Cunningham's elder brother Thomas, and his friend Hogg, were already

contributors to the _Scots' Magazine_. Allan made offer of some poetical

pieces to that periodical which were accepted. He first appears in the

magazine in 1807, under the signature of _Hidallan_. In 1809, Mr Cromek,

the London engraver, visited Dumfries, in the course of collecting

materials for his "Reliques of Robert Burns;" he was directed to Allan

Cunningham, as one who, having known Burns personally, and being himself

a poet, was likely to be useful in his researches. On forming his

acquaintance, Cromek at once perceived his important acquisition with

respect to his immediate object, but expressed a desire first to examine

some of his own compositions. Allan acceded to the request, but received

only a moderate share of praise from the pedantic antiquary. Cromek

urged him to collect the elder minstrelsy of Nithsdale and Galloway as

an exercise more profitable than the composition of verses. On returning

to London, Cromek received from his young friend packets of "old songs,"

which called forth his warmest encomiums. He entreated him to come to

London to push his fortune,--an invitation which was readily accepted.

For some time Cunningham was an inmate of Cromek's house, when he was

entrusted with passing through the press the materials which he had

transmitted, with others collected from different sources; and which,

formed into a volume, under the title of "Remains of Nithsdale and

Galloway Song," were published in 1810 by Messrs Cadell and Davies. The

work excited no inconsiderable attention, though most of the readers

perceived, what Cromek had not even suspected, that the greater part of

the ballads were of modern origin. Cromek did not survive to be made

cognizant of the amusing imposition which had been practised on his

credulity.

Fortune did not smile on Cunningham's first entrance into business in

London. He was compelled to resume his former occupation as a mason, and

is said to have laid pavement in Newgate Street. From this humble

position he rose to a situation in the studio of Bubb, the sculptor; and

through the counsel of Eugenius Roche, the former editor of the

"Literary Recreations," and then the conductor of _The Day_ newspaper,

he was induced to lay aside the trowel and undertake the duties of

reporter to that journal. _The Day_ soon falling into the hands of other

proprietors, Cunningham felt his situation uncomfortable, and returned

to his original vocation, attaching himself to Francis Chantrey, then a

young sculptor just commencing business. Chantrey soon rose, and

ultimately attained the summit of professional reputation; Cunningham

continued by him as the superintendent of his establishment till the

period of his death, long afterwards.

Devoted to business, and not unfrequently occupied in the studio from

eight o'clock morning till six o'clock evening, Cunningham perseveringly

followed the career of a poet and man of letters. In 1813, he published

a volume of lyrics, entitled "Songs, chiefly in the Rural Language of

Scotland." After an interval of nine years, sedulously improved by an

ample course of reading, he produced in 1822 "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell, a

Dramatic Poem." In this work, which is much commended by Sir Walter

Scott in the preface to the "Fortunes of Nigel," he depicts the manners

and traditions he had seen and heard on the banks of the Nith. In 1819,

he began to contribute to _Blackwood's Magazine_, and from 1822 to 1824

wrote largely for the _London Magazine_. Two collected volumes of his

contributions to these periodicals were afterwards published, under the

title of "Traditional Tales." In 1825, he gave to the world "The Songs

of Scotland, Ancient and Modern, with an Introduction and Notes," in

four volumes 8vo. This work abounds in much valuable and curious

criticism. "Paul Jones," a romance in three volumes, was the product of

1826; it was eminently successful. A second romance from his pen, "Sir

Michael Scott," published in 1828, in three volumes, did not succeed.

"The Anniversary," a miscellany which appeared in the winter of that

year, under his editorial superintendence, obtained an excellent

reception. From 1829 to 1833, he produced for "Murray's Family Library"

his most esteemed prose work, "The Lives of the Most Eminent British

Painters, Sculptors, and Architects," in six volumes. "The Maid of

Elvar," an epic poem in the Spenserian stanza, connected with the

chivalrous enterprise displayed in the warfare between Scotland and

England, during the reign of Henry VIII., was published in 1832. His

admirable edition of the works of Robert Burns appeared in 1834, and

5000 copies were speedily sold.[8] In 1836, he published "Lord Roldan,"

a romance. From 1830 to 1834, he was a constant writer in _The

Athenæum_, to which, among many interesting articles, he contributed his

sentiments regarding the literary characters of the times, in a series

of papers entitled "Literature of the Last Fifty Years." He wrote a

series of prose descriptions for "Major's Cabinet Gallery," a "History

of the Rise and Progress of the Fine Arts," for the "Popular

Encyclopædia;" an introduction, and a few additional lives, for

"Pilkington's Painters," and a life of Thomson for Tilt's illustrated

edition of "The Seasons." He contemplated a great work, to be entitled

"Lives of the British Poets," and this design, which he did not live to

accomplish, is likely to be realised by his son, Mr Peter Cunningham.

His last publication was the "Life of Sir David Wilkie," which he

completed just two days before his death. He was suddenly seized with an

apoplectic attack, and died after a brief illness on the 29th October

1842. His remains were interred in Kensal-green Cemetery. He had

married, in July 1811, Miss Jane Walker of Preston Mill, near Dumfries,

who still survives. Of a family of four sons and one daughter, three of

the sons held military appointments in India, and the fourth, who fills

a post in Somerset House, is well known for his contributions to

literature.

Allan Cunningham ranks next to Hogg as a writer of Scottish song. He

sung of the influences of beauty, and of the hills and vales of his own

dear Scotland. His songs abound in warmth of expression, simplicity of

sentiment, and luxuriousness of fancy. Of his skill as a Scottish poet,

Hogg has thus testified his appreciation in the "Queen's Wake":--

"Of the old elm his harp was made,

That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade;

No gilded sculpture round her flamed,

For his own hand that harp had framed,

In stolen hours, when, labour done,

He stray'd to view the parting sun.

* * * * *

That harp could make the matron stare,

Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,

Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,

And warrior pant to meet the foe;

And long by Nith the maidens young

Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.

At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,

When resting on the daisied wold,

Combing their locks of waving gold,

Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name

Their lost, their darling Cunninghame;

His was a song beloved in youth,

A tale of weir, a tale of truth."

As a prose writer, Cunningham was believed by Southey to have the best

style ever attained by any one born north of the Tweed, Hume only

excepted. His moral qualities were well appreciated by Sir Walter Scott,

who commonly spoke of him as "Honest Allan." His person was broad and

powerful, and his countenance wore a fine intelligence.

[6] See vol. ii., p. 223.

[7] Besides Thomas and Allan, the other members of the family afforded

evidence of talent. James, the eldest son, with a limited education, was

intimately familiar with general literature, and occasionally

contributed to the periodicals. He began his career as a stone-mason,

and by his ability and perseverance rose to the respectable position of

a master builder. He died at Dalswinton, near Dumfries, on the 27th July

1832. John, the third brother, who died in early life, evinced a turn

for mechanism, and wrote respectable verses. Peter, the fifth son,

studied medicine, and became a surgeon in the navy; he still survives,

resident at Greenwich, and is known as the author of two respectable

works, bearing the titles, "Two Years in New South Wales," and "Hints to

Australian Emigrants." Of the five daughters, one of whom only survives,

all gave evidence of intellectual ability.

[8] Writing to Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, in January 1834, along with a

copy of the first volume, Cunningham remarks, "I hope you will like the

Life; a third of it is new, so are many of the anecdotes, and I am

willing to stand or fall as an author by it." Mr Neil, it may be added,

contributed to Cunningham a great deal of original information as to the

life of the poet, and also some of his unpublished poems.

SHE 'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

She 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie,

She 's gane to dwall in heaven:

"Ye 're owre pure," quo' the voice o' God,

"For dwalling out o' heaven!"

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven, my lassie?

Oh, what 'll she do in heaven?

She 'll mix her ain thoughts wi' angels' sangs,

And make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,

She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her,

An' took her frae us a'.

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,

Lowly there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,

Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I 'll follow thee, my lassie,

Fu' soon I 'll follow thee;

Thou left me naught to covet ahin',

But took gudeness sel' wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,

I look'd on thy death-cold face;

Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,

An' fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,

I look'd on thy death-shut eye;

An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven

Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,

Thy lips were ruddy and calm;

But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven,

That sang the evening psalm.

There 's naught but dust now mine, lassie,

There 's naught but dust now mine;

My soul 's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,

An' why should I stay behin'?

THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON MILL.

The lark had left the evening cloud,

The dew was soft, the wind was lowne,

The gentle breath amang the flowers

Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap o' down;

The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking owre the hill,

As I met amang the hawthorns green

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Her naked feet, amang the grass,

Seem'd like twa dew-gemm'd lilies fair;

Her brow shone comely 'mang her locks,

Dark curling owre her shoulders bare;

Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth;

Her lips had words and wit at will,

And heaven seem'd looking through her een,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet lass, will ye gang wi' me,

Where blackcocks crow, and plovers cry?

Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye:

I have look'd lang for a weel-favour'd lass,

By Nithsdale's holmes an' mony a hill;"

She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

Quo' I, "Sweet maiden, look nae down,

But gie 's a kiss, and gang wi' me:"

A lovelier face, oh! never look'd up,

And the tears were drapping frae her e'e:

"I hae a lad, wha 's far awa',

That weel could win a woman's will;

My heart 's already fu' o' love,"

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

"Now wha is he wha could leave sic a lass,

To seek for love in a far countrie?"

Her tears drapp'd down like simmer dew:

I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.

I took but ane o' her comely cheek;

"For pity's sake, kind sir, be still!

