
general attention. The original contributions were especially commended,
and some of them were forthwith sung by professed vocalists in the
principal towns. Much speculation arose respecting the authorship, and
various conjectures were supported, each with plausible arguments, by
the public journalists. In these circumstances, Lady Nairn experienced
painful alarm, lest, by any inadvertence on the part of her friends, the
origin of her songs should be traced. While the publication of the
"Minstrel" was proceeding, her correspondents received repeated
injunctions to adopt every caution in preserving her _incognita_; she
was even desirous that her sex might not be made known. "I beg the
publisher will make no mention of a _lady_," she wrote to one of her
correspondents, "as you observe, the more mystery the better, and
_still_ the balance is in favour of the lords of creation. I cannot
help, in some degree, undervaluing beforehand what is said to be a
feminine production." "The Scottish Minstrel" was completed in 1824, in
six royal octavo volumes, forming one of the best collections of the
Scottish melodies. It was in the full belief that "Mrs Bogan" was her
real name, that the following compliment was paid to Lady Nairn by
Messrs Purdie and R. A. Smith, in the advertisement to the last volume
of the work:--"In particular, the editors would have felt happy in being
permitted to enumerate the many original and beautiful verses that adorn
their pages, for which they are indebted to the author of the
much-admired song, 'The Land o' the Leal;' but they fear to wound a
delicacy which shrinks from all observation."
Subsequent to the appearance of "The Scottish Minstrel," Lady Nairn did
not publish any lyrics; and she was eminently successful in preserving
her _incognita_. No critic ventured to identify her as the celebrated
"B. B.," and it was only whispered among a few that she had composed
"The Land o' the Leal." The mention of her name publicly as the author
of this beautiful ode, on one occasion, had signally disconcerted her.
While she was resident in Paris, in 1842, she writes to an intimate
friend in Edinburgh on this subject:--"A Scottish lady here, Lady----,
with whom I never met in Scotland, is so good as, among perfect
strangers, to _denounce_ me as the origin of 'The Land o' the Leal!' I
cannot trace it, but very much dislike as ever any kind of publicity."
The extreme diffidence and shrinking modesty of the amiable author
continued to the close of her life; she never divulged, beyond a small
circle of confidential friends, the authorship of a single verse. The
songs published in her youth had been given to others; but, as in the
case of Lady Anne Barnard, these assignments caused her no uneasiness.
She experienced much gratification in finding her simple minstrelsy
supplanting the coarse and demoralising rhymes of a former period; and
this mental satisfaction she preferred to fame.
The philanthropic efforts of Lady Nairn were not limited to the
purification of the national minstrelsy; her benevolence extended
towards the support of every institution likely to promote the temporal
comforts, or advance the spiritual interests of her countrymen. Her
contributions to the public charities were ample, and she
"Did good by stealth, and blush'd to find it fame."
In an address delivered at Edinburgh, on the 29th of December 1845, Dr
Chalmers, referring to the exertions which had been made for the supply
of religious instruction in the district of the West Port of Edinburgh,
made the following remarks regarding Lady Nairn, who was then recently
deceased:--"Let me speak now as to the countenance we have received. I
am now at liberty to mention a very noble benefaction which I received
about a year ago. Inquiry was made at me by a lady, mentioning that she
had a sum at her disposal, and that she wished to apply it to charitable
purposes; and she wanted me to enumerate a list of charitable objects,
in proportion to the estimate I had of their value. Accordingly, I
furnished her with a scale of about five or six charitable objects. The
highest in the scale were those institutions which had for their design
the Christianising of the people at home; and I also mentioned to her,
in connexion with the Christianising at home, what we were doing at the
West Port; and there came to me from her, in the course of a day or two,
no less a sum than £300. She is now dead; she is now in her grave, and
her works do follow her. When she gave me this noble benefaction, she
laid me under strict injunctions of secrecy, and, accordingly, I did not
mention her name to any person; but after she was dead, I begged of her
nearest heir that I might be allowed to proclaim it, because I thought
that her example, so worthy to be followed, might influence others in
imitating her; and I am happy to say that I am now at liberty to state
that it was Lady Nairn of Perthshire. It enabled us, at the expense of
£330, to purchase sites for schools, and a church; and we have got a
site in the very heart of the locality, with a very considerable extent
of ground for a washing-green, a washing-house, and a play-ground for
the children, so that we are a good step in advance towards the
completion of our parochial economy."
After the death of her son, and till within two years of her own death,
Lady Nairn resided chiefly on the Continent, and frequently in Paris.
Her health had for several years been considerably impaired, and
latterly she had recourse to a wheeled chair. In the mansion of Gask, on
the 27th of October 1845, she gently sunk into her rest, at the advanced
age of seventy-nine years.
Some years subsequent to this event, it occurred to the relatives and
literary friends of the deceased Baroness that as there could no longer
be any reason for retaining her _incognita_, full justice should be done
to her memory by the publication of a collected edition of her works.
This scheme was partially executed in an elegant folio, entitled "Lays
from Strathearn: by Carolina, Baroness Nairn. Arranged with Symphonies
and Accompaniments for the Pianoforte, by Finlay Dun." It bears the
imprint of London, and has no date. In this work, of which a new edition
will speedily be published by Messrs Paterson, music-sellers, Edinburgh,
are contained seventy songs, but the larger proportion of the author's
lyrics still remain in MS. From her representatives we have received
permission to select her best lyrics for the present work, and to insert
several pieces hitherto unpublished. Of the lays which we have selected,
several are new versions to old airs; the majority, though unknown as
the compositions of Lady Nairn, are already familiar in the drawing-room
and the cottage. For winning simplicity, graceful expression, and
exquisite pathos, her compositions are especially remarkable; but when
her muse prompts to humour, the laugh is sprightly and overpowering.
In society, Lady Nairn was reserved and unassuming. Her countenance,
naturally beautiful, wore, in her mature years, a somewhat pensive cast;
and the characteristic by which she was known consisted in her
enthusiastic love of music. It may be added, that she was fond of the
fine arts, and was skilled in the use of the pencil.
[44] Robertson of Struan, cousin-german of Lady Nairn's mother, and a
conspicuous Jacobite chief, composed many fugitive verses for the
amusement of his friends; and a collection of them, said to have been
surreptitiously obtained from a servant, was published, without a date,
under the following title:--"Poems on various Subjects and Occasions, by
the Honourable Alexander Robertson of Struan, Esq.--mostly taken from
his own original Manuscripts." Edinburgh, 8vo.
[45] Writing to one of her correspondents, in November 1840, Lady Nairn
thus remarks--"I sometimes say to myself, 'This is no me,' so greatly
have my feelings and trains of thought changed since 'auld lang syne;'
and, though I am made to know assuredly that all is well, I scarcely
dare to allow my mind to settle on the past."
[46] A daughter of Baron Hume was one of the ladies who induced Lady
Nairn to become a contributor to "The Scottish Minstrel." Many of the
songs were sent to the Editor through the medium of Miss Hume. She thus
expresses herself in a letter to a friend:--"My father's admiration of
'The Land o' the Leal' was such, that he said no woman but Miss Ferrier
was capable of writing it. And when I used to shew him song after song
in MS., when I was receiving the anonymous verses for the music, and ask
his criticism, he said--'Your unknown poetess has only _one_, or rather
_two_, letters out of taste, viz., choosing "B. B." for her signature.'"
THE PLEUGHMAN.[47]
There 's high and low, there 's rich and poor,
There 's trades and crafts enew, man;
But, east and west, his trade 's the best,
That kens to guide the pleugh, man.
Then, come, weel speed my pleughman lad,
And hey my merry pleughman;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the pleughman.
His dreams are sweet upon his bed,
His cares are light and few, man;
His mother's blessing 's on his head,
That tents her weel, the pleughman.
Then, come, weel speed, &c.
The lark, sae sweet, that starts to meet
The morning fresh and new, man;
Blythe though she be, as blythe is he
That sings as sweet, the pleughman.
Then, come, weel speed, &c.
All fresh and gay, at dawn of day
Their labours they renew, man;
Heaven bless the seed, and bless the soil,
And Heaven bless the pleughman.
Then, come, weel speed, &c.
[47] This seems to have been the author's first composition in Scottish
verse. See the Memoir.
CALLER HERRIN'.[48]
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'?
They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin';
Wha 'll buy caller herrin',
New drawn frae the Forth?
When ye were sleepin' on your pillows,
Dream'd ye ought o' our puir fellows,
Darkling as they faced the billows,
A' to fill the woven willows.
Buy my caller herrin',
New drawn frae the Forth.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
They 're no brought here without brave daring;
Buy my caller herrin',
Haul'd thro' wind and rain.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
Wha 'll buy my caller herrin'?
Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'!
Wives and mithers, maist despairin',
Ca' them lives o' men.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
When the creel o' herrin' passes,
Ladies, clad in silks and laces,
Gather in their braw pelisses,
Cast their heads, and screw their faces.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
Caller herrin 's no got lightlie;
Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie;
Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin',
Gow has set you a' a-singin'.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
Neebour wives, now tent my tellin',
When the bonny fish ye 're sellin',
At ae word be in yer dealin'--
Truth will stand when a' thing 's failin'.
Wha 'll buy caller herrin'? &c.
[48] This song has acquired an extensive popularity, for which it is
much indebted, in addition to its intrinsic merits, to the musical
powers of the late John Wilson, the eminent vocalist, whose premature
death is a source of regret to all lovers of Scottish melody. Mr Wilson
sung this song in every principal town of the United Kingdom, and always
with effect.
THE LAND O' THE LEAL.[49]
I 'm wearin' awa', John,
Like snaw wreaths in thaw, John;
I 'm wearin' awa'
To the land o' the leal.
There 's nae sorrow there, John;
There 's neither cauld nor care, John;
The day 's aye fair
I' the land o' the leal.
Our bonnie bairn 's there, John;
She was baith gude and fair, John;
And, oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal.
But sorrows sel' wears past, John,
And joy 's a-comin' fast, John--
The joy that 's aye to last
In the land o' the leal.
Sae dear 's that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, dry your glist'ning e'e, John!
My saul langs to be free, John;
And angels beckon me
To the land o' the leal.
Oh, haud ye leal and true, John!
Your day it 's wearin' thro', John;
And I 'll welcome you
To the land o' the leal.
Now, fare ye weel, my ain John,
This warld's cares are vain, John;
We 'll meet, and we 'll be fain,
In the land o' the leal.
[49] This exquisitely tender and beautiful lay was composed by Lady
Nairn, for two married relatives of her own, Mr and Mrs C----, who had
sustained bereavement in the death of a child. Such is the account of
its origin which we have received from Lady Nairn's relatives.
THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN.[50]
The Laird o' Cockpen he 's proud and he 's great,
His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the state;
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep,
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.
Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she 'd look well;
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.
His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude as new;
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat,
And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the gray mare, and rade cannily--
And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,
She 's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine,
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low,
And what was his errand he soon let her know;
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na;"
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.
Dumbfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gie;
He mounted his mare--he rade cannily;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
She 's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen.
And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh! for ane I 'll get better, it 's waur I 'll get ten,
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."
Next time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there 's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.
[50] This humorous and highly popular song was composed by Lady Nairn
towards the close of the last century, in place of the older words
connected with the air, "When she came ben, she bobbit." The older
version, which is entitled "Cockpen," is exceptional on the score of
refinement, but was formerly sung on account of the excellence of the
air. It is generally believed to be a composition of the reign of
Charles II.; and the hero of the piece, "the Laird of Cockpen," is said
to have been the companion in arms and attached friend of his sovereign.
Of this personage an anecdote is recorded in some of the Collections.
Having been engaged with his countrymen at the battle of Worcester, in
the cause of Charles, he accompanied the unfortunate monarch to Holland,
and, forming one of the little court at the Hague, amused his royal
master by his humour, and especially by his skill in Scottish music. In
playing the tune, "Brose and Butter," he particularly excelled; it
became the favourite of the exiled monarch, and Cockpen had pleasure in
gratifying the royal wish, that he might be lulled to sleep at night,
and awakened in the morning by this enchanting air. At the Restoration,
Cockpen found that his estate had been confiscated for his attachment to
the king, and had the deep mortification to discover that he had
suffered on behalf of an ungrateful prince, who gave no response to his
many petitions and entreaties for the restoration of his possessions.
Visiting London, he was even denied an audience; but he still
entertained a hope that, by a personal conference with the king, he
might attain his object. To accomplish this design, he had recourse to
the following artifice:--He formed acquaintance with the organist of the
chapel-royal, and obtained permission to officiate as his substitute
when the king came to service. He did so with becoming propriety till
the close of the service, when, instead of the solemn departing air, he
struck up the monarch's old favourite, "Brose and Butter." The scheme,
though bordering on profanity, succeeded in the manner intended. The
king proceeding hastily to the organ-gallery, discovered Cockpen, whom
he saluted familiarly, declaring that he had "almost made him dance." "I
could dance too," said Cockpen, "if I had my lands again." The request,
to which every entreaty could not gain a response, was yielded to the
power of music and old association. Cockpen was restored to his
inheritance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss
Ferrier, the accomplished author of "Marriage," and other popular
novels. She only contributed the last two stanzas. The present Laird of
Cockpen is the Marquis of Dalhousie.
HER HOME SHE IS LEAVING.
AIR--_"Mordelia."_
In all its rich wildness, her home she is leaving,
In sad and tearful silence grieving,
And still as the moment of parting is nearer,
Each long cherish'd object is fairer and dearer.
Not a grove or fresh streamlet but wakens reflection
Of hearts still and cold, that glow'd with affection;
Not a breeze that blows over the flowers of the wild wood,
But tells, as it passes, how blest was her childhood.
And how long must I leave thee, each fond look expresses,
Ye high rocky summits, ye ivy'd recesses!
How long must I leave thee, thou wood-shaded river,
The echoes all sigh--as they whisper--for ever!
Tho' the autumn winds rave, and the seared leaves fall,
And winter hangs out her cold icy pall--
Yet the footsteps of spring again ye will see,
And the singing of birds--but they sing not for me.
The joys of the past, more faintly recalling,
Sweet visions of peace on her spirit are falling,
And the soft wing of time, as it speeds for the morrow,
Wafts a gale, that is drying the dew-drops of sorrow.
Hope dawns--and the toils of life's journey beguiling,
The path of the mourner is cheer'd with its smiling;
And there her heart rests, and her wishes all centre,
Where parting is never--nor sorrow can enter.
THE BONNIEST LASS IN A' THE WARLD.
The bonniest lass in a' the warld,
I 've often heard them telling,
She 's up the hill, she 's down the glen,
She 's in yon lonely dwelling.
But nane could bring her to my mind
Wha lives but in the fancy,
Is 't Kate, or Shusie, Jean, or May,
Is 't Effie, Bess, or Nancy?
Now lasses a' keep a gude heart,
Nor e'er envy a comrade,
For be your een black, blue, or gray,
Ye 're bonniest aye to some lad.
The tender heart, the charming smile,
The truth that ne'er will falter,
Are charms that never can beguile,
And time can never alter.
MY AIN KIND DEARIE, O![51]
Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O?
Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O?
Gin ye'll tak heart, and gang wi' me,
Mishap will never steer ye, O;
Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
There 's walth ower yon green lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O!
Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws--
Let them gang tapsle teerie, O!
It 's walth o' peace, o' love, and truth,
My ain kind dearie, O!
[51] The first two lines of this song are borrowed from the "Lea-Rig," a
lively and popular lyric, of which the first two verses were composed by
Robert Fergusson, the three remaining being added by William Reid of
Glasgow. (See _ante_, article "William Reid.")
HE'S LIFELESS AMANG THE RUDE BILLOWS.
AIR--_"The Muckin' o' Geordie's Byre."_
He 's lifeless amang the rude billows,
My tears and my sighs are in vain;
The heart that beat warm for his Jeanie,
Will ne'er beat for mortal again.
My lane now I am i' the warld,
And the daylight is grievous to me;
The laddie that lo'ed me sae dearly
Lies cauld in the deeps o' the sea.
Ye tempests, sae boist'rously raging,
Rage on as ye list--or be still;
This heart ye sae often hae sicken'd,
Is nae mair the sport o' your will.
Now heartless, I hope not--I fear not,--
High Heaven hae pity on me!
My soul, tho' dismay'd and distracted,
Yet bends to thy awful decree.
JOY OF MY EARLIEST DAYS.
AIR--_"I'll never leave thee."_
Joy of my earliest days,
Why must I grieve thee?
Theme of my fondest lays,
Oh, I maun leave thee!
Leave thee, love! leave thee, love!
How shall I leave thee?
Absence thy truth will prove,
For, oh! I maun leave thee!
When on yon mossy stane,
Wild weeds o'ergrowin',
Ye sit at e'en your lane,
And hear the burn rowin';
Oh! think on this partin' hour,
Down by the Garry,
And to Him that has a' the pow'r,
Commend me, my Mary!
OH, WEEL'S ME ON MY AIN MAN.
AIR--_"Landlady count the lawin'."_
Oh, weel's me on my ain man,
My ain man, my ain man!
Oh, weel's me on my ain gudeman!
He 'll aye be welcome hame.
I 'm wae I blamed him yesternight,
For now my heart is feather light;
For gowd I wadna gie the sight;
I see him linking ower the height.
Oh, weel's me on my ain man, &c.
Rin, Jamie, bring the kebbuck ben,
And fin' aneath the speckled hen;
Meg, rise and sweep about the fire,
Syne cry on Johnnie frae the byre.
For weel's me on my ain man,
My ain man, my ain man!
For weel's me on my ain gudeman!
I see him linkin' hame.
KIND ROBIN LOE'S ME.[52]
Robin is my ain gudeman,
Now match him, carlins, gin ye can,
For ilk ane whitest thinks her swan,
But kind Robin lo'es me.
To mak my boast I 'll e'en be bauld,
For Robin lo'ed me young and auld,
In summer's heat and winter's cauld,
My kind Robin lo'es me.
Robin he comes hame at e'en
Wi' pleasure glancin' in his e'en;
He tells me a' he 's heard and seen,
And syne how he lo'es me.
There 's some hae land, and some hae gowd,
Mair wad hae them gin they could,
But a' I wish o' warld's guid,
Is Robin still to lo'e me.
[52] The author seems to have composed these stanzas as a sequel to a
wooing song of the same name, beginning, "Robin is my only jo," which
first appeared in Herd's Collection in 1776. There are some older words
to the same air, but these are coarse, and are not to be found in any of
the modern Collections.
KITTY REID'S HOUSE.
AIR--_"Country Bumpkin."_
Hech, hey! the mirth that was there,
The mirth that was there,
The mirth that was there;
Hech, how! the mirth that was there,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee,
In Kitty's Reid's house, in Kitty Reid's house,
There was laughin' and singin', and dancin' and glee,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
Hech, hey! the fright that was there,
The fright that was there,
The fright that was there;
Hech, how! the fright that was there,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
The light glimmer'd in through a crack i' the wa',
An' a'body thocht the lift it wad fa',
And lads and lasses they soon ran awa'
Frae Kitty's Reid's house on the green, Jo!
Hech, hey! the dule that was there,
The dule that was there,
The dule that was there;
The birds and beasts it wauken'd them a',
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
The wa' gaed a hurley, and scatter'd them a',
The piper, the fiddler, auld Kitty, and a';
The kye fell a routin', the cocks they did craw,
In Kitty Reid's house on the green, Jo!
THE ROBIN'S NEST.
AIR--_"Lochiel's awa' to France."_
Their nest was in the leafy bush,
Sae soft and warm, sae soft and warm,
And Robins thought their little brood
All safe from harm, all safe from harm.
The morning's feast with joy they brought,
To feed their young wi' tender care;
The plunder'd leafy bush they found,
But nest and nestlings saw nae mair.
The mother cou'dna leave the spot,
But wheeling round, and wheeling round,
The cruel spoiler aim'd a shot,
Cured her heart's wound, cured her heart's wound.
She will not hear their helpless cry,
Nor see them pine in slavery!
The burning breast she will not bide,
For wrongs of wanton knavery.
Oh! bonny Robin Redbreast,
Ye trust in men, ye trust in men,
But what their hard hearts are made o',
Ye little ken, ye little ken.
They 'll ne'er wi' your wee skin be warm'd,
Nor wi' your tiny flesh be fed,
But just 'cause you 're a living thing,
It 's sport wi' them to lay you dead.