My heart is fu' o' ither love,"

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

She stretch'd to heaven her twa white hands,

And lifted up her watery e'e--

"Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God,

Or light is gladsome to my e'e;

While woods grow green, and burns rin clear,

Till my last drap o' blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,"

Quo' the lovely lass of Preston Mill.

There 's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,

And Nith's romantic vale is fu';

By lanely Cluden's hermit stream

Dwells mony a gentle dame, I trow.

Oh, they are lights of a gladsome kind,

As ever shone on vale or hill;

But there 's a light puts them a' out,

The lovely lass of Preston Mill.

GANE WERE BUT THE WINTER CAULD.

Gane were but the winter cauld,

And gane were but the snaw,

I could sleep in the wild woods,

Where primroses blaw.

Cauld 's the snaw at my head,

And cauld at my feet,

And the finger o' death 's at my een,

Closing them to sleep.

Let nane tell my father,

Or my mither dear:

I 'll meet them baith in heaven,

At the spring o' the year.

IT 'S HAME, AND IT 'S HAME.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty 's beginning for to fa',

The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a':

But I 'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,

An' green it will grow in my ain countrie.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There 's naught now frae ruin my country to save,

But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave,

That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie,

May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,

And it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,

The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;

But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in my e'e:

"I 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie."

It 's hame, an' it 's hame, hame fain wad I be,

An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

There lived a lass in Inverness,

She was the pride of a' the town;

Blithe as the lark on gowan-tap,

When frae the nest but newly flown.

At kirk she won the auld folks' love,

At dance she was the young men's een;

She was the blithest aye o' the blithe,

At wooster-trystes or Hallowe'en.

As I came in by Inverness,

The simmer-sun was sinking down;

Oh, there I saw the weel-faur'd lass,

And she was greeting through the town:

The gray-hair'd men were a' i' the streets,

And auld dames crying, (sad to see!)

"The flower o' the lads of Inverness

Lie dead upon Culloden-lee!"

She tore her haffet-links of gowd,

And dighted aye her comely e'e;

"My father's head 's on Carlisle wall,

At Preston sleep my brethren three!

I thought my heart could haud nae mair,

Mae tears could ever blin' my e'e;

But the fa' o' ane has burst my heart,

A dearer ane there couldna be!

"He trysted me o' love yestreen,

Of love-tokens he gave me three;

But he 's faulded i' the arms o' weir,

Oh, ne'er again to think o' me!

The forest flowers shall be my bed,

My food shall be the wild berrie,

The fa' o' the leaf shall co'er me cauld,

And wauken'd again I winna be."

Oh weep, oh weep, ye Scottish dames,

Weep till ye blin' a mither's e'e;

Nae reeking ha' in fifty miles,

But naked corses, sad to see.

Oh spring is blithesome to the year,

Trees sprout, flowers spring, and birds sing hie;

But oh! what spring can raise them up,

That lie on dread Culloden-lee?

The hand o' God hung heavy here,

And lightly touch'd foul tyrannie;

It struck the righteous to the ground,

And lifted the destroyer hie.

"But there 's a day," quo' my God in prayer,

"When righteousness shall bear the gree;

I 'll rake the wicked low i' the dust,

And wauken, in bliss, the gude man's e'e!"

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!

I hear a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;

And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free--

The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There 's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;

And hark the music, mariners!

The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free--

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

THE BONNIE BARK.

O come, my bonnie bark!

O'er the waves let us go,

With thy neck like the swan,

And thy wings like the snow.

Spread thy plumes to the wind,

For a gentle one soon

Must welcome us home,

Ere the wane of the moon.

The proud oak that built thee

Was nursed in the dew,

Where my gentle one dwells,

And stately it grew.

I hew'd its beauty down;

Now it swims on the sea,

And wafts spice and perfume,

My fair one, to thee.

Oh, sweet, sweet 's her voice,

As a low warbled tune;

And sweet, sweet her lips,

Like the rose-bud of June.

She looks to sea, and sighs,

As the foamy wave flows,

And treads on men's strength,

As in glory she goes.

Oh haste, my bonnie bark,

O'er the waves let us bound,

As the deer from the horn,

Or the hare from the hound.

Pluck down thy white plumes,

Sink thy keel in the sand,

Whene'er ye see my love,

And the wave of her hand.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white hand o' thine,

And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,

That thou would aye be mine;

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,

And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,

That thou would aye be mine.

Then foul fa' the hands that loose sic bands,

And the heart that would part sic love;

But there 's nae hand can loose my band

But the finger o' God above.

Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,

And my claithing e'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,

Fu' safter than the down;

And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,

And sweetly I 'll sleep, an' soun'.

Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,

Come here and kneel wi' me;

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,

And I canna pray without thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie;

Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke,

And a blithe auld bodie is he.

The Beuk maun be ta'en when the carle comes hame,

Wi' the holie psalmodie,

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

YOUNG ELIZA.[9]

Come, maid, upon yon mountain brow,

This day of rest I 'll give to you,

And clasp thy waist with many a vow,

My loved, my young Eliza.

'Tis not that cheek, that bosom bare,

That high arch'd eye, that long brown hair,

That fair form'd foot, thine angel air,--

But 'tis thy mind, Eliza.

Think not to charm me with thine eye,

Those smiling lips, that heaving sigh,

My heart 's charm'd with a nobler tie,--

It is thy mind, Eliza.

This heart, which every love could warm,

Which every pretty face could charm,

No more will beat the sweet alarm,

But to my young Eliza.

The peasant lad unyokes his car,

The star of even shines bright and far,

And lights me to the flood-torn scaur,

To meet my young Eliza.

There is the smile to please, where truth

And soft persuasion fills her mouth,

While warm with all the fire of youth,

She clasps me, young Eliza.

My heart's blood warms in stronger flow,

My cheeks are tinged with redder glow,

When sober matron, Evening slow,

Bids me to meet Eliza.

The bard can kindle his soul to flame,

The patriot hunts a deathless name;

Give me the peasant's humble fame,

And give me young Eliza.

The warlock glen has tint its gloom,

The fairie burn the witching broom,

All wear a lovelier, sweeter bloom,

For there I meet Eliza.

Then come that mind, so finely form'd,

By native truth and virtue warm'd,

With love's soft simplest lay is charm'd,

Come to my breast, Eliza.

[9] This song, which is a juvenile production of the poet, has been

communicated by his niece, Miss Pagan of Dumfries. The heroine of the

song, Eliza Neilson, eldest daughter of the Reverend Mr Neilson of

Kirkbean, still lives, and is resident in Dumfries.

LOVELY WOMAN.[10]

I 've rock'd me on the giddy mast,

Through seas tempestuous foamin',

I 've braved the toil of mountain storm,

From dawning to the gloamin';

Round the green bosom'd earth, sea-swept,

In search of pleasure roamin',

And found the world a wilderness,

Without thee, lovely woman!

The farmer reaps his golden fields,

The merchant sweeps the ocean;

The soldier's steed, gore-fetlock'd, snorts

Through war-field's wild commotion;

All combat in eternal toil,

Mirk midnight, day, and gloamin',

To pleasure Heaven's divinest gift,

Thee, lovely, conquering woman!

The savage in the desert dark,

The monster's den exploring;

The sceptre-swaying prince, who rules

The nations round adoring;

Nay, even the laurell'd-templed bard

Dew-footed at the gloamin',

Melodious wooes the world's ear,

To please thee, lovely woman!

[10] This song appeared in the _London Magazine_, new edit., No. xxx. It

was addressed to Mrs Pagan of Curriestanes, the poet's sister, who, it

may be remarked, possessed a large share of the family talent. She died

on the 5th February 1854, and her remains rest in the Pagan family's

burying-ground, in Terregles' churchyard.

EBENEZER PICKEN.

Ebenezer Picken was the only son of a silk-weaver in Paisley, who bore

the same Christian name. He was born at the _Well-meadow_ of that town,

about the year 1769. Intending to follow the profession of a clergyman,

he proceeded to the University of Glasgow, which he attended during five

or six sessions. With talents of a high order, he permitted an

enthusiastic attachment to verse-making to interfere with his severer

studies and retard his progress in learning. Contrary to the counsel of

his father and other friends, he published, in 1788, while only in his

nineteenth year, a thin octavo volume of poems; and afterwards gave to

the gay intercourse of lovers of the muse, many precious hours which

ought to have been applied to mental improvement. Early in 1791 he

became teacher of a school at Falkirk; and on the 14th of April of the

same year appeared at the Pantheon, Edinburgh, where he delivered an

oration in blank verse on the comparative merits of Ramsay and

Fergusson, assigning the pre-eminence to the former poet. In this debate

his fellow-townsman and friend, Alexander Wilson, the future

ornithologist, advocated in verse the merits of Fergusson; and the

productions of both the youthful adventurers were printed in a pamphlet

entitled the "Laurel Disputed." In occupying the position of

schoolmaster at Falkirk, Picken proposed to raise funds to aid him in

the prosecution of his theological studies; but the circumstance of his

having formed a matrimonial union with a young lady, a daughter of Mr

Beveridge of the Burgher congregation in Falkirk, by involving him in

the expenses of a family, proved fatal to his clerical aspirations. He

accepted the situation of teacher of an endowed school at Carron, where

he remained till 1796, when he removed to Edinburgh. In the capital he

found employment as manager of a mercantile establishment, and

afterwards on his own account commenced business as a draper.

Unsuccessful in this branch of business, he subsequently sought a

livelihood as a music-seller and a teacher of languages. In 1813, with

the view of bettering his circumstances, he published, by subscription,

two duodecimo volumes of "Poems and Songs," in which are included the

pieces contained in his first published volume. His death took place in

1816.