Ye Hieland and ye Lowland lads,
As birdies gay, as birdies gay,
Oh, spare them, whistling like yoursel's,
And hopping blythe from spray to spray!
Their wings were made to soar aloft,
And skim the air at liberty;
And as you freedom gi'e to them,
May you and yours be ever free!
SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?[53]
Saw ye nae my Peggy?
Saw ye nae my Peggy?
Saw ye nae my Peggy comin'
Through Tillibelton's broom?
I 'm frae Aberdagie,
Ower the crafts o' Craigie,
For aught I ken o' Peggie,
She 's ayont the moon.
'Twas but at the dawin',
Clear the cock was crawin',
I saw Peggy cawin'
Hawky by the brier.
Early bells were ringin',
Blythest birds were singin',
Sweetest flowers were springin',
A' her heart to cheer.
Now the tempest's blawin',
Almond water 's flowin',
Deep and ford unknowin',
She maun cross the day.
Almond waters, spare her,
Safe to Lynedoch bear her!
Its braes ne'er saw a fairer,
Bess Bell nor Mary Gray.
Oh, now to be wi' her!
Or but ance to see her
Skaithless, far or near,
I 'd gie Scotland's crown.
Byeword, blind 's a lover--
Wha 's yon I discover?
Just yer ain fair rover,
Stately stappin' down.
[53] Another song with the same title, "Saw ye nae my Peggy?" is
inserted in the Collections. It first appeared in Herd's Collection, in
1769, though it is understood to be of a considerably older date. Allan
Ramsay composed two songs to the same air, but they are both inferior.
The air is believed to have originally been connected with some
exceptionable words, beginning, "Saw ye my Maggie?"
GUDE NICHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'!
The best o' joys maun hae an end,
The best o' friends maun part, I trow;
The langest day will wear away,
And I maun bid fareweel to you.
The tear will tell when hearts are fu',
For words, gin they hae sense ava,
They 're broken, faltering, and few:
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!
Oh, we hae wander'd far and wide,
O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell!
And mony a simple flower we 've pu'd,
And twined it wi' the heather-bell.
We 've ranged the dingle and the dell,
The cot-house, and the baron's ha';
Now we maun tak a last farewell:
Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a'!
My harp, fareweel! thy strains are past,
Of gleefu' mirth, and heartfelt care;
The voice of song maun cease at last,
And minstrelsy itsel' decay.
But, oh! whar sorrow canna win,
Nor parting tears are shed ava',
May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin,
And joy for aye be wi' us a'!
CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.[54]
There 's cauld kail in Aberdeen,
There 's castocks in Strabogie;
And morn and e'en, they 're blythe and bein,
That haud them frae the cogie.
Now, haud ye frae the cogie, lads;
O bide ye frae the cogie!
I 'll tell ye true, ye 'll never rue,
O' passin' by the cogie.
Young Will was braw and weel put on,
Sae blythe was he and vogie;
And he got bonnie Mary Don,
The flower o' a' Strabogie.
Wha wad hae thocht, at wooin' time,
He 'd e'er forsaken Mary,
And ta'en him to the tipplin' trade,
Wi' boozin' Rob and Harry?
Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat,
She scarce could lift the ladle;
Wi' pithless feet, 'tween ilka greet,
She 'd rock the borrow'd cradle.
Her weddin' plenishin' was gane,
She never thocht to borrow:
Her bonnie face was waxin' wan--
And Will wrought a' the sorrow.
He 's reelin' hame ae winter's nicht,
Some later than the gloamin';
He 's ta'en the rig, he 's miss'd the brig,
And Bogie 's ower him foamin'.
Wi' broken banes, out ower the stanes,
He creepit up Strabogie;
And a' the nicht he pray'd wi' micht,
To keep him frae the cogie.
Now Mary's heart is light again--
She 's neither sick nor silly;
For auld or young, nae sinfu' tongue,
Could e'er entice her Willie;
And aye the sang through Bogie rang--
"O had ye frae the cogie;
The weary gill 's the sairest ill
On braes o' fair Strabogie."
[54] This excellent ballad is the fourth version adapted to the air,
"Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Some notice of the three former will be found
_ante_, p. 46.
HE'S OWER THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL.
He 's ower the hills that I lo'e weel,
He 's ower the hills we daurna name;
He 's ower the hills ayont Dunblane,
Wha soon will get his welcome hame.
My father's gane to fight for him,
My brithers winna bide at hame;
My mither greets and prays for them,
And 'deed she thinks they 're no to blame.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer;
But, ah! that love maun be sincere
Which still keeps true whate'er betide,
An' for his sake leaves a' beside.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
His right these hills, his right these plains;
Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns;
What lads e'er did our laddies will do;
Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
Sae noble a look, sae princely an air,
Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair;
Oh, did ye but see him, ye 'd do as we've done!
Hear him but ance, to his standard you 'll run.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight;
For your country, religion, and a' that is right;
Were ten thousand lives now given to me,
I 'd die as aft for ane o' the three.
He 's ower the hills, &c.
THE LASS O' GOWRIE.[55]
AIR--_"Loch Erroch Side."_
'Twas on a summer's afternoon,
A wee afore the sun gaed down,
A lassie, wi' a braw new gown,
Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie.
The rose-bud, wash'd in summer's shower,
Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower;
But Kitty was the fairest flower
That e'er was seen in Gowrie.
To see her cousin she cam' there,
An', oh, the scene was passing fair!
For what in Scotland can compare
Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie?
The sun was setting on the Tay,
The blue hills melting into gray;
The mavis' and the blackbird's lay
Were sweetly heard in Gowrie.
Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd!
An' truth and constancy had vow'd,
But cam' nae speed wi' her I lo'ed,
Until she saw fair Gowrie.
I pointed to my faither's ha',
Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw,
Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw;
Wad she no bide in Gowrie?
Her faither was baith glad and wae;
Her mither she wad naething say;
The bairnies thocht they wad get play
If Kitty gaed to Gowrie.
She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet,
The blush and tear were on her cheek;
She naething said, an' hung her head;
But now she's Leddy Gowrie.
[55] There are several other versions of this highly popular song. One
of these, the composition of William Reid of Glasgow, has already been
adduced. See _ante_, p. 157. Another, which is one of the most
celebrated, in the first two verses is nearly the same with the opening
stanzas of Lady Nairn's version, the sequel proceeding as follows:--
I praised her beauty loud an' lang,
Then round her waist my arms I flang,
And said, "My dearie, will ye gang
To see the Carse o' Gowrie?
"I'll tak ye to my father's ha',
In yon green field beside the shaw;
I'll mak you lady o' them a'--
The brawest wife in Gowrie."
Soft kisses on her lips I laid,
The blush upon her cheek soon spread;
She whisper'd modestly, and said,
"I'll gang wi' you to Gowrie."
The auld folks soon ga'e their consent,
Syne for Mess John they quickly sent,
Wha tied them to their heart's content,
And now she's Lady Gowrie.
Mr Lyle, in his "Ancient Ballads and Songs" (Lond. 1827, 12mo, p. 138),
presents an additional version, which we subjoin. Mr Lyle remarks, that
he had revised it from an old stall copy, ascribed to Colonel James
Ramsay of Stirling Castle.
THE BONNIE LASS O' GOWRIE.
A wee bit north frae yon green wood,
Whar draps the sunny showerie,
The lofty elm-trees spread their boughs,
To shade the braes o' Gowrie;
An' by yon burn ye scarce can see,
There stan's a rustic bowerie,
Whar lives a lass mair dear to me
Than a' the maids in Gowrie.
Nae gentle bard e'er sang her praise,
'Cause fortune ne'er left dowrie;
The rose blaws sweetest in the shade,
So does the flower o' Gowrie.
When April strews her garlands roun',
Her bare foot treads the flowerie;
Her sang gars a' the woodlands ring,
That shade the braes o' Gowrie.
Her modest blush an' downcast e'e,
A flame sent beating through me;
For she surpasses all I've seen,
This peerless flower o' Gowrie.
I've lain upon the dewy green
Until the evening hourie,
An' thought gin e'er I durst ca' mine
The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.
The bushes that o'erhang the burn,
Sae verdant and sae flowerie,
Can witness that I love alane
The bonnie lass o' Gowrie.
Let ithers dream an' sigh for wealth,
An' fashions fleet and flowery;
Gi'e me that heav'nly innocence
Upon the braes o' Gowrie.
THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH.[56]
There grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard,
And white are the blossoms o't in our kail-yard,
Like wee bit white cockauds to deck our Hieland lads,
And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.
An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
An' it 's hame, an' it 's hame to the north countrie,
Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me,
Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie.
"But were they a' true that were far awa?
Oh! were they a' true that were far awa'?
They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha',
And forgot auld frien's that were far awa.
"Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye 've been,
Ye 'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green;
Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha',
And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'."
"I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green,
I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean,
Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa',
And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'."
* * * * *
The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail-yard;
A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill,
And the bloom 's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kail-yard.
[56] The present is an amended version of an old song, entitled "The
Bonnie Brier Bush," altered and added to by Burns for the "Musical
Museum."
JOHN TOD.
He 's a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod,
He 's a terrible man, John Tod;
He scolds in the house,
He scolds at the door,
He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod,
He scolds on the vera hie road.
The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
The weans a' fear John Tod;
When he 's passing by,
The mithers will cry,--
Here 's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod,
Here 's an ill wean, John Tod.
The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod,
The callants a' fear John Tod;
If they steal but a neep,
The callant he 'll whip,
And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod, John Tod,
It 's unco weel done o' John Tod.
An' saw ye nae wee John Tod, John Tod?
Oh, saw ye nae wee John Tod?
His bannet was blue,
His shoon maistly new,
An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod,
Oh, weel does he keep the kirk road.
How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod?
How is he wendin', John Tod?
He 's scourin' the land,
Wi' his rung in his hand,
An' the French wadna frighten John Tod, John Tod,
An' the French wadna frighten John Tod.
Ye 're sun-brunt and batter'd, John Tod, John Tod
Ye 're tantit and tatter'd, John Tod;
Wi' your auld strippit coul,
Ye look maist like a fule,
But there 's nouse i' the lining,[57] John Tod, John Tod,
But there 's nouse i' the lining, John Tod.
He 's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod,
He 's weel respeckit, John Tod;
He 's a terrible man,
But we 'd a' gae wrang
If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod,
If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod.