Picken is remembered as a person of gentlemanly appearance, endeavouring

to confront the pressure of unmitigated poverty. His dispositions were

eminently social, and his love of poetry amounted to a passion. He is

commemorated in the poetical works of his early friend, Wilson, who has

addressed to him a lengthened poetical epistle. In 1818, a dictionary of

Scottish words, which he had occupied some years in preparing, was

published at Edinburgh by "James Sawers, Calton Street," and this

publication was found of essential service by Dr Jamieson in the

preparation of his "Supplement" to his "Dictionary of the Scottish

Language." Among Picken's poetical compositions are a few pieces bearing

the impress of genius.[11]

[11] Andrew Picken, the only son of Ebenezer, a person of somewhat

unprepossessing appearance, contrived to derive a tolerable livelihood

by following the conjunct occupation of an itinerant player and

portrait-painter. He was the writer of some good poetry, and about 1827

published a respectable volume of verses, entitled, "The Bedouin, and

other Poems." He soon afterwards proceeded to America.

PEGGIE WI' THE GLANCIN' E'E.

Walkin' out ae mornin' early,

Ken ye wha I chanced to see?

But my lassie, gay and frisky,

Peggie wi' the glancin' e'e.

Phoebus, left the lap o' Thetis,

Fast was lickin' up the dew,

Whan, ayont a risin' hilloc,

First my Peggie came in view.

Hark ye, I gaed up to meet her;

But whane'er my face she saw,

Up her plaidin' coat she kiltit,

And in daffin' scour'd awa'.

Weel kent I that though my Peggie

Ran sae fast out owre the mead,

She was wantin' me to follow--

Yes, ye swains, an' sae I did.

At yon burnie I o'ertook her,

Whare the shinin' pebbles lie;

Whare the flowers, that fringe the border,

Soup the stream, that wimples by.

While wi' her I sat reclinin',

Frae her lips I staw a kiss;

While she blush'd, I took anither,--

Shepherds, was there ill in this?

Could a lass, sae sweet an' comely,

Ever bless a lover's arms?

Could the bonnie wife o' Vulcan

Ever boast o' hauf the charms?

While the zephyrs fan the meadows,

While the flow'rets crown the lea,

While they paint the gowden simmer,

Wha sae blest as her an' me?

WOO ME AGAIN.

TUNE--_"On a Primrosy Bank."_

Whan Jamie first woo'd me, he was but a youth:

Frae his lips flow'd the strains o' persuasion and truth;

His suit I rejected wi' pride an' disdain,

But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

He aft wad hae tauld me his love was sincere,

And e'en wad hae ventured to ca' me his dear:

My heart to his tale was as hard as a stane;

But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

He said that he hoped I would yield an' be kind,

But I counted his proffers as light as the wind;

I laugh'd at his grief, whan I heard him complain;

But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

He flatter'd my locks, that war black as a slae,

And praised my fine shape, frae the tap to the tae;

I flate, an' desired he wad let me alane;

But, oh! wad he offer to woo me again!

Repulsed, he forsook me, an' left me to grieve,

An' mourn the sad hour that my swain took his leave;

Now, since I despised, an' was deaf to his maen,

I fear he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again!

Oh! wad he but now to his Jean be inclined,

My heart in a moment wad yield to his mind;

But I fear wi' some ither my laddie is taen,

An' sae he 'll ne'er offer to woo me again.

Ye bonnie young lasses, be warn'd by my fate,

Despise not the heart you may value too late;

Improve the sweet sunshine that now gilds the plain;

With you it may never be sunshine again.

The simmer o' life, ah! it soon flits awa',

An' the bloom on your cheek will soon dow in the snaw;

Oh! think, ere you treat a fond youth wi' disdain,

That, in age, the sweet flower never blossoms again.

STUART LEWIS.

Stuart Lewis, the mendicant bard, was the eldest son of an innkeeper at

Ecclefechan in Annandale, where he was born about the year 1756. A

zealous Jacobite, his father gave him the name of Stuart, in honour of

Prince Charles Edward. At the parish school, taught by one Irving, an

ingenious and learned person of eccentric habits, he received a

respectable ground-work of education; but the early deprivation of his

father, who died bankrupt, compelled him to relinquish the pursuit of

learning. At the age of fifteen, with the view of aiding in the support

of his widowed mother, with her destitute family of other five children,

he accepted manual employment from a relation in the vicinity of

Chester. Subsequently, along with a partner, he established himself as a

merchant-tailor in the town of Chester, where he remained some years,

when his partner absconded to America with a considerable amount,

leaving him to meet the demands of the firm. Surrendering his effects to

his creditors, he returned to his native place, almost penniless, and

suffering mental depression from his misfortunes, which he recklessly

sought to remove by the delusive remedy of the bottle. The habit of

intemperance thus produced, became his scourge through life. At

Ecclefechan he commenced business as a tailor, and married a young

country girl, for whom he had formed a devoted attachment. He

established a village library, and debating club, became a diligent

reader, a leader in every literary movement in the district, and a

writer of poetry of some merit. A poem on the melancholy story of "Fair

Helen of Kirkconnel," which he composed at this period, obtained a

somewhat extensive popularity. To aid his finances, he became an

itinerant seller of cloth,--a mode of life which gave him an opportunity

of studying character, and visiting interesting scenery. The pressure of

poverty afterwards induced him to enlist, as a recruit, in the Hopetoun

Fencibles; and, in this humble position, he contrived to augment his

scanty pay by composing acrostics and madrigals for the officers, who

rewarded him with small gratuities. On the regiment being disbanded in

1799, he was entrusted by a merchant with the sale of goods, as a

pedlar, in the west of England; but this employment ceased on his being

robbed, while in a state of inebriety. Still descending in the social

scale, he became an umbrella-maker in Manchester, while his wife was

employed in some of the manufactories. Some other odd and irregular

occupations were severally attempted without success, till at length,

about his fiftieth year, he finally settled into the humble condition of

a wandering poet. He composed verses on every variety of theme, and

readily parted with his compositions for food or whisky. His field of

wandering included the entire Lowlands, and he occasionally penetrated

into Highland districts. In his wanderings he was accompanied by his

wife, who, though a severe sufferer on his account, along with her

family of five or six children, continued most devoted in her attachment

to him. On her death, which took place in the Cowgate, Edinburgh, early

in 1817, he became almost distracted, and never recovered his former

composure. He now roamed wildly through the country, seldom remaining

more than one night in the same place. He finally returned to

Dumfriesshire, his native county; and accidentally falling into the

Nith, caught an inflammatory fever, of which he died, in the village of

Ruthwell, on the 22d September 1818. Lewis was slender, and of low

stature. His countenance was sharp, and his eye intelligent, though

frenzied with excitement. He always expressed himself in the language of

enthusiasm, despised prudence and common sense, and commended the

impulsive and fanciful. He published, in 1816, a small volume, entitled

"The African Slave; with other Poems and Songs." Some of his lyrics are

not unworthy of a place in the national minstrelsy.

LANARK MILLS.

AIR--_"Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff."_

Adieu! romantic banks of Clyde,

Where oft I 've spent the joyful day;

Now, weary wand'ring on thy side,

I pour the plaintive, joyless lay.

To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove,

The thought with grief my bosom fills;

Why am I forced to leave my love,

And wander far from Lanark Mills?

Can I forget th' ecstatic hours,

When ('scaped the village evening din)

I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers,

Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn!

While close I clasp'd her to my breast,

(Th' idea still with rapture thrills!)

I thought myself completely blest,

By all the lads of Lanark Mills.

Deceitful, dear, delusive dream,

Thou 'rt fled--alas! I know not where,

And vanish'd is each blissful gleam,

And left behind a load of care.

Adieu! dear winding banks of Clyde,

A long farewell, ye rising hills;

No more I 'll wander on your side,

Though still my heart 's at Lanark Mills.

While Tintock stands the pride of hills,

While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea,

So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills,

May Heaven's best blessings smile on thee.

A last adieu! my Mary dear,

The briny tear my eye distils;

While reason's powers continue clear,

I 'll think of thee, and Lanark Mills.

O'ER THE MUIR.[12]

Ae morn of May, when fields were gay,

Serene and charming was the weather,

I chanced to roam some miles frae home,

Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather.

O'er the muir amang the heather,

O'er the muir amang the heather,

How healthsome 'tis to range the muirs,

And brush the dew from vernal heather.

I walk'd along, and humm'd a song,

My heart was light as ony feather,

And soon did pass a lovely lass,

Was wading barefoot through the heather.

O'er the muir amang the heather,

O'er the muir amang the heather;

The bonniest lass that e'er I saw

I met ae morn amang the heather.

Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine,

Than the most clear unclouded ether;

A fairer form did ne'er adorn

A brighter scene than blooming heather.

O'er the muir amang the heather,

O'er the muir amang the heather;

There 's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle,

Can vie with her amang the heather.

I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid;

Pray sit you down, let 's talk together;

For, oh! my fair, I vow and swear,

You 've stole my heart amang the heather."

O'er the muir amang the heather,

O'er the muir amang the heather;

Ye swains, beware of yonder muir,

You 'll lose your hearts amang the heather.

She answer'd me, right modestly,

"I go, kind sir, to seek my father,

Whose fleecy charge he tends at large,

On yon green hills beyond the heather."

O'er the muir amang the heather,

O'er the muir amang the heather;

Were I a king, thou shou'dst be mine,

Dear blooming maid, amang the heather.

Away she flew out of my view,

Her home or name I ne'er could gather,

But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine

For that sweet lass amang the heather.

O'er the muir amang the heather,

O'er the muir amang the heather,

While vital heat glows in my heart,

I 'll love the lass amang the heather.

[12] The more popular words to the same tune and chorus, beginning,

"Comin' through the Craigs o' Kyle," are believed, on the authority of

Burns, to have been the composition of Jean Glover, a girl of

respectable parentage, born at Kilmarnock in 1758, who became attached

to a company of strolling players. Lewis is said to have claimed

priority for his verses, and the point is not likely ever to be decided.

This much may be said in favour of Lewis's claims, that he had long been

the writer of respectable lyrics; while Jean Glover, though well skilled

as a musician, is not otherwise known to have composed verses. One of

the songs is evidently an echo of the other.

DAVID DRUMMOND.

David Drummond, author of "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song

formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff,

Perthshire. Along with his four brothers, he settled in Fifeshire, about

the beginning of the century, having obtained the situation of clerk in

the Kirkland works, near Leven. In 1812, he proceeded to India, and

afterwards attained considerable wealth as the conductor of an academy

and boarding establishment at Calcutta. A man of vigorous mind and

respectable scholarship, he had early cultivated a taste for literature

and poetry, and latterly became an extensive contributor to the public

journals and periodical publications of Calcutta. The song with which

his name has been chiefly associated, was composed during the period of

his employment at the Kirkland works,--the heroine being Miss Wilson,

daughter of the proprietor of Pirnie, near Leven, a young lady of great

personal attractions, to whom he was devotedly attached. The sequel of

his history, in connexion with this lady, forms the subject of a

romance, in which he has been made to figure much to the injury of his

fame. The correct version of this story, in which Drummond has been

represented as faithless to the object of his former affections, we have

received from a gentleman to whom the circumstances were intimately

known. In consequence of a proposal to become his wife, Miss Wilson

sailed for Calcutta in 1816. On her arrival, she was kindly received by

her affianced lover, who conducted her to the house of a respectable

female friend, till arrangements might be completed for the nuptial

ceremony. In the interval, she became desirous of withdrawing from her

engagement; and Drummond, observing her coldness, offered to pay the

expense of her passage back to Scotland. Meanwhile, she was seized with

fever, of which she died. Report erroneously alleged that she had died

of a broken heart on account of her lover being unfaithful, and hence

the memory of poor Drummond has been most unjustly aspersed. Drummond

died, at Calcutta, in 1845, about the age of seventy. He was much

respected among a wide circle of friends and admirers. His personal

appearance was unprepossessing, almost approaching to deformity,--a

circumstance which may explain the ultimate hesitation of Miss Wilson to

accept his hand. "The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with

the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume

of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of

the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,[13] an obscure

rhymster of the capital.

[13] Glass was a house-painter in Edinburgh; he ultimately became very

dissipated, and died in circumstances of penury about 1840. He

published, in 1811, "The Album, a Collection of Poems and Songs," 12mo;

in 1814, "Scenes of Gloamin'," 12mo; and in 1816, a third volume,

entitled "Songs of Edina." The last is dedicated, by permission, to the

Duke of Gordon. In the "Scenes of Gloamin'," Glass has included the

"Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," as a song of his own composition.

THE BONNIE LASS O' LEVENSIDE.

AIR--_"Up amang the Cliffy Rocks."_

How sweet are Leven's silver streams,

Around her banks the wild flowers blooming;

On every bush the warblers vie,

In strains of bosom-soothing joy.

But Leven's banks that bloom sae bra,

And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy,

Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw,

An 't were not for my darling lassie;

Her presence fills them a' wi' pride,

The bonnie lass o' Levenside.

When sober eve begins her reign,

The little birds to cease their singing,

The flowers their beauty to renew,

Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew;

When far behind the Lomonds high,

The wheels of day are downwards rowing,

And a' the western closing sky

Wi' varied tints of glory lowing,

'Tis then my eager steps I guide,

To meet the lass o' Levenside.

The solemn sweetness nature spreads,

The kindly hour to bliss inviting,

Within our happy bosoms move,

The softest sigh o' purest love;

Reclined upon the velvet grass,

Beneath the balmy, birken blossom,

What words could a' my joy express,

When clasped to her beating bosom;

How swells my heart with rapture's tide,

When wi' the lass o' Levenside.

She never saw the splendid ball,

She never blazed in courtly grandeur,

But like her native lily's bloom,

She cheerfu' gilds her humble home;

The pert reply, the modish air,

To soothe the soul were never granted,

When modest sense and love are there,

The guise o' art may well be wanted;

O Fate! gi'e me to be my bride

The bonnie lass o' Levenside.

JAMES AFFLECK.

The "Posthumous Poetical Works" of James Affleck, tailor in Biggar, with

a memoir of his life by his son, were published at Edinburgh in 1836.

Affleck was born in the village of Drummelzier, in Peeblesshire, on the

8th September 1776. His education was scanty; and after some years'

occupation as a cowherd, he was apprenticed to a tailor in his native

village. He afterwards prosecuted his trade in the parish of

Crawfordjohn, and in the town of Ayr. In 1793, he established himself as

master tailor in Biggar. Fond of society, he joined the district lodge

of freemasons, and became a leading member of that fraternity. He

composed verses for the entertainment of his friends, which he was

induced to give to the world in two separate publications. He possessed

considerable poetical talent, but his compositions are generally marked

by the absence of refinement. The song selected for the present work is

the most happy effort in his posthumous volume. His death took place at

Biggar, on the 8th September 1835.

HOW BLEST WERE THE DAYS!

How blest were the days o' langsyne when a laddie!

Alane by a bush wi' my dog and my plaidie;

Nae fop was sae happy, though dress'd e'er sae gaudy,

Sae sweet were the days o' langsyne when a laddie.

Whiles croonin' my sonnet amang the whin bushes,

Whiles whistling wi' glee as I pou'd the green rashes;

The whim o' the moment kept me aye frae sorrow,

What I wanted at night was in prospect to-morrow.

The nest o' a lintie I fondly explored,

And plundering bykes was the game I adored;

My pleasures did vary, as I was unsteady,

Yet I always found something that pleased when a laddie.

The boy with great pleasure the butterfly chases;

When manhood approaches, the maid he embraces;

But view him at once baith the husband and daddie,

He fondly looks back to the joys o' a laddie.

When childhood was over my prospects were greater,

I tried to be happy, but, alas, foolish creature!

The sports of my youth were my sweetest employment--

Much sweetness in prospect embitters enjoyment.

But now I 'm grown auld, and wi' cares I 'm perplex'd,

How numerous the woes are by which I am vex'd!

I 'm tentin' the kye wi' my dog, staff, and plaidie;

How changed are the days since langsyne when a laddie!

JAMES STIRRAT.

James Stirrat was born in the village of Dalry, Ayrshire, on the 28th

March 1781. His father was owner of several houses in the place, and was

employed in business as a haberdasher. Young Stirrat was educated at the

village school; in his 17th year, he composed verses which afforded some

indication of power. Of a delicate constitution, he accepted the easy

appointment of village postmaster. He died in March 1843, in his

sixty-second year. Stirrat wrote much poetry, but never ventured on a

publication. Several of his songs appeared at intervals in the public

journals, the "Book of Scottish Song," and the "Contemporaries of

Burns." The latter work contains a brief sketch of his life. He left a

considerable number of MSS., which are now in the possession of a

relative in Ayr. Possessed of a knowledge of music, he excelled in

playing many of the national airs on the guitar. His dispositions were

social, yet in society he seldom talked; among his associates, he

frequently expressed his hope of posthumous fame. He was enthusiastic in

his admiration of female beauty, but died unmarried.

HENRY.[14]

AIR--_"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."_

Can my dearest Henry leave me?

Why, ah! why would he deceive me?

Whence this cold and cruel change,

That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?

Can he the hours of love forget,

The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever,

When down the burn we fondly met,

And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever?

Will my Henry then deceive me,

Faithless laddie, can he leave me?

Ne'er till now did fancy dream,

My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.

And will he then me aye forsake?

Must I for ever, ever lose him?

And can he leave this heart to break,

That swells and bursts within my bosom?

Never, Henry, could I leave thee,

Never could this heart deceive thee,

Why then, laddie, me forsake,

And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?

[14] This song and that following are printed from the original MSS.

MARY.[15]

"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high,

And youthfu' love's endearing tie

Gave rapture to the mutual sigh,

Within the arms of Mary,

My ain dear Mary;

Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky,

Could equal mine wi' Mary.

The sacred hours like moments flew,

Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through,

The warl' evanish'd frae my view

Within the arms of Mary,

My ain dear Mary;

Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew

Within the arms of Mary.

Young fancy spread her visions gay,

Love fondly view'd the fair display,

Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day,

And I was rapt with Mary,

My ain dear Mary;

The flowers of Eden strew'd the way

That led me to my Mary.

But life is now a dreary waste,

I lanely wander sair depress'd,

For cold and lifeless is that breast

Where throbb'd the heart of Mary,

My ain dear Mary;

She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest,

And I hae lost my Mary.

[15] This song was set to music by R. A. Smith.

JOHN GRIEVE.

John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the

generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th

September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve,

minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that

place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George

Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very

young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his

residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary

education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner

and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in

a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his

friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a

wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to

Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet,

hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as

a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.

Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure

for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension

as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the

more respectable periodicals.[16] In his youth he had been a votary of

the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish

anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the

contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of

genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his

table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose

circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his

beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of

kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the

numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of

letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully

recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after

expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve,

he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I

lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance,

became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so

as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be

obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and

without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in

Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for

Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved

out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem

"Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards

in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:--

"The bard that night who foremost came

Was not enroll'd, nor known his name;

A youth he was of manly mould,

Gentle as lamb, as lion bold;

But his fair face, and forehead high,

Glow'd with intrusive modesty.