[57] A familiar Scottish phrase for good sense.
WILL YE NO COME BACK AGAIN?
Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
Safely ower the friendly main;
Mony a heart will break in twa
Should he ne'er come back again.
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no come back again?
Better lo'ed ye canna be--
Will ye no come back again?
Ye trusted in your Hieland men,
They trusted you, dear Charlie!
They kent your hiding in the glen,
Death or exile braving.
Will ye no, &c.
English bribes were a' in vain,
Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be;
Siller canna buy the heart
That beats aye for thine and thee.
Will ye no, &c.
We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour,
We watch'd thee in the mornin' gray;
Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e,
Oh, there is none that wad betray!
Will ye no, &c.
Sweet 's the laverock's note, and lang,
Lilting wildly up the glen;
But aye to me he sings ae sang,
Will ye no come back again?
Will ye no, &c.
JAMIE THE LAIRD.
AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_
Send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink,
Send a fule to the college, ye 'll no mak him think;
Send a craw to the singin', an' still he will craw,
An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava.
Yet is he the pride o' his fond mother's e'e,
In body or mind, nae fau't can she see;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow,
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, I trow;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
His legs they are bow'd, his een they do glee,
His wig, whiles it 's aff, and when on, it 's ajee;
He 's braid as he 's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he,
A dafter-like body I never did see.
An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein',
When that I deny, she 's fear'd at my leein';
Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation,
I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation.
An' oh! she 's a haverin' lucky, &c.
An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun,
An' the wee lairdie trows I 'll hang or I 'll droun.
Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say,
"I 'll maybe tak you, for Bess I 'll no hae,
Nor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie,
Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirlin' wee Beenie."
I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury--
I 'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury.
For oh! what a randy auld luckie is she, &c.
Freen's! gi'e your advice!--I 'll follow your counsel--
Maun I speak to the Provost, or honest Toun Council,
Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors? now say,
For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae.
The hale toun at me are jibin' and jeerin',
For a leddy like me it 's really past bearin';
The lucky maun now hae dune wi' her claverin',
For I 'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'.
For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow,
For oh! she 's a randy, I trow, I trow;
"He 's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man,"
Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang.
SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND.
AIR--_"Happy Land."_
Songs of my native land,
To me how dear!
Songs of my infancy,
Sweet to mine ear!
Entwined with my youthful days,
Wi' the bonny banks and braes,
Where the winding burnie strays,
Murmuring near.
Strains of my native land,
That thrill the soul,
Pouring the magic of
Your soft control!
Often has your minstrelsy
Soothed the pang of misery,
Winging rapid thoughts away
To realms on high.
Weary pilgrims _there_ have rest,
Their wand'rings o'er;
There the slave, no more oppress'd,
Hails Freedom's shore.
Sin shall then no more deface,
Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease,
Ending in eternal peace,
And songs of joy!
There, when the seraphs sing,
In cloudless day;
There, where the higher praise
The ransom'd pay.
Soft strains of the happy land,
Chanted by the heavenly band,
Who can fully understand
How sweet ye be!
CASTELL GLOOM.[58]
Oh, Castell Gloom! thy strength is gone,
The green grass o'er thee growin';
On hill of _Care_ thou art alone,
The _Sorrow_ round thee flowin'.
Oh, Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's
Nae banners now are streamin',
The houlet flits amang thy ha's,
And wild birds there are screamin'.
Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime,
Frae civil war that flows;
Oh! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,
And mourn the great Montrose.
Here ladies bright were aften seen,
Here valiant warriors trod;
And here great Knox has aften been,
Wha fear'd nought but his God!
But a' are gane! the guid, the great,
And naething now remains,
But ruin sittin' on thy wa's,
And crumblin' down the stanes.
Oh! mourn the woe, &c.
Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow,
Though sleepin' was the sun;
But mornin's light did sadly show,
What ragin' flames had done.
Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud,
That hung o'er thy wild wood!
Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,
And all was solitude.
Oh! mourn the woe, &c.
[58] Castle Gloom, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of
the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the
middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burnt by the Marquis of
Montrose--an enterprise to which he was excited by the Ogilvies, who
thus sought revenge for the destruction, by the Marquis of Argyll, of
the "bonnie house of Airlie." The castle is situated on a promontory of
the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannanshire, and
has long been in the ruinous condition described in the song. Two hill
rivulets, designated _Sorrow_ and _Care_, proceed on either side of the
castle promontory. John Knox, the Reformer, for some time resided in
Castle Gloom, with Archibald, fourth Earl of Argyll, and here preached
the Reformed doctrines.
BONNIE GASCON HA'.
Lane, on the winding Earn there stands
An unco tow'r, sae stern an' auld,
Biggit by lang forgotten hands,
Ance refuge o' the Wallace bauld.
Time's restless fingers sair hath waur'd
And rived thy gray disjaskit wa',
But rougher hands nor Time's hae daur'd
To wrang thee, bonnie Gascon Ha'!
Oh, may a muse unkent to fame
For this dim greesome relic sue,
It 's linkit wi' a patriot's name,
The truest Scotland ever knew.
Just leave in peace each mossy stane
Tellin' o' nations' rivalry,
An' for succeeding ages hain
Remains o' Scottish chivalry.
* * * * *
What though no monument to thee
Is biggit by thy country's hand;
Engraved are thy immortal deeds
On every heart o' this braid land.
Rude Time may monuments ding doun,
An' tow'rs an' wa's maun a' decay;
Enduring, deathless, noble chief,
Thy name can never pass away!
Gi'e pillar'd fame to common men,--
Nae need o' cairns for ane like thee;
In every cave, wood, hill, and glen,
"WALLACE" remember'd aye shall be.
THE AULD HOUSE.
Oh, the auld house, the auld house!
What though the rooms were wee?
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there,
And bairnies fu' o' glee!
The wild-rose and the jesamine
Still hang upon the wa';
How mony cherish'd memories
Do they, sweet flowers, reca'!
Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird!
Sae canty, kind, and crouse;
How mony did he welcome to
His ain wee dear auld house!
And the leddy too, sae genty,
There shelter'd Scotland's heir,
And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand
Frae his lang yellow hair.
The mavis still doth sweetly sing,
The blue bells sweetly blaw,
The bonnie Earn 's clear winding still,
But the auld house is awa'.
The auld house, the auld house,
Deserted though ye be,
There ne'er can be a new house,
Will seem sae fair to me.
Still flourishing the auld pear tree
The bairnies liked to see,
And oh, how aften did they speir
When ripe they a' wad be!
The voices sweet, the wee bit feet
Aye rinnin' here and there,
The merry shout--oh! whiles we greet
To think we 'll hear nae mair.
For they are a' wide scatter'd now,
Some to the Indies gane,
And ane, alas! to her lang hame;
Not here we 'll meet again.
The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird,
Wi' flowers o' every hue,
Shelter'd by the holly's shade,
An' the dark sombre yew.
The setting sun, the setting sun,
How glorious it gaed down;
The cloudy splendour raised our hearts
To cloudless skies aboon!
The auld dial, the auld dial,
It tauld how time did pass;
The wintry winds hae dung it down,--
Now hid 'mang weeds and grass.
THE HUNDRED PIPERS.[59]
AIR--_"Hundred Pipers."_
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We 'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
Oh, we 'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle ha',
Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.
Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw,
Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',
Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glittrin' gear,
An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.
Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?
Oh, second-sighted Sandie look'd fu' wae,
An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away.
Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?
Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',
Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,
His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;
The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,
While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!
Wi' his hundred pipers, &c.
The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.
Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a',
Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa',
Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
Wi' a hundred pipers, &c.
[59] "Charles Edward entered Carlisle preceded by a hundred pipers. Two
thousand Highlanders crossed the Esk, at Longtown; the tide being
swollen, nothing was seen of them but their heads and shoulders; they
stemmed the force of the stream, and lost not a man in the passage: when
landed, the pipers struck up, and they danced reels until they were dry
again."--_Authentic Account of Occupation of Carlisle, by George G.
Monsey._
THE WOMEN ARE A' GANE WUD.[60]
The women are a' gane wud,
Oh, that he had biden awa'!
He 's turn'd their heads, the lad,
And ruin will bring on us a'.
George was a peaceable man,
My wife she did doucely behave;
But now dae a' that I can,
She 's just as wild as the lave.
My wife she wears the cockade,
Tho' I 've bidden her no to do sae,
She has a true friend in her maid,
And they ne'er mind a word that I say.
The wild Hieland lads as they pass,
The yetts wide open do flee;
They eat the very house bare,
And nae leave 's speer'd o' me.
I 've lived a' my days in the Strath
Now Tories infest me at hame,
And tho' I tak nae side at a',
Baith sides will gae me the blame.
The senseless creturs ne'er think
What ill the lad wad bring back;
The Pope we 'd hae, and the d--l,
And a' the rest o' his pack.
[60] These verses are printed from a MS. in possession of one of Lady
Nairn's friends, and are, the Editor believes, for the first time
published.
JEANIE DEANS.[61]
St Leonard's hill was lightsome land,
Where gowan'd grass was growin',
For man and beast were food and rest,
And milk and honey flowin'.
A father's blessing follow'd close,
Where'er her foot was treading,
And Jeanie's humble, hamely joys
On every side were spreading wide,
On every side were spreading.
The mossy turf on Arthur's Seat,
St Anthon's well aye springin';
The lammies playing at her feet,
The birdies round her singin'.
The solemn haunts o' Holyrood,
Wi' bats and hoolits eerie,
The tow'ring crags o' Salisbury,
The lowly wells o' Weary, O[62]
The lowly wells o' Weary.
But evil days and evil men,
Came ower their sunny dwellin',
Like thunder-storms on sunny skies,
Or wastefu' waters swellin'.
What aince was sweet is bitter now,
The sun of joy is setting;
In eyes that wont to glame wi' glee,
The briny tear is wetting fast,
The briny tear is wetting.
Her inmost thoughts to Heaven is sent,
In faithful supplication;
Her earthly stay 's Macallummore,
The guardian o' the nation.
A hero's heart--a sister's love--
A martyr's truth unbending;
They 're a' in Jeanie's tartan plaid--
And she is gane, her leefu' lane,
To Lunnon toun she 's wending!