'Twas said by bank of southland stream

Glided his youth in soothing dream;

The harp he loved, and wont to stray

Far to the wilds and woods away,

And sing to brooks that gurgled by

Of maiden's form and maiden's eye;

That when this dream of youth was past,

Deep in the shade his harp he cast;

In busy life his cares beguiled,

His heart was true, and fortune smiled."

Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated

for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an

appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the

modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more

esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still

experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the

close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily

resort of the _savans_ of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the

4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were

interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few

songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle

him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]

[16] In the "Key to the Chaldee MS.," he is described as the author of

"The White Cottage, a Tale;" this was not written by him, but was the

production of one More, a native of Berwickshire, whose literary

aspirations he had promoted.

[17] For a number of particulars in this memoir, we are indebted to our

venerated friend Mr Alexander Bald, of Alloa.

CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.

AIR--_"Fingal's Lament."_

Culloden, on thy swarthy brow

Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair;

Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,

More than the freezing wintry air.

For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,

And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;

Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd,

Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.

From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,

How proudly Lovat's banners soar!

How fierce the plaided Highland clans

Rush onward with the broad claymore!

Those hearts that high with honour heave,

The volleying thunder there laid low;

Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,

When wintry winds begin to blow!

Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel?

The braided plumes torn from thy brow,

What must thy haughty spirit feel,

When skulking like the mountain roe!

While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers,

On April eve, their loves and joys,

The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers

To foreign lands an exile flies.

To his blue hills that rose in view,

As o'er the deep his galley bore,

He often look'd and cried, "Adieu!

I 'll never see Lochaber more!

Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,

My dear, my injured native land,

In other climes thy foe shall feel

The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.

"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,

Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung!

Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,

That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.

Where once they ruled and roam'd at will,

Free as their own dark mountain game,

Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel

A longing for their father's fame.

"Shades of the mighty and the brave,

Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!

No trophies mark your common grave,

Nor dirges to your memory swell.

But generous hearts will weep your fate,

When far has roll'd the tide of time;

And bards unborn shall renovate

Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."

LOVELY MARY.[18]

AIR--_"Gowd in gowpens."_

I 've seen the lily of the wold,

I 've seen the opening marigold,

Their fairest hues at morn unfold,

But fairer is my Mary.

How sweet the fringe of mountain burn,

With opening flowers at spring's return!

How sweet the scent of flowery thorn!

But sweeter is my Mary.

Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind;

Her form 's not fairer than her mind;

Two sister beauties rarely join'd,

But join'd in lovely Mary.

As music from the distant steep,

As starlight on the silent deep,

So are my passions lull'd asleep

By love for bonnie Mary.

[18] This song was written during the author's first residence at Alloa.

The heroine was Miss Mary Douglas, a young lady of great personal

attractions, daughter of Captain Douglas, of the East India Company's

Marine Service, who resided in the village of Sauchie, in the vicinity.

She became the wife of a Mr Rhind, an Edinburgh gentleman, but died soon

after her marriage. Her remains were brought for interment to the

churchyard of Alloa.

HER BLUE ROLLIN' E'E.

AIR--_"Banks of the Devon."_

My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning

Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee;

Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning,

As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e.

O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain?

Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie?

Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain,

An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.

See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood,

Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree,

'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood,

An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e.

Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd;

Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea;

Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd;

Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.

Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour,

When down by yon greenwood she promised to be;

When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower,

A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee.

Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures;

Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie;

As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures,

In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.

CHARLES GRAY.

Charles Gray was born at Anstruther-wester, on the 10th March 1782. He

was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr

William Tennant, the author of "Anster Fair," who were both natives of

Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation; but in

1805, through the influence of Major-General Burn,[19] his maternal

uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division

of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of "Poems

and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three

years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in

establishing the "Musomanik Society of Anstruther,"--an association

which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of

respectable verses.[20] After thirty-six years' active service in the

Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full

pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he

cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in

compliance with the wishes of numerous friends, expressed in the form

of a _Round Robin_, he published a second volume of verses, with the

title of "Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo,

illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his

birthplace. In the _Glasgow Citizen_ newspaper, he subsequently

published "Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously

quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the "Songs of Scotland."

Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by

his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern

Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits; and he

enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his

lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have deservedly

attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate

the style of the great national bard. In person he was of low stature;

his gray weather-beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died,

after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. He married

early in life, and his only son is now a Captain of Marines.

[19] A memoir of this estimable individual, chiefly from materials found

in his Diary, has been published by the London Tract Society.

[20] This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled

"Bouts-Rimés, or Poetical Pastimes of a few Hobblers round the base of

Parnassus;" it is dedicated "To the Lovers of Rhyme, Fun, and

Good-Fellowship throughout the British Empire."

MAGGIE LAUDER.[21]

The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head,

And Winter yet did blaud her,

When the Ranter came to Anster fair,

And speir'd for Maggie Lauder;

A snug wee house in the East Green,[22]

Its shelter kindly lent her;

Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane,

Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!

Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride,

And to the kirk they ranted;

He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;"

And merry Maggie vaunted,

That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring,

Nor blew sae weel his chanter,

For he made Anster town to ring--

And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?

For a' the talk and loud reports,

That ever gaed against her,

Meg proves a true and carefu' wife,

As ever was in Anster;

And since the marriage-knot was tied,

Rob swears he coudna want her;

For he loves Maggie as his life,

And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.

[21] These stanzas are an appropriate addition to the well-known song of

"Maggie Lauder," composed by Francis Semple, about 1660.

[22] The _East Green_ of Anstruther is now a low street connecting the

town with the adjoining village of Cellardyke. The site of Maggie

Lauder's house,--which is said to have been a cot of one storey,--is

pointed out in a small garden opposite a tannery, and on the north side

of the street. Maggie Lauder is the heroine of Dr Tennant's poem of

"Anster Fair."

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.

O Charlie is my darling,

My darling, my darling;

O Charlie is my darling,

The young Chevalier!

When first his standard caught the eye,

His pibroch met the ear,

Our hearts were light, our hopes were high

For the young Chevalier.

O Charlie is my darling, &c.

The plaided chiefs cam frae afar,

Nae doubts their bosoms steir;

They nobly drew the sword for war

And the young Chevalier!

O Charlie is my darling, &c.

But he wha trusts to fortune's smile

Has meikle cause to fear;

She blinket blithe but to beguile

The young Chevalier!

O Charlie is my darling, &c.

O dark Culloden--fatal field!

Fell source o' mony a tear;

There Albyn tint her sword and shield,

And the young Chevalier!

O Charlie is my darling, &c.

Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;"

Her forest trees are sere;

Her Royal Oak is gane for aye,

The young Chevalier!

O Charlie is my darling,

My darling, my darling;

O Charlie is my darling,

The young Chevalier.

THE BLACK-E'ED LASSIE.[23]

AIR--_"My only Jo and Dearie O!"_

Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell,

But dinna ye be saucy, O!

Or a' my love I winna tell

To thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O!

It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue,

It 's no thy little cherrie mou';

Its a' because thy heart 's sae true,

My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e,

Though few for that surpass ye, O!

That maks ye aye sae dear to me,

My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin,

It 's no love's dimple on thy chin;

Its a' thy modest worth within,

My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,

That a' wish to caress ye, O!

But O! how I admire thy mind,

My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear,

Shine dimly through soft pity's tear;

These are the charms that mak thee dear,

To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!

[23] The heroine of this song subsequently became the author's wife.

GRIM WINTER WAS HOWLIN'.

AIR--_"Bonnie Dundee."_

Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain,

And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea;

The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain,

As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee.

Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie,

And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree;

For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary,

Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!

Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river,

I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea;

And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever,

Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee.

There, glowrin' about, I saw in his station

Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee;

When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation,

The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!

O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie,

I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be;

I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy;

They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee!

O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour;

Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be;

And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her--

The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!

JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born at Glasgow in

1782. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they contrived to

afford him the advantages of a good education. From the academy of Mr

Hall, an efficient teacher in the city, he was sent, in his fourteenth

year, to the University. There he distinguished himself both in the

literary and philosophical classes; he became intimately acquainted with

the Latin and Greek classics, and wrote elegant essays on the subjects

prescribed. His poetical talents first appeared in the composition of

odes on classical subjects, which were distinguished alike by power of

thought and smoothness of versification. In 1802, while still pursuing

his studies at college, he published a volume entitled "Wallace, or the

Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition[24]

appeared, with considerable additions. Soon after, he published an

edition of Blair's "Grave," with many excellent notes; produced a

learned life of Cervantes; and superintended the publication of a new

edition of Smith's "Wealth of Nations." In the hope of procuring a

situation in one of the public offices, he proceeded to London in 1807,

where he contributed many learned articles, particularly on antiquarian

subjects, to different periodicals. Disappointed in obtaining a

suitable post in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1808; and

the same year published, in two duodecimo volumes, a collection of

"Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads." This work is chiefly

valuable from some interesting notes, and an ingenious preliminary

dissertation on early romantic composition in Scotland. About this

period, Professor Richardson, of Glasgow, himself an elegant poet,

offered him the advance of sufficient capital to enable him to obtain a

share in a printing establishment, and undertook to secure for the firm

the appointment of printers to the University; he declined, however, to

undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope

of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of

1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at

Elleray, in Cumberland, to consult with him on the subject of his views.

He only reached the distance of Moffat; he was there struck with an

apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful

career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the

churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship,

and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have

adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy

aspirations, and was amply qualified for success; for his energies were

co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he

was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best

production is the poem of "Wallace," written in his nineteenth year;

though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of

external nature, and displays much vigour of versification. His lyrics

are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country.

[24] A third edition was published at Glasgow, by R. Chapman, in 1817.

O! COME WITH ME.

TUNE--_"Roslin Castle."_

O! come with me, for the queen of night

Is throned on high in her beauty bright:

'Tis now the silent hour of even,

When all is still in earth an' heaven;

The cold flowers which the valleys strew

Are sparking bright wi' pearly dew,

And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum,

Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.

The opening blue-bell--Scotland's pride--

In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed;

The daisy meek frae the dewy dale,

The wild thyme, and the primrose pale,

Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake,

Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make,

And bind them 'mid the locks that flow

In rich luxuriance from thy brow.

O, love, without thee, what were life?

A bustling scene of care and strife;

A waste, where no green flowery glade

Is found for shelter or for shade.

But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share

We can with calm composure bear;

For the darkest nicht o' care and toil.

Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.

'TIS NOT THE ROSE UPON THE CHEEK.

'Tis not the rose upon the cheek,

Nor eyes in langour soft that roll,

That fix the lover's timid glance,

And fire his wilder'd soul.

But 'tis the eye that swims in tears,

Diffusing soft a joy all holy;

So soothing to the heart of love,

And yet so melancholy.

The note that falters on the tongue,

Sweet as the dying voice of eve,

That calms the throbbing breast of pain,

Yet makes it love to grieve!

The hand, alternate fiery warm

And icy cold, the bursting sigh,

The look that hopes, yet seems to fear,

Pale cheek and burning eye.

These, these the magic circle twine,

The lover's thoughts and feelings seize;

'Till scarce a son of earth he seems,

But lives in what he sees.

I HEARD THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE.

AIR--_"Gramachree."_

I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among,

Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song;

So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul,

The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.

I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade,

And mingled in the melody that Isabella made;

Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart,

Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.

I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky,

Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye;

Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year,

Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.

All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved,

How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved!

Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more,

As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.

OH! DEAR WERE THE JOYS.

AIR--_"Here 's a health to ane I love dear."_

Oh! dear were the joys that are past!

Oh! dear were the joys that are past!

Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn,

Or a cloud of the night on the blast!

How dear was the breath of the eve,

When bearing thy fond faithless sigh!

And the moonbeam how dear that betray'd

The love that illumined thine eye!

Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine,

Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light;

But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky,

It hid the pale queen of the night.

Thou hast broken thy plighted faith,

And broken a fond lover's heart;

Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray

I would trust more than thee and thy art!

I am wretched to think on the past--

Even hope now my peace cannot save;

Thou hast given to my rival thy hand,

But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.

WILLIAM NICHOLSON.

William Nicholson, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in

the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the

occupation of a carrier; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a

tavern. Of a family of eight children, William was the youngest; he

inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much

intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with

his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from

engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling

merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which,

sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became

popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan

of Ruthwell, and Dr Alexander Murray, the famous philologist, these

gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a

personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers; and in 1814 appeared as

the author of "Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of

Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised

£100, but this sum was diminished by certain imprudent excesses. With

the balance, he republished some tracts on the subject of Universal

Redemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826 he

proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham

and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was

engaged for a short time as assistant to a cattle-driver. In 1828, he

published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Henry,

now Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his

life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a

gaberlunzie; he played at merrymakings on his bagpipes, for snuff and

whisky. For sometime his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of

Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board at Kirk-Andrews, in

his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849.

He was rather above the middle size, and well formed. His countenance

was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy

eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song-writer he claims a

place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life

will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled

"The Country Lass," in the same measure as the "Queen's Wake," contains

much simple and graphic delineation of life; while the ballad of "The

Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true

to nature.

THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.

TUNE--_"White Cockade."_

O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me,

And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie--

Thy former friens and sweethearts a',

And gang wi' me to Gallowa'?

O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom,

And heather-bells in bonnie bloom;

There 's lordly seats, and livins braw,

Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!

There 's stately woods on mony a brae,

Where burns and birds in concert play;

The waukrife echo answers a',

Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

O Gallowa' braes, &c.

The simmer shiel I 'll build for thee

Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee,

Half circlin' roun' my father's ha',

Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

O Gallowa' braes, &c.

When autumn waves her flowin' horn,

And fields o' gowden grain are shorn,

I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw,

To join the dance in Gallowa'.

O Gallowa' braes, &c.

At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight,

And lanely, langsome is the night,

Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw,

Play "A' the way to Gallowa'."

O Gallowa' braes, &c.

Should fickle fortune on us frown,

Nae lack o' gear our love should drown;

Content should shield our haddin' sma',

Amang the braes o' Gallowa'.

Come while the blossom 's on the broom,

And heather bells sae bonnie bloom;

Come let us be the happiest twa

On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!

THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

TUNE--_"Ewe Bughts, Marion."_

Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary,

And visit our haughs and our glens?

There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's,

That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.

'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses,

Nae lilies grow wild on the lea;

But the heather its sweet scent discloses,

And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.

See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin',

Whose summits are shaded wi' blue;

There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin',

Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin',

Whan shepherds return frae the hill,

Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon',

While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.

Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams,

That points owre the quivering stream;

But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary,

And kinder the blinks o' her een.

THE BANKS OF TARF.

TUNE--_"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."_

Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes

Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows;

And mony a greenwood cluster grows,

And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!

Below a spreadin' hazle lea,

Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see,

While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e,

I met my bonnie Annie, O!

Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue,

Her lips like roses wet wi' dew;

But O! her e'e, o' azure blue,

Was past expression bonnie, O!

Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair,

That lightly wanton'd wi' the air;

But vain were a' my rhymin' ware

To tell the charms o' Annie, O!

While smilin' in my arms she lay,

She whisperin' in my ear did say,

"Oh, how could I survive the day,

Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?"

"While spangled fish glide to the main,

While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain,

Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain,

I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"

The Beltan winds blew loud and lang,

And ripplin' raised the spray alang;

We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang,

The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!

Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay,

And blithe the blinks o' summer day;

I fear nae winter cauld and blae,

If blest wi' love and Annie, O!

O! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE.

TUNE--_"Will ye walk the woods with me?"_

O! will ye go to yon burn side,

Amang the new-made hay;

And sport upon the flowery swaird,

My ain dear May?

The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side,

Whar lambkins lightly play,

The wild bird whistles to his mate,

My ain dear May.

The waving woods, wi' mantle green,

Shall shield us in the bower,

Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May,

O' mony a bonnie flower.

My father maws ayont the burn,

My mammy spins at hame;

And should they see thee here wi' me,

I 'd better been my lane.

The lightsome lammie little kens

What troubles it await--

Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er,

The fause bird lea'es its mate.

The flowers will fade, the woods decay,

And lose their bonnie green;

The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast,

Before that it be e'en.

Ilk thing is in its season sweet;

So love is in its noon:

But cankering time may soil the flower,

And spoil its bonnie bloom.

Oh, come then, while the summer shines,

And love is young and gay;

Ere age his withering, wintry blast

Blaws o'er me and my May.

For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks,

Or haud the halesome plough;

And nightly clasp thee to my breast,

And prove aye leal and true.

The blush o'erspread her bonnie face,

She had nae mair to say,

But gae her hand and walk'd alang,

The youthfu', bloomin' May.

ALEXANDER RODGER.

Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder,

Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village

inn; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to

Hamburgh. Alexander was apprenticed in his twelfth year to a silversmith

in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country, in 1797, he joined his

maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a

weaver. He married in his twenty-second year; and contrived to add to

the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons

in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led in 1819 to

afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of

promoting disaffection and revolt. The connexion was attended with

serious consequences; he was convicted of revolutionary practices, and

sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the

Barrowfield Works, as an inspector of cloths used for printing and

dyeing. He held this office during eleven years; he subsequently acted

as a pawnbroker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different

newspapers. In 1836 he became assistant in the publishing office of the

_Reformers' Gazette_, a situation which he held till his death. This

event took place on the 26th September 1846.

Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of "Poems

and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are

disfigured by coarse political allusions. Several of his songs are of a

high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of

external nature than of the domestic affections; and, himself possessed

of a lively sympathy with the humbler classes, he took delight in

celebrating the simple joys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the

pathetic, his muse sometimes assumed a sportive gaiety, when the laugh

is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation; he was

fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836,

about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained him at a public

festival and handed him a small box of sovereigns; and some admiring

friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome

monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow.

SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.

How brightly beams the bonnie moon,

Frae out the azure sky;

While ilka little star aboon

Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.

How calm the eve, how blest the hour!

How soft the silvan scene!

How fit to meet thee, lovely flower,

Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

Now let us wander through the broom,

And o'er the flowery lea;

While simmer wafts her rich perfume,

Frae yonder hawthorn tree:

There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest,

Where we 've sae aften been;

Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast--

Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

How sweet to view that face so meek--

That dark expressive eye--

To kiss that lovely blushing cheek--

Those lips of coral dye!

But O! to hear thy seraph strains,

Thy maiden sighs between,

Makes rapture thrill through all my veins--

Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

O! what to us is wealth or rank?

Or what is pomp or power?

More dear this velvet mossy bank--

This blest ecstatic hour!

I 'd covet not the monarch's throne,

Nor diamond-studded Queen,

While blest wi' thee, and thee alone,

Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

AIR--_"Good-morrow to your night-cap."_

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

And dinna be sae rude to me,

As kiss me sae before folk.

It wad na gie me meikle pain,

'Gin we were seen and heard by nane

To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane,

But, guid sake! no before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Whate'er you do when out o' view,

Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack,

And what a great affair they 'll mak

O' naething but a simple smack

That 's gi'en or ta'en before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Nor gie the tongue o' auld or young

Occasion to come o'er folk.