[61] The romantic scenery depicted in this song is in the immediate
vicinity of the Queen's Drive, Edinburgh.
[62] The wells of Weary are situated near the Windyknowe, beneath
Salisbury Crags.
THE HEIRESS.[63]
GAELIC AIR--_"Mo Leannan Falnich."_
I 'll no be had for naething,
I 'll no be had for naething,
I tell ye, lads, that 's ae thing,
So ye needna follow me.
Oh, the change is most surprising,
Last year I was plain Betty Brown,
Now to me they 're a' aspiring,--
The fair Elizabeth I am grown!
What siller does is most amazing,
Nane o' them e'er look'd at me,
Now my charms they a' are praising,
For my sake they 're like to dee.
The Laird, the Shirra, and the Doctor,
Wi' twa three Lords o' high degree;
Wi' heaps o' Writers I could mention--
Oh, surely this is no me!
But I 'll no, &c.
The yett is now for ever ringing,
Showers o' valentines aye bringing,
Fill'd wi' Cupids, flames, and darts,
Fae auld and young, wi' broken hearts.
The siller, O the weary siller!
Aft in toil and trouble sought,
But better far it should be sae,
Than that true hearts should e'er be bought.
Sae I 'll no, &c.
But there is ane, when I had naething,
A' his heart he gi'ed to me;
And sair he toil'd for a wee thing,
To bring me when he cam frae sea.
If ever I should marry ony,
He will be the lad for me;
For he was baith gude and bonny,
And he thought the same o' me.
Sae I 'll no, &c.
[63] This song is printed from an improved version of the original, by a
literary friend of the author.
THE MITHERLESS LAMMIE.
The mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie,
We tentit it kindly by night and by day,
The bairnies made game o't, it had a blithe hame o't,
Its food was the gowan--its music was "_mai_."
Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better,
But it would gae witless the world to see;
The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not,
Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea.
Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it,
Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly;
He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie,
And left its kind hame the wide world to try.
We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in',
Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree,
Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin';
'T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea.
THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES.[64]
Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains,
To tell o' hame-made sorrow,
And if they cheat you o' your tears,
They 'll dry upon the morrow.
Oh, some will sing their airy dreams,
In verity they're sportin',
My sang 's o' nae sic thieveless themes,
But wakin' true misfortune.
Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a',
For loyalty attainted,
A nameless bardie 's wae to see
Your sorrows unlamented;
For if your fathers ne'er had fought
For heirs of ancient royalty,
Ye 're down the day that might hae been
At the top o' honour's tree a'.
For old hereditary right,
For conscience' sake they stoutly stood;
And for the crown their valiant sons
Themselves have shed their injured blood;
And if their fathers ne'er had fought
For heirs of ancient royalty,
They 're down the day that might hae been
At the top o' honour's tree a'.
[64] This song having become known to George IV., it is said to have
induced his Majesty to award the royal sanction for the restitution of
the title of Baron to Lady Nairn's husband.--(See Memoir.)
TRUE LOVE IS WATERED AYE WI' TEARS.[65]
True love is water'd aye wi' tears,
It grows 'neath stormy skies,
It 's fenced around wi' hopes and fears
An' fann'd wi' heartfelt sighs.
Wi' chains o' gowd it will no be bound,
Oh! wha the heart can buy?
The titled glare, the warldling's care,
Even absence 'twill defy,
Even absence 'twill defy.
And time, that kills a' ither things,
His withering touch 'twill brave,
'Twill live in joy, 'twill live in grief,
'Twill live beyond the grave!
'Twill live, 'twill live, though buried deep,
In true heart's memorie--
Oh! we forgot that ane sae fair,
Sae bricht, sae young, could dee,
Sae young could dee.
Unfeeling hands may touch the chord
Where buried griefs do lie--
How many silent agonies
May that rude touch untie!
But, oh! I love that plaintive lay--
That dear auld melodie!
For, oh, 'tis sweet!--yet I maun greet,
For it was sung by thee,
Sung by thee!
They may forget wha lichtly love,
Or feel but beauty's chain;
But they wha loved a heavenly mind
Can never love again!
A' my dreams o' warld's guid
Aye were turn'd wi' thee,
But I leant on a broken reed
Which soon was ta'en frae me,
Ta'en frae me.
'Tis weel, 'tis weel, we dinna ken
What we may live to see,
'Twas Mercy's hand that hung the veil
O'er sad futurity!
Oh, ye whose hearts are scathed and riven,
Wha feel the warld is vain,
Oh, fix your broken earthly ties
Where they ne'er will break again,
Break again!
[65] Here first printed.
AH, LITTLE DID MY MOTHER THINK.[66]
Ah, little did my mother think
When to me she sung,
What a heartbreak I would be,
Her young and dautit son.
And oh! how fond she was o' me
In plaid and bonnet braw,
When I bade farewell to the north countrie,
And marching gaed awa!
Ah! little did my mother think
A banish'd man I 'd be,
Sent frae a' my kith and kin,
Them never mair to see.
Oh! father, 'twas the sugar'd drap
Aft ye did gi'e to me,
That has brought a' this misery
Baith to you and me.
[66] These verses are here first printed.
WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?[67]
AIR--_"Ailen Aroon."_
Would you be young again?
So would not I--
One tear to memory given,
Onward I 'd hie.
Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
Night's gloomy watches fled,
Morning all beaming red,
Hope's smiles around us shed,
Heavenward--away.
Where, then, are those dear ones,
Our joy and delight?
Dear and more dear though now
Hidden from sight.
Where they rejoice to be,
There is the land for me;
Fly, time, fly speedily;
Come, life and light.
[67] This song was composed in 1842, when the author had attained her
seventy-sixth year. The four lays following, breathing the same
devotional spirit, appear to have been written about the same period of
the author's life. The present song is printed from the original MS.
REST IS NOT HERE.
What 's this vain world to me?
Rest is not here;
False are the smiles I see,
The mirth I hear.
Where is youth's joyful glee?
Where all once dear to me?
Gone, as the shadows flee--
Rest is not here.
Why did the morning shine
Blythely and fair?
Why did those tints so fine
Vanish in air?
Does not the vision say,
Faint, lingering heart, away,
Why in this desert stay--
Dark land of care!
Where souls angelic soar,
Thither repair;
Let this vain world no more
Lull and ensnare.
That heaven I love so well
Still in my heart shall dwell;
All things around me tell
Rest is found there.
HERE'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE.
AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I lo'e weel."_
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here 's to them, to them that are gane;
Here 's to them that were here, the faithful and dear,
That will never be here again--no, never.
But where are they now that are gane?
Oh, where are the faithful and true?
They 're gane to the light that fears not the night,
An' their day of rejoicing shall end--no, never.
Here 's to them, to them that were here;
Here 's to them, to them that were here;
Here 's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that 's gane by,
But 'twas ne'er like what 's coming, to last--for ever.
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Oh, bright was their morning sun!
Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down;
But the storm and the cloud are now past--for ever.
Fareweel, fareweel! parting silence is sad;
Oh, how sad the last parting tear!
But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek
Can bedim the bright vision again--no, never.
Then, speed to the wings of old Time,
That waft us where pilgrims would be;
To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest,
Where the full tide of glory shall flow--for ever.
FAREWEEL, O FAREWEEL!
GAELIC AIR.
Fareweel, O fareweel!
My heart it is sair;
Fareweel, O fareweel!
I 'll see him nae mair.
Lang, lang was he mine,
Lang, lang--but nae mair;
I mauna repine,
But my heart it is sair.
His staff 's at the wa',
Toom, toom is his chair!
His bannet, an' a'!
An' I maun be here!
But oh! he 's at rest,
Why sud I complain?
Gin my soul be blest,
I 'll meet him again.
Oh, to meet him again,
Where hearts ne'er were sair!
Oh, to meet him again,
To part never mair!
THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.[68]
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But weep not for him who is gone to his rest,
Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest.
The sun is not set, but is risen on high,
Nor long in corruption his body shall lie--
Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow,
Nor the music of heaven be discord below;
Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord,
Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord.
Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament,
Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent;
But give to the living thy passion of tears
Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears,
Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost,
By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd.
Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more,
Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er;
Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord,
And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord.
[68] These stanzas are printed for the first time. The MS. is not in
Lady Nairn's handwriting, but there is every reason to assign to her the
authorship.
JAMES NICOL.
James Nicol, the son of Michael Nicol and Marion Hope, was born at
Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769.
Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the
parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh,
where he pursued study with unflinching assiduity and success. On
completing his academical studies, he was licensed as a probationer by
the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as an
assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of
Innerleithen; and on the death of the incumbent, Mr Nicol succeeded to
the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the
ministerial office; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he
espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, and the sister of his
immediate predecessor, who had for a considerable period possessed a
warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical
reveries. He had for some time been in the habit of communicating verses
to the _Edinburgh Magazine_; and he afterwards published a collection of
"Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo.
This publication, which was well received, contains some lyrical
effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern
cultivators of national poetry; yet it is to be regretted that a deep
admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of
that immortal bard.
At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement.
He read extensively; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his
daily habit. He was never robust, being affected with a chronic disorder
of the stomach; and when sickness prevented him, as occasionally
happened, from writing in a sitting posture, he would for hours together
have devoted himself to composition in a standing position. Of his prose
writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS.,
in the possession of his elder son. During his lifetime, he contributed
a number of articles to the _Edinburgh Encyclopædia_, among which are
"Baptism," "Baptistry," "Baptists," "Bithynia," and "Cranmer." His
posthumous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture
Sacrifices," was published in an octavo volume in the year 1823.
Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of
business, as well as for his benevolent disposition. Every dispute in
the vicinity was submitted to his adjudication, and his counsel checked
all differences in the district. He was regularly consulted as a
physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own
medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick; and
without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were
brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November
1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son
predeceased him; two sons and two daughters still survive. The elder
son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Civil and
Natural History in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and is well known as a
geologist. Mrs Nicol survived her husband till the 19th of March 1845.
BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES.
Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur,
Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree;
'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer,
The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e.
For pensive I ponder, and languishin' wander,
Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream!
Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish?
Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair?
When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish!--
That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair?
Since here life 's a desert, an' pleasure 's a dream,
Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme,
Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's returnin',
Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream.
BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN' STREAM.
By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam,
Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e;
Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour,
When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me.
The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made,
When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gie;
An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray,
An' repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me.
Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an' scent the whisperin' gales,
An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly-bloomin' tree;
Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice,
For the laddie 's far awa' that is dear, dear to me!
When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang,
An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e,
My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear?
But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me.
Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall hae the power,
To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee!
Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home,
The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me.
But if--for much I fear--that day will ne'er appear,
Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree;
For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again,
Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me.
HALUCKIT MEG.
Meg, muckin' at Geordie's byre,
Wrought as gin her judgment was wrang;
Ilk daud o' the scartle strake fire,
While loud as a lavrock she sang.
Her Geordie had promised to marry,
An' Meg, a sworn fae to despair,
Not dreamin' the job could miscarry,
Already seem'd mistress an' mair.
"My neebours," she sang, "aften jeer me,
An' ca' me daft haluckit Meg,
An' say they expect soon to hear me,
I' the kirk, for my fun, get a fleg.
An' now, 'bout my marriage they 'll clatter,
An' Geordie, puir fallow, they ca'
An auld doited hav'rel,--nae matter,
He 'll keep me aye brankin an' braw.
"I grant ye, his face is kenspeckle,
That the white o' his e'e is turn'd out,
That his black beard is rough as a heckle,
That his mou' to his lug 's rax'd about;
But they needna let on that he 's crazie,
His pikestaff will ne'er let him fa';
Nor that his hair 's white as a daisy,
For fient a hair has he ava'.
"But a weel-plenish'd mailin has Geordie,
An' routh o' gude gowd in his kist,
An' if siller comes at my wordie,
His beauty I never will miss 't.
Daft gowks, wha catch fire like tinder,
Think love-raptures ever will burn?
But wi' poortith, hearts het as a cinder,
Will cauld as an iceshugle turn.
"There 'll just be ae bar to my pleasures,
A bar that 's aft fill'd me wi' fear,
He 's sic a hard near-be-gawn miser,
He likes his saul less than his gear.
But though I now flatter his failin',
An' swear nought wi' gowd can compare,
Gude sooth! it shall soon get a scailin',
His bags sall be mouldie nae mair!
"I dreamt that I rode in a chariot,
A flunkie ahint me in green;
While Geordie cried out he was harriet,
An' the saut tear was blindin' his een.
But though 'gainst my spendin' he swear aye,
I'll hae frae him what ser's my turn;
Let him slip awa' whan he grows wearie;
Shame fa' me, gin lang I wad mourn!"
But Geordie, while Meg was haranguin',
Was cloutin' his breeks i' the bauks;
An' whan a' his failin's she brang in,
His strang hazel pikestaff he taks,
Designin' to rax her a lounder,
He chanced on the lather to shift,
An' down frae the bauks, flat 's a flounder,
Flew like a shot starn frae the lift!
MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE.
My dear little lassie, why, what 's a' the matter?
My heart it gangs pittypat--winna lie still;
I 've waited, and waited, an' a' to grow better,
Yet, lassie, believe me, I 'm aye growin' ill!
My head 's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I 'm speakin',
I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak;
I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin',
Yet, lassie, I kenna weel what I would seek.
Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of,
And yet, when to ruse ye the neebour lads try--
Though it 's a' true they tell ye--yet never sae far off
I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why.
When we tedded the hayfield, I raked ilka rig o't,
And never grew weary the lang simmer day;
The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit,
And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay.
In har'st, whan the kirn-supper joys mak us cheerie,
'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou';
Dear save us! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye--
My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how.
When we dance at the gloamin', it 's you I aye pitch on;
And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be!
There 's something, dear lassie, about ye bewitching,
That tells me my happiness centres in thee.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
James Montgomery, the spiritual character of whose writings has gained
him the honourable designation of the Christian Poet, was born at
Irvine, in the county of Ayr, on the 4th of November 1771. His father,
John Montgomery, was a missionary of the Moravian Brethren, and in this
capacity came to Irvine from Ireland, only a few days before the birth
of James, his eldest son. In his fourth year he returned to Ireland with
his parents, and received the rudiments of his education from the
village schoolmaster of Grace Hill, a settlement of the Moravian
Brethren in the county of Antrim. In October 1777, in his seventh year,
he was placed by his father in the seminary of the Moravian settlement
of Fulneck, near Leeds; and on the departure of his parents to the West
Indies, in 1783, he was committed to the care of the Brethren, with the
view of his being trained for their Church. He was not destined to see
his parents again. His mother died at Barbadoes, in November 1790, and
his father after an interval of eight months.
In consequence of his indolent habits, which were incorrigible, young
Montgomery was removed from the seminary at Fulneck, and placed in the
shop of a baker at Mirfield, in the vicinity. He was then in his
sixteenth year; and having already afforded evidence of a refined
taste, both in poetry and music, though careless of the ordinary routine
of scholastic instruction, his new occupation was altogether uncongenial
to his feelings. He, however, remained about eighteen months in the
baker's service, but at length made a hasty escape from Mirfield, with
only three shillings and sixpence in his pocket, and seemingly without
any scheme except that of relieving himself from an irksome employment.
But an accidental circumstance speedily enabled him to obtain an
engagement with a shopkeeper in Wath, now a station on the railway
between London and Leeds; and in procuring this employment, he was
indebted to the recommendation of his former master, whose service he
had unceremoniously quitted. But this new situation had few advantages
over the old, and he relinquished it in about a year to try his fortune
in the metropolis. He had previously sent a manuscript volume of poetry
to Harrison, the bookseller of Paternoster Row, who, while declining to
publish it, commended the author's talents, and so far promoted his
views as now to receive him into his establishment. But Montgomery's
aspirations had no reference to serving behind a counter; he only
accepted a place in the bookseller's establishment that he might have an
opportunity of leisurely feeling his way as an author. His literary
efforts, however, still proved fruitless. He composed essays and tales,
and wrote a romance in the manner of Fielding, but none of his
productions could find a publisher. Mortified by his failures, he
quitted London in eight months, and returned to the shop of his former
employer at Wath. After the interval of another year, he proceeded to
Sheffield, to occupy a situation under Mr Joseph Gales, a bookseller,
and the proprietor of the _Register_ newspaper.
Montgomery was now in his twenty-first year, and fortune at length
began, though with many lowering intervals, to smile upon his youthful
aspirations. Though he occupied a subordinate post in Mr Gales'
establishment, his literary services were accepted for the _Register_,
in which he published many of his earlier compositions, both in prose
and verse. This journal had advocated sentiments of an ultra-liberal
order, and commanding a wide circulation and a powerful influence among
the operatives in Sheffield, had been narrowly inspected by the
authorities. At length the proprietor fell into the snare of
sympathising in the transactions of the French revolutionists; he was
prosecuted for sedition, and deemed himself only safe from compulsory
exile by a voluntary exit to America. This event took place about two
years after Montgomery's first connexion with Sheffield, and he had now
reverted to his former condition of abject dependence unless for a
fortunate occurrence. This was no less than his being appointed
joint-proprietor and editor of the newspaper by a wealthy individual,
who, noticing the abilities of the young shopman, purchased the
copyright with the view of placing the management entirely in his hands.
The first number of the newspaper under the poet's care, the name being
changed to that of _The Sheffield Iris_, appeared in July 1794; and
though the principles of the journal were moderate and conciliatory in
comparison with the democratic sentiments espoused by the former
publisher, the jealous eye of the authorities rested on its new
conductor. He did not escape their vigilance; for the simple offence of
printing for a ballad-vender some verses of a song celebrating the fall
of the Bastile, he was libelled as "a wicked, malicious, seditious, and
evil-disposed person;" and being tried before the Doncaster Quarter
Sessions, in January 1795, was sentenced to three months' imprisonment
in the Castle of York. He was condemned to a second imprisonment of six
months in the autumn of the same year, for inserting in his paper an
account of a riot in the place, in which he was considered to have cast
aspersions on a colonel of volunteers. The calm mind of the poet did not
sink under these persecutions, and some of his best lyrics were composed
during the period of his latter confinement. During his first detention
he wrote a series of interesting essays for his newspaper. His "Prison
Amusements," a series of beautiful pieces, appeared in 1797. In 1805, he
published his poem, "The Ocean;" in 1806, "The Wanderer in Switzerland;"
in 1808, "The West Indies;" and in 1812, "The World before the Flood."
In 1819 he published "Greenland, a Poem, in Five Cantos;" and in 1825
appeared "The Pelican Island, and other Poems." Of all those
productions, "The Wanderer in Switzerland" attained the widest
circulation; and, notwithstanding an unfavourable and injudicious
criticism in the _Edinburgh Review_, at once procured an honourable
place for the author among his contemporaries. He became sole proprietor
of the _Iris_ in one year after his being connected with it, and he
continued to conduct this paper till September 1825, when he retired
from public duty. He subsequently contributed articles for different
periodicals; but he chiefly devoted himself to the moral and religious
improvement of his fellow-townsmen. A pension of £150 on the civil list
was conferred upon him as an acknowledgment of his services in behalf of
literature and of philanthropy; a well-merited public boon which for
many years he was spared to enjoy. He died at his residence, The Mount,
Sheffield, on the 30th of April 1854, in the eighty-second year of his
age. He bequeathed handsome legacies to various public charities. His
Poetical Works, in a collected form, were published in 1850 by the
Messrs Longman, in one octavo volume; and in 1853 he gave to the world
his last work, being "Original Hymns, for Public, Private, and Social
Devotion." Copious memoirs of his life are now in the course of
publication.
As a poet, Montgomery is conspicuous for the smoothness of his
versification, and for the fervent piety pervading all his compositions.
As a man, he was gentle and conciliatory, and was remarkable as a
generous promoter of benevolent institutions. The general tendency of
his poems was thus indicated by himself, in the course of an address
which he made at a public dinner, given him at Sheffield, in November
1825, immediately after the toast of his health being proposed by the
chairman, Lord Viscount Milton, now Earl Fitzwilliam:--
"I sang of war--but it was the war of freedom, in which death was
preferred to chains. I sang the abolition of the slave trade, that
most glorious decree of the British Legislature at any period since
the Revolution, by the first Parliament in which you, my Lord, sat
as the representative of Yorkshire. Oh, how should I rejoice to
sing the abolition of slavery itself by some Parliament of which
your Lordship shall yet be a member! This greater act of righteous
legislation is surely not too remote to be expected even in our own
day. Renouncing the slave trade was only 'ceasing to do evil;'
extinguishing slavery will be 'learning to do well.' Again, I sang
of love--the love of country, the love of my own country; for,
'Next to heaven above,
Land of my fathers! thee I love;
And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
With all thy faults I love thee still.'
I sang, likewise, the love of home--its charities, endearments and
relationships--all that makes 'Home sweet Home,' the recollection
of which, when the air of that name was just now played from yonder
gallery, warmed every heart throughout this room into quicker
pulsations. I sang the love which man ought to bear towards his
brother, of every kindred, and country, and clime upon earth. I
sang the love of virtue, which elevates man to his true standard
under heaven. I sang, too, the love of God, who _is_ love. Nor did
I sing in vain. I found readers and listeners, especially among the
young, the fair, and the devout; and as youth, beauty, and piety
will not soon cease out of the land, I may expect to be remembered
through another generation at least, if I leave anything behind me
worthy of remembrance. I may add that, from every part of the
British empire, from every quarter of the world where our language
is spoken--from America, the East and West Indies, from New
Holland, and the South Sea Islands themselves--I have received
testimonies of approbation from all ranks and degrees of readers,
hailing what I had done, and cheering me forward. I allude not to
criticisms and eulogiums from the press, but to voluntary
communications from unknown correspondents, coming to me like
voices out of darkness, and giving intimation of that which the ear
of a poet is always hearkening onward to catch--the voice of
posterity."
"FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH."
When "Friendship, Love, and Truth" abound
Among a band of brothers,
The cup of joy goes gaily round,
Each shares the bliss of others.
Sweet roses grace the thorny way
Along this vale of sorrow;
The flowers that shed their leaves to-day
Shall bloom again to-morrow.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
On halcyon wings our moments pass,
Life's cruel cares beguiling;
Old Time lays down his scythe and glass,
In gay good-humour smiling:
With ermine beard and forelock gray,
His reverend part adorning,
He looks like Winter turn'd to May,
Night soften'd into Morning.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
From these delightful fountains flow
Ambrosial rills of pleasure;
Can man desire, can Heaven bestow,
A more resplendent treasure?
Adorn'd with gems so richly bright,
Will form a constellation,
Where every star, with modest light,
Shall gild its proper station.
How grand in age, how fair in youth,
Are holy "Friendship, Love, and Truth!"
THE SWISS COWHERD'S SONG IN A FOREIGN LAND.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth--
The loveliest land on the face of the earth?
When shall I those scenes of affection explore,
Our forests, our fountains,
Our hamlets, our mountains,
With pride of our mountains, the maid I adore?
Oh, when shall I dance on the daisy-white mead,
In the shade of an elm, to the sound of a reed?
When shall I return to that lowly retreat,
Where all my fond objects of tenderness meet,--
The lambs and the heifers, that follow my call,
My father, my mother,
My sister, my brother,
And dear Isabella, the joy of them all?
Oh, when shall I visit the land of my birth?--
'Tis the loveliest land on the face of the earth.
GERMAN WAR-SONG.[69]
Heaven speed the righteous sword,
And freedom be the word;
Come, brethren, hand in hand,
Fight for your fatherland.
Germania from afar
Invokes her sons to war;
Awake! put forth your powers,
And victory must be ours.
On to the combat, on!
Go where your sires have gone;
Their might unspent remains,
Their pulse is in our veins.
On to the battle, on!
Rest will be sweet anon;
The slave may yield, may fly,--
We conquer, or we die!
O Liberty! thy form
Shines through the battle-storm.
Away with fear, away!
Let justice win the day.
[69] The simple and sublime original of these stanzas, with the fine air
by Hümmel, became the national song of Germany, and was sung by the
soldiers especially, during the latter campaigns of the war, when
Buonaparte was twice dethroned, and Europe finally delivered from French
predominance.
VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.
Night turns to day:--
When sullen darkness lowers,
And heaven and earth are hid from sight,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Ere long the opening flowers,
With dewy eyes, shall shine in light.
Storms die in calms:--
When over land and ocean
Roll the loud chariots of the wind,
Cheer up, cheer up;
The voice of wild commotion,
Proclaims tranquillity behind.
Winter wakes spring:--
When icy blasts are blowing
O'er frozen lakes, through naked trees,
Cheer up, cheer up;
All beautiful and glowing,
May floats in fragrance on the breeze.
War ends in peace:--
Though dread artillery rattle,
And ghostly corses load the ground,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Where groan'd the field of battle,
The song, the dance, the feast, go round.
Toil brings repose:--
With noontide fervours beating,
When droop thy temples o'er thy breast,
Cheer up, cheer up;
Gray twilight, cool and fleeting,
Wafts on its wing the hour of rest.
Death springs to life:--
Though brief and sad thy story,
Thy years all spent in care and gloom,
Look up, look up;
Eternity and glory
Dawn through the portals of the tomb.
VERSES TO A ROBIN RED-BREAST,
WHICH VISITS THE WINDOW OF MY PRISON EVERY DAY.
Welcome, pretty little stranger!
Welcome to my lone retreat!
Here, secure from every danger,
Hop about, and chirp, and eat:
Robin! how I envy thee,
Happy child of Liberty!
Now, though tyrant Winter, howling,
Shakes the world with tempests round,
Heaven above with vapours scowling,
Frost imprisons all the ground:
Robin! what are these to thee?
Thou art bless'd with liberty.
Though yon fair majestic river[70]
Mourns in solid icy chains,
Though yon flocks and cattle shiver
On the desolated plains:
Robin! thou art gay and free,
Happy in thy liberty.
Hunger never shall disturb thee,
While my rates one crumb afford;
Colds nor cramps shall ne'er oppress thee;
Come and share my humble board:
Robin! come and live with me--
Live, yet still at liberty.
Soon shall Spring, in smiles and blushes,
Steal upon the blooming year;
Then, amid the enamour'd bushes,
Thy sweet song shall warble clear:
Then shall I, too, join with thee--
Swell the hymn of Liberty.
Should some rough, unfeeling dobbin,
In this iron-hearted age,
Seize thee on thy nest, my Robin,
And confine thee in a cage,
Then, poor prisoner! think of me--
Think, and sigh for liberty.
[70] The Ouse.
SLAVERY THAT WAS.
Ages, ages have departed,
Since the first dark vessel bore
Afric's children, broken-hearted,
To the Caribbéan shore;
She, like Rachel,
Weeping, for they were no more.
Millions, millions, have been slaughter'd,
In the fight and on the deep;
Millions, millions more have water'd,
With such tears as captives weep,
Fields of travail,
Where their bones till doomsday sleep.
Mercy, Mercy, vainly pleading,
Rent her garments, smote her breast,
Till a voice from Heaven proceeding,
Gladden'd all the gloomy west,--
"Come, ye weary,
Come, and I will give you rest!"
Tidings, tidings of salvation!
Britons rose with one accord,
Purged the plague-spot from our nation,
Negroes to their rights restored;
Slaves no longer,
_Freemen,--freemen_ of the _Lord_.
ANDREW SCOTT.
Andrew Scott, known as the author of the popular ballad of "Symon and
Janet," has claims to a wider reputation. He was born of humble
parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in the year 1757. He
was early employed as a cowherd; and he has recorded, in a sketch of his
own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses
on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile
predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet
copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the
close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon
thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming
propensities continued; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing
verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the
conclusion of the American campaigns, he returned with the army to
Britain; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in
his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his
own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously
applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An
intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his
verses, now recommended him to attempt a publication--a counsel which
induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in
1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he
published "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," Kelso, 18mo; another
duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821; and his last work,
entitled "Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last
volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe.
The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the
composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon hills,
the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the
inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and
ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, however,
experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two
miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and
patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of
Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr Baillie of Jerviswoode, Mr John Gibson
Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in
the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence,
extended towards him countenance and assistance.
Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of
an agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of beadle,
or church-officer, of the parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the
eighty-second year of his age; and his remains were interred in the
churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which
he had erected to the memory of his wife. His eldest son holds the
office of schoolmaster of that parish.
The personal appearance of the bard appears to have been prepossessing:
his countenance wore a highly intellectual aspect. Subsequent to the
publication of the first volume of his poems, he was requested to sit
for his portrait by the late Mr George Watson, the well-known
portrait-painter; and who was so well satisfied with the excellence of
his subject, that he exhibited the portrait for a lengthened period in
his studio. It is now in the possession of the author's son at Bowden,
and has been pronounced a masterpiece of art. A badly executed engraving
from it is prefixed to Scott's last two volumes. In manner, the poet was
modest and unassuming, and his utterance was slow and defective. The
songs selected for this work may be regarded as the most favourable
specimens of his muse.[71]
[71] We have to acknowledge our obligations for several particulars of
this sketch to Mr Robert Bower, Melrose, the author of a volume of
"Ballads and Lyrics," published at Edinburgh in 1853.
RURAL CONTENT; OR, THE MUIRLAND FARMER.
AIR--_"The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow."_
I 'm now a guid farmer, I 've acres o' land,
And my heart aye loups light when I 'm viewing o't,
And I hae servants at my command,
And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't.
My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir,
The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door,
And whan the sky low'rs I 'm aye sure o' a show'r,
To moisten my land for the plowin' o't.
Leeze me on the mailin that 's fa'n to my share,
It taks sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't;
I 've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair,
And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't.
A spence and a kitchen my mansionhouse gies,
I 've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please,
Twa bairnies, twa callans, that skelp o'er the leas,
And they 'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't.
My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill,
And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on 't,
And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill,
Frae the loch, whare the wild-ducks are swimmin' o't;
And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days,
My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes,
And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze,
While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
To rank amang farmers I hae muckle pride,
But I mauna speak high when I 'm tellin' o't,
How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride,
Wi' a sample to shew for the sellin' o't.
In blue worset boots that my auld mither span,
I 've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man,
But now they 're flung by, and I 've bought cordivan,
And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't.
Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae--
My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't?--
In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae,
I dink me to try the ridin' o't.
Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear,
And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear,
And I came hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear,
I had sic good luck at the sellin' o't.
Now hairst time is o'er, and a fig for the laird,
My rent 's now secure for the toilin' o't;
My fields are a' bare, and my crap 's in the yard,
And I 'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't.
Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet,
Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet,
Nae mair can he draigle my crap 'mang his feet,
Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't.
And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw,
Fu' snug i' the spence I 'll be viewin' o't,
And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha',
Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't.
My bonny wee wifie, the bairnies, and me,
The peat-stack, and turf-stack our Phoebus shall be,
Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee,
And we 'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't.
And whan the year smiles, and the lavrocks sing,
My man Jock and me shall be doin' o't;
He 'll thrash, and I 'll toil on the fields in the spring,
And turn up the soil at the plowin' o't.
And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw,
The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pickmaw,
Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa,
Then we 'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't.
And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmer morn,
My new crap I 'll keek at the growin' o't;
Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn,
And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't,
On my brick o' fallow my labours I 'll ply,
And view on their pasture my twa bonny kye,
Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy,
Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o't.
Nor need I to envy our braw gentle focks,
Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawing o't,
Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks,
Nor foul their black shoon wi' the plowin' o't:
For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent,
The seasons row round us in rural content;
We 've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent,
And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't.
SYMON AND JANET.
AIR--_"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."_
Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather,
Whare muircocks and plivers are rife,
For mony lang towmond thegither,
There lived an auld man and his wife.
About the affairs o' the nation,
The twasome they seldom were mute;
Bonaparte, the French, and invasion,
Did saur in their wizens like soot.
In winter, when deep are the gutters,
And night's gloomy canopy spread,
Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie,
And lowsin' his buttons for bed.
Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin',
To lock in the door was her care;
She seein' our signals a-blazin',
Came runnin' in, rivin' her hair.
"O Symon, the Frenchmen are landit!
Gae look man, and slip on your shoon;
Our signals I see them extendit,
Like red risin' blaze o' the moon!"
"What plague, the French landit!" quo' Symon,
And clash gaed his pipe to the wa',
"Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin',"
Quo' he, "if they 're landit ava.
"Our youngest son 's in the militia,
Our eldest grandson 's volunteer:
O' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o',
I too in the ranks shall appear."
His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther,
And bang'd down his rusty auld gun;
His bullets he put in the other,
That he for the purpose had run.
Then humpled he out in a hurry,
While Janet his courage bewails,
And cried out, "Dear Symon, be wary!"
And teughly she hang by his tails.
"Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon,
"Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares,
For now to be ruled by a woman,
Nae laurels shall crown my gray hairs."
Quo' Janet, "Oh, keep frae the riot!
Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead;
This aught days I tentit a pyot
Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head.
"And yesterday, workin' my stockin',
And you wi' the sheep on the hill,
A muckle black corbie sat croakin';
I kend it foreboded some ill."
"Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty,
For ere the next sun may gae down,
Wha kens but I 'll shoot Bonaparte,
And end my auld days in renown?"
"Then hear me," quo' Janet, "I pray thee,
I 'll tend thee, love, living or dead,
And if thou should fa' I 'll die wi' thee,
Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed."
Syne aff in a fury he stumpled,
Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun;
At 's curpin auld Janet too humpled,
Awa to the next neighb'rin' town.
There footmen and yeomen paradin',
To scour aff in dirdum were seen,
Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin'
The briny saut tears frae their een.
Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon,
And to the commander he gaes;
Quo' he, "Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man,
And help ye to lounder our faes.
"I 'm auld, yet I 'm teugh as the wire,
Sae we 'll at the rogues have a dash,
And, fegs, if my gun winna fire,
I 'll turn her butt-end, and I 'll thrash."
"Well spoken, my hearty old hero,"
The captain did smiling reply,
But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow,
Till daylight should glent in the sky.
Whatreck, a' the stour cam to naething;
Sae Symon, and Janet his dame,
Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing,
Gaed bannin' the French again hame.
COQUET WATER.
AIR--_"Braw Lads of Gala Water."_
Whan winter winds forget to blaw,
An' vernal suns revive pale nature,
A shepherd lad by chance I saw,
Feeding his flocks by Coquet water.
Saft, saft he sung, in melting lays,
His Mary's charms an' matchless feature,
While echoes answer'd frae the braes,
That skirt the banks of Coquet water.
"Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine,"
Quoth he, "in love's saft wiles I'd daut her;
An' deem mysel' as happy syne,
As landit laird on Coquet water.
"Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam,
In foreign lands their fortune fritter;
But love's pure joys be mine at home,
Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water.
"Gie fine focks wealth, yet what care I,
Gie me her smiles whom I lo'e better;
Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy,
Tending my flocks by Coquet water.
"Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream,
For on thy banks aft hae I met her;
Fair may the bonnie wild-flowers gleam,
That busk the banks of Coquet water."
THE YOUNG MAID'S WISH FOR PEACE.
AIR--_"Far frae Hame," &c._
Fain wad I, fain wad I hae the bloody wars to cease,
An' the nations restored again to unity an' peace;
Then mony a bonnie laddie, that 's now far owre the sea,
Wad return to his lassie, an' his ain countrie.
My lad was call'd awa for to cross the stormy main,
An' to face the battle's bray in the cause of injured Spain;
But in my love's departure hard fate has injured me,
That has reft him frae my arms, an' his ain countrie.
When he bade me adieu, oh! my heart was like to break,
An' the parting tear dropp'd down for my dear laddie's sake;
Kind Heavens protect my Willie, wherever he be,
An' restore him to my arms, an' his ain countrie.
Yes, may the fates defend him upon that hostile shore,
Amid the rage of battle, where thund'ring cannons roar;
In the sad hour of danger, when deadly bullets flee,
Far frae the peacefu' plains of his ain countrie.
Wae 's me, that vice had proven the source of blood an' war,
An' sawn amang the nations the seeds of feud an' jar:
But it was cruel Cain, an' his grim posterity,
First began the bloody wark in their ain countrie.
An' oh! what widows weep, an' helpless orphans cry!
On a far foreign shore now, the dear, dear ashes lie,
Whose life-blood stain'd the gowans of some far foreign lea,
Far frae their kith an' kin, an' their ain countrie.
Hail the day, speed the day, then, when a' the wars are done!
An' may ilk British laddie return wi' laurels won;
On my dear Willie's brows may they flourish bonnily,
An' be wi' the myrtle twined in his ain countrie.
But I hope the time is near, when sweet peace her olive wand
To lay the fiend of war shall soon stretch o'er every land,
When swords turn'd into ploughshares and pruning-hooks shall be,
An' the nations a' live happy in their ain countrie.
THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW.
There was a musician wha play'd a good stick,
He had a sweet wife an' a fiddle,
An' in his profession he had right good luck
At bridals his elbow to diddle.
But ah! the poor fiddler soon chancéd to die,
As a' men to dust must return;
An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her e'e,
That as lang as she lived she wad mourn.
Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat,
Lamenting the day that she saw,
An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat,
That silent now hang on the wa'.
Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek,
Sae newly weel washen wi' tears,
As in came a younker some comfort to speak,
Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears.
"Dear lassie," he cried, "I am smit wi' your charms,
Consent but to marry me now,
I 'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms,
An' I 'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you."
The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said,
"Dear sir, to dissemble I hate,
If we twa thegither are doom'd to be wed,
Folks needna contend against fate."
He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung,
An' put a' the thairms in tune,
The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung,
For her heart lap her sorrows aboon.
Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay,
For death still the dearest maun sever;
For now he 's forgot, an' his widow's fu' gay,
An' his fiddle 's as merry as ever.
LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF.
He 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest,
Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest:
We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver,
Its bright orb to light again no more for ever.
Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray,
Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory;
And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara,
His counsel was sage as was fatal his arrow.
When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed,
Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded,
Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest,
Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest.
Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding,
Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestudding,
Our noble pine 's fall'n, that waved on our mountain,--
Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain.
Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted--
The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed--
Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever,
Whom we shall behold again no more for ever.
THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.
Adieu, lovely Summer! I see thee declining,
I sigh, for thy exit is near;
Thy once glowing beauties by Autumn are pining,
Who now presses hard on thy rear.
The late blowing flowers now thy pale cheek adorning,
Droop sick as they nod on the lea;
The groves, too, are silent, no minstrel of morning
Shrill warbles his song from the tree.
Aurora peeps silent, and sighs a lorn widow,
No warbler to lend her a lay,
No more the shrill lark quits the dew-spangled meadow,
As wont for to welcome the day.
Sage Autumn sits sad now on hill, dale, and valley,
Each landscape how pensive its mien!
They languish, they languish! I see them fade daily,
And losing their liv'ry of green.
O Virtue, come waft me on thy silken pinions,
To where purer streamlets still flow,
Where summer, unceasing, pervades thy dominions,
Nor stormy bleak wint'ry winds blow.
SIR WALTER SCOTT, BART.
Sir Walter Scott, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most
illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of
August 1771. His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was
descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of
Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his
mother's side his progenitors were likewise highly respectable: his
maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice
of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr
Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of
Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a
family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived
infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of the uncommon attribute of
genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to
serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When
scarcely two years old he was seized with an illness which deprived him
of the proper use of his right limb, a loss which continued during his
life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside
with his paternal grandfather, Robert Scott, who rented the farm of
Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, in Roxburghshire.
Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction
through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant; but he had
afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early
acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness,
he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve
months, without experiencing benefit from the mineral waters. During the
three following years he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth
year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border
legends, chiefly derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a
person of a romantic inclination and sprightly intelligence. At this
period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in
Ramsay's "Evergreen," were his favourite studies; and he took delight in
reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages, or
verses, to his mother, who sought every incentive to stimulate his
native propensity. In 1778 he was sent to the High School, where he
possessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able
scholar, and Dr Adam, the distinguished rector. His progress in
scholarship was not equal to his talents; he was already a devotee to
romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend
to some quiet spot in the country, to relate or to listen to a
fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the
prescribed tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, the love of
miscellaneous literature, especially the works of the great masters of
fiction, amounted to a passion; and as his memory was singularly
tenacious, he accumulated a great extent and variety of miscellaneous
information.
On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to
reside with some relations at Kelso; and in this interesting locality
his growing attachment to the national minstrelsy and legendary lore
received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh he entered the
University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in
October 1793. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the
High School, insomuch that Mr Dalziel, the professor of Greek, was
induced to give public expression as to his hopeless incapacity. The
professor fortunately survived to make ample compensation for the
rashness of his prediction.