It 's no through hatred o' a kiss

That I sae plainly tell you this;

But, losh! I tak it sair amiss

To be sae teased before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

When we 're our lane ye may tak ane,

But fient a ane before folk.

I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as free

As ony modest lass should be;

But yet it doesna do to see

Sic freedom used before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

I 'll ne'er submit again to it--

So mind you that--before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair;

It may be sae--I dinna care--

But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair

As ye hae done before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks,

But aye be douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet,

Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit;

At ony rate, it 's hardly meet,

To pree their sweets before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk;

Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place,

But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist

That I should suffer to be kiss'd,

Gae get a licence frae the priest,

And mak me yours before folk.

Behave yoursel' before folk,

Behave yoursel' before folk,

And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane,

Ye may tak ten before folk.[25]

[25] "The Answer" is of inferior merit, and has therefore been omitted.

LOVELY MAIDEN.

Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping?

Wake, and fly with me, my love,

While the moon is proudly sweeping,

Through the ether fields above;

While her mellow'd light is streaming

Full on mountain, moon, and lake.

Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming?

'Tis thy true-love calls awake.

All is hush'd around thy dwelling,

Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep;

Hark! the clock the hour is knelling,

Wilt thou then thy promise keep?

Yes, I hear her softly coming,

Now her window 's gently raised;

There she stands, an angel blooming,

Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!

Fear not, love, thy rigid father

Soundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine;

'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder,

To his care thyself resign!

Now my arms enfold a treasure,

Which for worlds I 'd not forego;

Now our bosoms feel that pleasure,

Faithful bosoms only know.

Long have our true-loves been thwarted,

By the stern decrees of pride,

Which would doom us to be parted,

And make thee another's bride;

But behold, my steeds are ready,

Soon they 'll post us far away;

Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady,

Long before the dawn of day.

THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.

AIR--_"For lack o' gowd."_

How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside,

Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside;

Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee,

Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside!

Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside;

Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside;

In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind,

To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.

When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside,

What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside,

A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles

At their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside;

And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside,

In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside,

Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd,

He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.

When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside,

And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside,

She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet,

While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside.

When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside,

And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside,

With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days,

As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.

And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside,

What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside?

With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop,

Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside.

Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside;

Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside;

May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath,

Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.

AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAREWELL."

Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell,"

'T would pierce my bosom through;

And to this heart 't were death's dread knell,

To hear thee sigh "Adieu."

Though soul and body both must part,

Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever,

For more to me than soul thou art,

And oh! I 'll quit thee never.

Whate'er through life may be thy fate,

That fate with thee I 'll share,

If prosperous, be moderate;

If adverse, meekly bear;

This bosom shall thy pillow be,

In every change whatever,

And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee,

But oh! forsake thee, never.

One home, one hearth, shall ours be still,

And one our daily fare;

One altar, too, where we may kneel,

And breathe our humble prayer;

And one our praise, that shall ascend,

To one all-bounteous Giver;

And one our will, our aim, our end,

For oh! we 'll sunder never.

And when that solemn hour shall come,

That sees thee breathe thy last,

That hour shall also fix my doom,

And seal my eyelids fast.

One grave shall hold us, side by side,

One shroud our clay shall cover;

And one then may we mount and glide,

Through realms of love, for ever.

JOHN WILSON.

John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers,

and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the

minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was

born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old

building, bore the name of _Prior's Croft_; it was taken down in 1787,

when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley,

which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father.

His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native

town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in

Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial

clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns,

and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four

parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of _Blackwood's

Magazine_. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University

of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek

Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was

to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished

Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly

indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In

1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a

gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in

every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and

strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical

studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by

producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by

the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he

became master of a fortune of about £30,000, which accrued to him from

his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at

Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of

Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During

the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric

adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained

unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of

singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of

strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies;

he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his

companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a

wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter

of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and

amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He

had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought

more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn

of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The

Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice

of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of

Palms," a poem in four cantos.

Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his

original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry.

But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the

management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary

matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of

the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally

towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the

capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law

courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as

a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature

prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not

succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a

dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches,

entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and

"The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."

On the establishment of _Blackwood's Magazine_, in 1817, Wilson was one

of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and

on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and

Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was

commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that

periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the

editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood

himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the

Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by

the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of

Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a

position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He

possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and

drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical

literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public

attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his

criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. _Blackwood's Magazine_

attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the

essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literary

_nom-de-guerre_, became a monthly treasure of interest and

entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianæ," a series of dialogues

on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in _Blackwood_ from

1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two

octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion with

_Blackwood's Magazine_, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected

in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."

Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private

life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular

incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring

adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the

summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously

entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake

Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake,"

have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent

pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of

kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this

excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe

shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first

president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the

following year a civil-list pension of £300 was, on the recommendation

of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In

1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to

resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in

Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a

public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a

thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his

memory.

Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an

admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his

works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to

the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in

the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished

son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no

Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and

deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a

vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of

nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found

philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream.

Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is

still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always

lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be

remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack

incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether

critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness

of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of

absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty;

and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a

contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the

English language is understood.

MARY GRAY'S SONG.

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow,

When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd;

But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow,

Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.

I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning,

But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see,

On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning,

Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.

By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken,

That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor;

Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken,

And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!

Sic silence--sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering!

I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep;

I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children,

Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.

I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming,

Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive;

Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming,

For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.

I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing,

Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din;

But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing,

And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.

I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming,

Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute;

'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming,

Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.

To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage,

The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen;

The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village,

And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!

Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom

Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week;

Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him,

And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.

Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming

On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white;

The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming,

But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.

The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping,

I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth;

Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping,

And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

The morning smiled on--but nae kirk-bell was ringing,

Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill;

The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing,

And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.

I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,

The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene,

And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling

Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;

The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed;

At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither;

At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,

And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,

When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,

And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,

And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright,

To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices

When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

With laughter swimming in thine eye,

That told youth's heart-felt revelry;

And motion changeful as the wing

Of swallow waken'd by the spring;

With accents blithe as voice of May,

Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;

Circled by joy like planet bright

That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,

Thy image such, in former time,

When thou, just entering on thy prime,

And woman's sense in thee combined

Gently with childhood's simplest mind,

First taught'st my sighing soul to move

With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face

A thoughtful and a quiet grace:

Though happy still, yet chance distress

Hath left a pensive loveliness;

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!

Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,

Shower blessings on a darling child;

Thy motion slow and soft thy tread,

As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!

And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,

That tells thy heart is all my own,

Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years,

With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth and tranquil prime

Assured, I smile at hoary Time;

For thou art doom'd in age to know

The calm that wisdom steals from woe;

The holy pride of high intent,

The glory of a life well spent.

When, earth's affections nearly o'er,

With Peace behind and Faith before,

Thou render'st up again to God,

Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn

From bands of sister seraphim,

Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye

Open in immortality.

PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head

For one little hour on thy lover's bed,

And none but the silent stars of night

Shall witness be to our delight?

Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be

Of the eider-down that is spread for thee,

So I in my sorrow must lie alone,

For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.

Music to thee I know is dear;

Then the saddest of music is ever here,

For Grief sits with me in my cell,

And she is a syren who singeth well.

But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs,

And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers,

When the bells of merriment are ringing,

And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,

No rival hast thou in my solitude,

Be mine, my love! and we two will lie

Embraced for ever, or awake to die!

Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour,

Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow;

But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,

And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.

DAVID WEBSTER.

David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was

the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who

occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined

for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his

juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and

continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of

the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he

was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be

admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the

concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the

delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In

1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the

title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful,

and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The

songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his

manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]

[26] The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical

sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles

Fleming, of Paisley.

TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.

TUNE--_"Brose and Butter."_

When I was a miller in Fife,

Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer

Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife,

To help to be brose to your supper.

Then my conscience was narrow and pure,

But someway by random it racket;

For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,

While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill and the kill,

The garland and gear for my cogie,

Hey for the whisky and yill,

That washes the dust frae my craigie.

Although it 's been lang in repute

For rogues to mak rich by deceiving,

Yet I see that it does not weel suit

Honest men to begin to the thieving;

For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,

Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;

Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,

Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

A man that 's been bred to the plough,

Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;

Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough

After kenning what 's said by the happer.

I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn,

Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit?

But when I grew dry for a horn,

It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks,

Cause they kent that I liked a bicker;

Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks,

Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor.

I had lang been accustom'd to drink,

And aye when I purposed to quat it,

That thing wi' its clappertie clink

Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

But the warst thing I did in my life,

Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't,

Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife

A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't;

I have aye had a voice a' my days,

But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't;

Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please

The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey the mill, &c.

Now, miller and a' as I am,

This far I can see through the matter,

There 's men mair notorious to fame,

Mair greedy than me or the muter;

For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men,

Or wi' safety the half we may mak it,

Had some speaking happer within,

That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it.

Hey for the mill, &c.

OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

AIR--_"Gregor Arora."_

Oh, sweet were the hours

That I spent wi' my Flora,

In yon gay shady bowers,

Roun' the linn o' the Cora!

Her breath was the zephyrs

That waft frae the roses,

And skim o'er the heath

As the summer day closes.

I told her my love-tale,

Which seem'd to her cheering;

Then she breathed on the soft gale

Her song so endearing.

The rock echoes ringing

Seem'd charm'd wi' my story;

And the birds, sweetly singing,

Replied to my Flora.

The sweet zephyr her breath

As it wafts frae the roses,

And skims o'er the heath

As the summer day closes.

PATE BIRNIE.[27]

Our minstrels a', frae south to north,

To Edin cam to try their worth,

And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth,

Whase name was Patie Birnie.

This Patie, wi' superior art,

Made notes to ring through head and heart,

Till citizens a' set apart

Their praise to Patie Birnie.

Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth,

Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth,

Aye when she would enhance her worth,

To sing o' Patie Birnie.

His merits mak _Auld Reekie_[28] ring,

Mak rustic poets o' him sing;

For nane can touch the fiddle-string

Sae weel as Patie Birnie.

He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad,

Maks youngsters a rin louping mad,

Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad,

Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.

The witching tones o' Patie's therm,

Mak farmer chiels forget their farm,

Sailors forget the howling storm,

When dancing to Pate Birnie.

Pate maks the fool forget his freaks,

Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes,

And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks,

And follow Patie Birnie.

When Patie taks his strolling rounds,

To feasts or fairs in ither towns,

Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun,

To hear the famous Birnie.

The crabbit carles forget to snarl,

The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel,

And gilphies forget the stock and horle,

And dance to Patie Birnie.

[27] Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in

Kinghorn, Fifeshire.

[28] An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the

Scottish poets.

WILLIAM PARK.

William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew

Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of

Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James,

who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of

verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as

a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted

as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a

situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and

editor of a newspaper, called the _St George's Chronicle_. In the year

1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of

French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at

Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and

was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an

ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather

relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek

employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the

farm of Cassock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the

service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29] minister of Eskdalemuir, and

continued to occupy the position of _minister's man_ till the death of

that clergyman, many years afterwards.

From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The

parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their

inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription

library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native

of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet

suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a

volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo.

About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to _Blackwood's

Magazine_, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers.

On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a

son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton,

and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary

tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the _Dumfries

Standard_ newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was

seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the

5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their

numerous family, some have emigrated to America.

Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song,"

which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the

national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a

passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.

[29] William Brown, D.D., author of "Antiquities of the Jews." Lond.,

1825, 2 vols. 8vo.

THE PATRIOT'S SONG.

Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,

Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,

For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,

And a thousand endearments forego?

Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?

Must I friendship's just claims disallow?

No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,

As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.

'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound

In the wide-spreading plains of the west;

That there an asylum of peace shall be found

Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.

That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride

In the forest unfading and deep;

That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,

Encircling broad realms in its sweep.

But is there a spot in that far distant land

Where fancy or feeling may dwell?

Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,

Untouch'd by Society's spell?

Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,

As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,

Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere--

I have found 'mong these mountains a home.

How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,

As it streams from the eye of the morn!

And how comely the garment that evening wears

When the day of its glories is shorn!

Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,

Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;

The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,

By the bravest, was trodden before.

Nor is there a field--not a foot of thy soil,

In dale or in mountain-land dun,

Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,

Ere concord its conquest had won.

The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,

It comes from the glen on the gale,

For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,

And their names are revered in the vale.

How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,

O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,

Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,

When the banner of truth was display'd!

And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,

And soothing their tones to the soul,

Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,

Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.

While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste,

A gaudier garb may assume,

My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste,

And thy glories immortally bloom.

No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay!

The scorn of the stranger to brave;

O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray,

And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

Thomas Pringle was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in

Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors

had been tenants for a succession of generations. By an accident in

infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the

use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of

Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of

Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading,

and during his attendance at college he formed the resolution of

adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment

of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals

of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811--in connexion with his

ingenious friend, Robert Story, the present minister of Roseneath--a

poem entitled, "The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of

public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's

Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of

Sir Walter Scott for Hogg's "Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a

proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede

the _Scots' Magazine_, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he

united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then

becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwood the

proposal was well received; a periodical was originated under the title

of the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, and Pringle relinquished his post

in the Register House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the

first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from

Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An

interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the

materials being kindly supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The

occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher,

however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had

commenced so prosperously; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle

from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the

magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal: a new

series, under the title of _Blackwood's Magazine_, appeared in October,

under the literary superintendence of Wilson; while, in the August

preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr

Constable, _The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_, as a new

series of the _Scots' Magazine_. In the first number of Mr Blackwood's

new series appeared the celebrated "Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade,

chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and

which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards

cancelled.

Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the

editorship of _The Star_, a bi-weekly newspaper; but he was led soon to

renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the

"Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems;" but finding, in spite of every

effort, that he was unable to support himself by literature, he resumed,

early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House.

When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the

married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the

comfortable maintenance of his family. He formed the resolution of

emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his

wife's relatives and his own consented to accompany him. In February

1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other

relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on

the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned

them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the

upper part of the valley of Baaviars river, a tributary of the Great

Fish river. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden,

Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably

settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary

employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government library, with a

salary of £75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing

educational establishment. He now established a periodical, which he

designated the _South African Commercial Advertiser_, and became editor

of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But

misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures: in consequence

of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to

abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the

administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the

colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826; and failing to

obtain from the home government a reparation of his losses in the

colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from

literature. An article which he had written on slavery, in the _New

Monthly Magazine_, led to his appointment as secretary to the

Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents

and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became

unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June

1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile

seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th

December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in

Bunhill-field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his

poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory.

As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification,

perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough

patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish

scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition,

and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially

uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions; and to this

peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person

he was under the middle height; his countenance was open and benignant,

with a well developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere

religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch

Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow.

FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.

Our native land--our native vale--

A long, a last adieu;

Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Cheviot's mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,

Ye streams renown'd in song;

Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,

Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes,

Where thyme and harebells grow;

Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,

O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower,

That skirt our native dells;

The martyr's grave and lover's bower,

We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love--our fathers' home--

Land of the brave and free--

The sail is flapping on the foam

That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore,

Beyond the western main;

We leave thee to return no more,

Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land--our native vale--

A long, a last adieu!

Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue!

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

By the lone Mankayana's margin gray

A Scottish maiden sung;

And mournfully pour'd her melting lay

In Teviot's border-tongue:

O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,

And the birk in Clifton dale;

And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,

By the briery banks o' Cayle!

Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom

May enchant the traveller's eye;

But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,

To the exile who comes to die!

O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

Far round and round spreads the howling waste,

Where the wild beast roams at will;

And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,

Where the savage lurks to kill!

O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green

My dreaming fancy strays;

But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene

That scowls on my aching gaze!

O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,

On Scotland's peaceful strand,

Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,

In this wild and weary land!

O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

LOVE AND SOLITUDE.

I love the free ridge of the mountain,

When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;

I love the old ash by the fountain,

When noon's summer fervours are high:

And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloaming

Adown the dim valley glides slowly along,

And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,

A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.

When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters

Over ocean her silvery light,

And the whisper of woodlands and waters

Comes soft through the silence of night--

I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger,

A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,

And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,

The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.

Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,

Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh--

I yearn for the sympathies glowing,

When hearts to each other reply!

Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion,

To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;

O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion,

With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!

COME AWA', COME AWA'.

Come awa', come awa',

An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie;

Leave your southren wooers a',

My winsome bride to be, lassie!

Lands nor gear I proffer you,

Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie;

But I 've a heart that 's leal and true,

And a' that heart is thine, lassie!

Come awa', come awa',

And see the kindly north, lassie,

Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair,

And by the Links o' Forth, lassie!

And when we tread the heather-bell,

Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,

You 'll view the land o' flood and fell,

The noble north countrie, lassie!

Come awa', come awa',

And leave your southland hame, lassie;

The kirk is near, the ring is here,

And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie!

Rock and reel and spinning-wheel,

And English cottage trig, lassie;

Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel

The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!

Come awa', come awa',

I ken your heart is mine, lassie,

And true love shall make up for a'

For whilk ye might repine, lassie!

Your father he has gi'en consent,

Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie;

O that our feet were on the bent,

An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!

Come awa', come awa',

Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;

My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,

By bonnie Avondhu, lassie!

There 's birk and slae on ilka brae,

And brackens waving fair, lassie,

And gleaming lochs and mountains gray--

Can aught wi' them compare, lassie?

Come awa', come awa', &c.

DEAREST LOVE, BELIEVE ME!

Dearest love, believe me,

Though all else depart,

Nought shall e'er deceive thee

In this faithful heart.

Beauty may be blighted--

Youth must pass away;

But the vows we plighted

Ne'er shall know decay.

Tempests may assail us

From affliction's coast,

Fortune's breeze may fail us

When we need it most;

Fairest hopes may perish,

Firmest friends may change,

But the love we cherish

Nothing shall estrange.

Dreams of fame and grandeur

End in bitter tears;

Love grows only fonder

With the lapse of years;

Time, and change, and trouble,

Weaker ties unbind,

But the bands redouble

True affection twined.

WILLIAM KNOX.

William Knox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at

Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August

1789. His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a

country gentleman, Mr Pott of Todrig, in Selkirkshire; and of this

marriage, William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish

school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of

Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of Wrae, near

Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but his habits were not those of a thriving

farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his

lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he

returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the

family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to

Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his

attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public

journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published

"The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of

Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics,

entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of

Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional

pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of

Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.

Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue

gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis,

and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of

thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely

pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural

paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of

his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his

poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale

entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several

compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by

his executors.

Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was

fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits

in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated

his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary

reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious

anecdotes.

THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.

O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends,

Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds;

Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west,

And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast.

Here social pleasure enlivens each heart,

And friendship is ready its warmth to impart;

The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes,

To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.

Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills,

Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills;

Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers,

There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours.

Though our island is beat by the storms of the north,

There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth;

There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes

From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes.