The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin',
Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel;
An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin',
As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil.
A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover,
Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal;
And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover
The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.
Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily,
That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal;
Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley
Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil.
She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her;
She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill;
She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder,
To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.
But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin',
Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal;
An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in',
Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal.
The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein';
The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel';
The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin';
An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!
THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.
There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet,
When the object of untold affection we meet,
But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief,
As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.
There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread,
When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread;
But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne,
Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.
There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above,
When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love,
Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings,
The longest, the last of terrestrial things.
GEORGE MENZIES.
George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on
the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On
completing his education at a country school, he became, in his
fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in
different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the
Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the
counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in
various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in
different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a
succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and
editor of the _Woodstock Herald_ newspaper. After a short illness, he
died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his
fifty-first year.
Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote
respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In
1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled,
"Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five
years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life,
in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.
THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.
As clear is Luther's wave, I ween,
As gay the grove, the vale as green;
But, oh! the days that we have seen
Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!
Oh! we have often fondly stray'd
In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade,
And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd
On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!
Since then, full many a year and day
With me have slowly pass'd away,
Far from the braes of Auchinblae,
And far from love and thee, Mary!
And we must part again, my dear,
It is not mine to linger here;
Yes, we must part--and, oh! I fear,
We meet not here again, Mary!
For on Culloden's bloody field,
Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd--
Last night to me it was reveal'd
Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!
And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine
Upon the heights of Galloquhine,
A thousand victims at the shrine
Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!
Hark! hark! they come--the foemen come--
I go; but wheresoe'er I roam,
With thee my heart remains at home--
Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!
FARE THEE WEEL.
Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie;
Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie!
Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
By yon starry heavens I vow it!
By my love!--(I mayna rue it)--
By this hour in which we sever!
I will love but thee for ever.
Should the hand of death arrest me,
Think my latest prayer hath blest thee;
As the parting pang draws nearer,
I will love thee aye the dearer.
Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish--
'Tis a spark that winna perish;
Though I ne'er again may meet thee,
Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.
JOHN SIM.
John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father,
James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and
was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made
rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University
of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his
diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice
of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few
months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate
with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances,
he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th
January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island
about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise
date of his death is unknown.
Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was
selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He
published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat
imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are
pervaded by genial sentiment.
NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.
AIR--_"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."_
Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side--
Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side--
Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day,
Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.
Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side,
O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side;
Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair
Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.
Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side,
Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side;
And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow,
Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.
BONNIE PEGGY.[46]
AIR--_"Bonnie lassie, O."_
Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Where the waters smoothly rin,
Far aneath the roarin' linn,
Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O!
When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O!
In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O!
And a sky of azure blue,
Deck'd with stars of golden hue,
Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O!
When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O!
On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O!
We have heard in echoes die,
While the wave that rippled by,
Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O!
Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast
To my beating heart I press'd,
Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O!
Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O!
Oh! never again, I ween,
Will we meet at summer e'en
On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O!
Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O!
As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O!
Then with bosom, oh, how light,
Had I hail'd the coming night,
And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!
[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin
Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously
ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then
under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and
professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was
published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim
in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of
these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter
from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work,
Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song--by the poet
Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to
the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the
earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with
music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to
adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the
absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the
production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See
Memoir of Mr Lyle, _postea_.)
NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]
_Gaelic Air._
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er--
The war of pride and love;
And, Mary, now we meet no more,
Unless we meet above.
Too well thou know'st how much I loved!
Thou knew'st my hopes how fair!
But all these hopes are blighted now,
They point but to despair.
Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love,
I haste to India's shore;
For here how can I longer stay,
And call thee mine no more?
Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er;
And though I still must love,
Yet, Mary, here we meet no more,
Oh, may we meet above!
[47] This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was
attached, and who had agreed to marry him on an improvement in his
worldly circumstances. A desire speedily to gain her hand is said to
have been the cause of his proceeding to the West Indies. The prediction
in the song was sadly realised.
WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.
William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October
1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of
the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron,
Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on
the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name
was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the
parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a
considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His
parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he
became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in
Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of
Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley,
being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth
year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and
in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which
he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a
more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the
Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session
of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the
appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.
From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours
to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his
fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful
ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose
and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818,
he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work
published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and
last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of
songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many
valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song
and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto
volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"--a work which
considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly
correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the _Paisley
Magazine_, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one
year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy
is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of
the _Paisley Advertiser_, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he
exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the _Glasgow Courier_,
a more influential journal in the same political interests.
On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his
literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a
public journalist. To _The Day_, a periodical published in the city in
1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and
about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of
Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson.
Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions
into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical."
In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating
an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow;
but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He
died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November
1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the
Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been
erected to his memory.
Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large
and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his
cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and
surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often
taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He
was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of
spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he
was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His
claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is
unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not
written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the
greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his
characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian
ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and
successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An
excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy,
was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.
JEANIE MORRISON.[48]
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
Through mony a weary way,
But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en,
May weel be black gin Yule;
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows owre my path,
And blind my een wi' tears;
They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears;
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
'Twas then we twa did part;
Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at schule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear;
And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed,
Remember'd evermair.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that bink,
Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof,
What our wee heads could think.
When baith bent doun owre ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Thy lips were on thy lesson--but
My lesson was in thee.
Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame,
Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said
We cleek'd thegither hame?
And mind ye o' the Saturdays
(The schule then skailt at noon)
When we ran aff to speel the braes--
The broomy braes o' June?
My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea,
As ane by ane the thoughts rush back
O' schule-time and o' thee.
Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve!
Oh, lichtsome days and lang,
When hinnied hopes around our hearts,
Like simmer blossoms sprang!
Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin', dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?
The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin o' the wood,
The throssil whusslit sweet.
The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;
And on the knowe abune the burn,
For hours thegither sat
In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.
Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled doun your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young,
When freely gush'd all feelings forth,
Unsyllabled--unsung!
I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee
As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,
As ye hae been to me!
Oh, tell me gin their music fills
Thine heart, as it does mine;
Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?
I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west,
I 've borne a weary lot;
But in my wanderings, far or near,
Ye never were forgot.
The fount that first burst frae this heart,
Still travels on its way;
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.
Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,
I 've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I die,
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!
[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch,
still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable
brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her
seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months
occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which
she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was
totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the
editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she
made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good
capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to
fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her
temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison
became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who
died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now
(Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never
met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of
his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been
published for several years before she became aware that she was the
heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's
juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and
amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal
beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.
WEARIE'S WELL.
In a saft simmer gloamin',
In yon dowie dell,
It was there we twa first met,
By Wearie's cauld well.
We sat on the broom bank,
And look'd in the burn,
But sidelang we look'd on
Ilk ither in turn.
The corncraik was chirming
His sad eerie cry,
And the wee stars were dreaming
Their path through the sky;
The burn babbled freely
Its love to ilk flower,
But we heard and we saw nought
In that blessed hour.
We heard and we saw nought,
Above or around;
We felt that our luve lived,
And loathed idle sound.
I gazed on your sweet face
Till tears fill'd my e'e,
And they drapt on your wee loof--
A warld's wealth to me.
Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing
On bare holm and lea,
And the cauld wind is strippin'
Ilk leaf aff the tree.
But the snaw fa's not faster,
Nor leaf disna part
Sae sune frae the bough, as
Faith fades in your heart.
You 've waled out anither
Your bridegroom to be;
But can his heart luve sae
As mine luvit thee?
Ye 'll get biggings and mailins,
And mony braw claes;
But they a' winna buy back
The peace o' past days.
Fareweel, and for ever,
My first luve and last;
May thy joys be to come--
Mine live in the past.
In sorrow and sadness
This hour fa's on me;
But light, as thy luve, may
It fleet over thee!
WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.
Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa',
And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa',
Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie,
For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.
The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day,
And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray;
The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see,
But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.
Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith,
Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth!
And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e,
When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.
I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen
A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in;
But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie,
And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.
I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing,
But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring;
I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be,
Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.
My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me,
And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be;
But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e,
Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.
THE MIDNIGHT WIND.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth sigh,
Like some sweet plaintive melody
Of ages long gone by:
It speaks a tale of other years--
Of hopes that bloom'd to die--
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan;
It stirs some chord of memory,
In each dull heavy tone:
The voices of the much-loved dead
Seem floating thereupon--
All, all my fond heart cherished,
Ere death hath made it lone.
Mournfully, oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell,
With its quaint pensive minstrelsy,
Hope's passionate farewell.
To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell
On the heart's bloom--ay, well may tears
Start at that parting knell!
HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!
He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree,
Or the down that is blown
By the wind o'er the lea.
He is fled--the light-hearted!
Yet a tear must have started
To his eye when he parted
From love-stricken me!
He is fled! he is fled!
Like a gallant so free--
Plumed cap on his head,
And sharp sword by his knee;
While his gay feathers flutter'd,
Surely something he mutter'd--
He at least must have utter'd
A farewell to me!
He 's away! he 's away!
To far lands o'er the sea,
And long is the day
Ere home he can be;
But where'er his steed prances
Amid thronging lances,
Sure he 'll think of the glances
That love stole from me!
He is gone! he is gone!
Like the leaf from the tree,
But his heart is of stone
If it ne'er dream of me;
For I dream of him ever--
His buff-coat and beaver,
And long sword, oh! never
Are absent from me!
DAVID MACBETH MOIR.
David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His
elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the
Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical
classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year
obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a
respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice
in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and
about the same age contributed some prose essays to the _Cheap
Magazine_, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he
published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession
of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for
_Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_. Soon after the establishment of
_Blackwood's Magazine_, he became one of its more conspicuous
contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally
subscribed by his literary _nom de guerre_, the Greek letter Delta
([Greek: Delta]), long continued a source of much interest to the
readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his
poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other
Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally
supplied in a series of chapters to _Blackwood_, and afterwards
published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an
author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of
Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled,
"Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further
publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant
Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic
Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered,
at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures
on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards
published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a
large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health,
he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive
benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching;
he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only
his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the
burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his
memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir
regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his
literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his
inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his
style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness,
dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the
plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a
genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in
stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious
aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His
mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were
pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his
chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He
had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still
survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo
volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood,
under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an
interesting memoir.
CASA WAPPY.[49]
And hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy--
The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?
Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth,
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy!
Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye;
Tears of our anguish may not tell
When thou didst die;
Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea
Of our unfathom'd agony,
Casa Wappy!
Thou wert a vision of delight
To bless us given;
Beauty embodied to our sight,
A type of heaven.
So dear to us thou wert, thou art
Even less thine own self than a part
Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!
Thy bright, brief day knew no decline--
'Twas cloudless joy;
Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy!
This morn beheld thee blithe and gay;
That found thee prostrate in decay;
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,
Casa Wappy!
Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled,
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child!
Humbly we bow to fate's decree;
Yet had we hoped that time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,
Casa Wappy!
Do what I may, go where I will,
Thou meet'st my sight;
There dost thou glide before me still,
A form of light.
I feel thy breath upon my cheek,
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak,
Till, oh! my heart is like to break,
Casa Wappy!
* * * * *
The nursery shews thy pictured wall,
Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball;
But where art thou?
A corner holds thine empty chair;
Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,
Casa Wappy!
* * * * *
We mourn for thee when blind, blank night
The chamber fills;
We pine for thee when morn's first light
Reddens the hills;
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea--
All--to the wallflower and wild pea--
Are changed--we saw the world through thee,
Casa Wappy!
* * * * *
Snows muffled earth when thou didst go,
In life's spring-bloom,
Down to the appointed house below--
The silent tomb.
But now the green leaves of the tree,
The cuckoo, and "the busy bee,"
Return, but with them bring not thee,
Casa Wappy!
'Tis so! but can it be--(while flowers
Revive again)--
Man's doom in death--that we and ours
For aye remain?
Oh! can it be that o'er the grave
The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave,
Yet God forget our child to save?
Casa Wappy!
It cannot be; for were it so
Thus man could die,
Life were a mockery--thought were woe,
And truth a lie--
Heaven were a coinage of the brain--
Religion frenzy--virtue vain,
And all our hopes to meet again,
Casa Wappy!
Then be to us, O dear, lost child!
With beam of love,
A star--death's uncongenial wild--
Smiling above!
Soon, soon thy little feet have trod
The skyward path, the seraph's road,
That led thee back from man to God,
Casa Wappy!
Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair,
Fond, fairest boy,
That heaven is God's, and thou art there
With him in joy!
There past are death and all its woes,
There beauty's stream for ever flows,
And pleasure's day no sunset knows,
Casa Wappy!
Farewell, then--for a while farewell,
Pride of my heart!
It cannot be that long we dwell
Thus torn apart--
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee;
And dark howe'er life's night may be,
Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee,
Casa Wappy!
[49] This touching elegiac poem (which is not unsuitable for music) was
written by Mr Moir on the death of his favourite child, Charles
Bell--familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy"--who died in February 1838,
at the age of four and a half years.
FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.
Farewell, our fathers' land,
Valley and fountain!
Farewell, old Scotland's strand,
Forest and mountain!
Then hush the drum and hush the flute,
And be the stirring bagpipe mute--
Such sounds may not with sorrow suit--
And fare thee well, Lochaber!
This plume and plaid no more will see,
Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee,
Nor even the broadswords which Dundee
Bade flash at Killiecrankie.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Now when of yore, on bank and brae,
Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay;
Far downward scowls Bennevis gray,
On sheep-walks spreading lonely.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
For now we cross the stormy sea,
Ah! never more to look on thee,
Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free,
From Etive glens to Morven.
Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe;
The household sword shall eat the sheath,
While rave the wild winds o'er the heath
Where our gray sires are sleeping.
Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.
HEIGH-HO!
A pretty young maiden sat on the grass--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And by a blithe young shepherd did pass,
In the summer morning so early.
Said he, "My lass, will you go with me,
My cot to keep and my bride to be;
Sorrow and want shall never touch thee,
And I will love you rarely?"
"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And bashfully turn'd aside her head,
On that summer morning so early.
"My mother is old, my mother is frail,
Our cottage it lies in yon green dale;
I dare not list to any such tale,
For I love my kind mother rarely."
The shepherd took her lily-white hand--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
And on her beauty did gazing stand,
On that summer morning so early.
"Thy mother I ask thee not to leave
Alone in her frail old age to grieve;
But my home can hold us all, believe--
Will that not please thee fairly?"
"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"--
Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!--
"I dare not list to a young man's tongue,
On a summer morning so early."
But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent;
Oft she strove to go, but she never went;
And at length she fondly blush'd consent--
Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.
ROBERT FRASER.
Robert Fraser was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the
24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various
schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a
wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of
four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an
ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was prosperous in
merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially
to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He
was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed
both in prose and verse to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_, and other
periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and
in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, when
he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a
lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His "Poetical Remains," with a
memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months
after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is
pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable
power.
OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
How weel I canna tell;
Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd,
Lang ere I wist mysel'.
At the school amang the lave,
If I wrestled or I ran,
I cared na' for the prize,
If she saw me when I wan.
Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel,
When thae gleesome days were gane;
'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude,
To match her saw I nane.
Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam,
Wi' its cumber an' its toil,
My day-tide dool was a' forgot,
In her blithe e'enin' smile.
Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain;
An' though mony cam to woo,
Wha to won her wad been fain,
Yet to me she aye was true.
She grat wi' very joy
When our waddin' day was set;
An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled,
She 's my darling lassie yet.
JAMES HISLOP.
James Hislop, a short-lived poet of considerable promise, was born of
humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798.
Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety
and worth, he taught himself to read. When little more than a child, he
became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his
birth-place. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling,
which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had
already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he
became a shepherd and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of
Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene
of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II.
and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous
Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the
peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the
persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of
poetry; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of "The
Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed
to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the
neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of indiscriminate
reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his
twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but
tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact
sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble
pastoral associates; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove
to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by
teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to
the _Edinburgh Magazine_, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and
especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the
Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this
gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been
interested by his poetry.
The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to
the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed "The
Cameronian's Dream," which appeared in the _Edinburgh Magazine_ for
February 1821, and attracted much attention. He now commenced teaching
in Edinburgh; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr
Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about
to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to
mental improvement; and on his return from a three years' cruise along
the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the
_Edinburgh Magazine_, a series of papers, under the title of "Letters
from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In
1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaintance of Allan
Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and J. G. Lockhart. For some time, he
reported to one of the London newspapers; but this employment proving
uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had
reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal
acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with
some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an
extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London--an office which,
at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the
"Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good
Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands,
Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the
island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with
fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop,
proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th
December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.
Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character,
Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply
lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been
described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather
than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of
"The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of
his country.
THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.
In a dream of the night, I was wafted away
To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay;
Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen
Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.
'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood,
When the minister's home was the mountain and wood,
And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion,
All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.
'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east
Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast;
On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew
Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.
And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud,
The song of the lark was melodious and loud;
And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep,
Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.
And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness,
The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness;
Its daughters were happy to hail the returning,
And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.
But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings--
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings--
And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.
'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying;
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.
Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd,
But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed;
With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of salvation.
The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.
Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded;
Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.
The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling,
As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.
When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.
A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining;
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.
On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding;
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye--
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!
HOW SWEET THE DEWY BELL IS SPREAD.
How sweet the dewy bell is spread
Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin'
The heathery locks o' deepenin' red,
Around the mountain brow aye wavin'!
Here, on the sunny mountain side,
Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither;
Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed,
Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.
Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid,
Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye;
And now, aneath my tartan plaid,
How blest I lie wi' you aside me!
And art thou happy--dearest, speak--
Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie?
Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek,
Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.
The saftness o' the gentle dove,
Its eyes in dying sweetness closin',
Is like thae languid eyes o' love,
Sae fondly on my heart reposin'.
When simmer suns the flowers expand,
In a' their silken beauties shinin',
They 're no sae saft as thy white hand,
Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.
While thus, aneath my tartan plaid,
Sae warmly to my lips I press ye;
That hinnied bloom o' dewy red
Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie!
Reclined on love's soft crimson bed,
Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither;
Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread,
How happy, happy 'mang the heather!
ROBERT GILFILLAN.
A respectable contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan
was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble
circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was
required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support
of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a
turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his
thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith;
and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native
town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as
clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the
office of Collector of Poor's-rates in Leith, and continued to hold this
appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December
1850, in his fifty-second year.
A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished
among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed
through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music,
and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for
graceful simplicity.
MANOR BRAES.
TUNE--_"Logan Water."_
Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,
And Castlehill's white wa's appear,
I spent ae day, aboon a' days,
By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
The purple heath was just in bloom,
And bonnie waved the upland broom,
The flocks on flowery braes lay still,
Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.
'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,
Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,
I met a maiden fair to see,
Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;
Her beauty to the mind did bring
A morn where summer blends wi' spring,
So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,
'Twas bliss to look--to linger there!
Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,
Wi' love to win and sense to charm,
So much of nature, nought of art,
She 'll live enthroned within my heart!
Aboon her head the laverock sang,
And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;
Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,
By Manor stream an' Manor braes.
I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair
Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care?
She said her heart frae love was free,
But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.
The parting cam, as partings come,
Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb;
Yet I 'll return, ere many days,
To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.
FARE THEE WELL.
TUNE--_"Roy's Wife."_
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee;
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine--believe me!
We part--but by those dew-drops clear,
My love for thee will last for ever;
I leave thee--but thy image dear,
Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.
Fare thee well, &c.
Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow--
One farewell smile before we sever;
The only balm for parting woe
Is--fondly hope 'tis not for ever.
Fare thee well, &c.
Though dark and dreary lowers the night,
Calm and serene may be the morrow;
The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,
Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,
At least I wish them thine--believe me!
THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.
'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view,
With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew;
It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne--
'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.
Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.
Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),
Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon?
Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky,
The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.
Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,
But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair--
Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.
THE EXILE'S SONG.
TUNE--_"My ain Countrie."_
Oh! why left I my hame,
Why did I cross the deep?
Oh! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea;
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!
The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs,
And to the Indian maid
The bulbul sweetly sings;
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!
Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie,
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!
There 's a hope for every woe,
And a balm for every pain;
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There 's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea,
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie!
THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.
Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by,
And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky;
An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw,
When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?
They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years,
But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears;
Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine,
For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.
I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn,
For the blithe happy days that never can return;
When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue,
An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.
Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet,
Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet;
The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee,
As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.
Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain--
There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain;
Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee!
The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.
'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!
I thought we sat beside the burn
That wimples down the flowery glen,
Where, in our early days o' love,
We met that ne'er sall meet again.
The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,
And gladden'd wi' his parting ray
The woodland wild and valley green,
Fast fading into gloamin' gray.
He talk'd of days o' future joy,
And yet my heart was haflins sair;
For when his eye it beam'd on me,
A withering death-like glance was there!
I thought him dead, and then I thought
That life was young and love was free;
For o'er our heads the mavis sang,
And hameward hied the janty bee!
We pledged our love and plighted troth,
But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave;
When, starting from my dream, I found
His troth was plighted to the grave!
I canna weep, for hope is fled,
And nought would do but silent mourn,
Were 't no for dreams that should na come,
To whisper back my love's return.
'Tis sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sall never see;
Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me!
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
WILLIAM ROSS.
William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic
Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He
received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed
during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of
Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the
calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of
general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish
school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age
of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (_uisg-bea_) in
several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief
theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose
coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to
the too susceptible poet.
THE HIGHLAND MAY.
I.
Let the maids of the Lowlands
Vaunt their silks and their Hollands,
In the garb of the Highlands
Oh give me my dear!
Such a figure for grace!
For the Loves such a face!
And for lightness the pace
That the grass shall not stir.
* * * * *
II.
Lips of cherry confine
Teeth of ivory shine,
And with blushes combine
To keep us in thrall.
Thy converse exceeding
All eloquent pleading,
Thy voice never needing
To rival the fall
Of the music of art,--
Steal their way to the heart,
And resistless impart
Their enchantment to all.
III.
When _Beltane_ is over,
And summer joys hover,
With thee a glad rover
I 'll wander along,
Where the harp-strings of nature
Are strung by each creature,
And the sleep shall be sweeter
That lulls to their song,
There, bounding together,
On the lawn of the heather,
And free from the tether,
The heifers shall throng.
IV.
There shall pasture the ewes,
There the spotted goats browse,
And the kids shall arouse
In their madness of play;
They shall butt, they shall fight,
They shall emulate flight,
They shall break with delight
O'er the mountains away.
And there shall my Mary
With her faithful one tarry,
And never be weary
In the hollows to stray.
V.
While a concert shall cheer us,
For the bushes are near us;
And the birds shall not fear us,
We 'll harbour so still.
* * * * *
Strains the mavis his throat,
Lends the cuckoo her note,
And the world is forgot
By the side of the hill.
THE CELT AND THE STRANGER.
The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerie
Is the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50]
Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither,
Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!
Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying;
The half is behind, but the better is straying
The shade of the hills and the copses away in,
And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.
I know why it wanders,--it is to be treading
Where long I frequented the haunts of my dear,
The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading,
With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.
It is to be tending where heifers are wending,
And the birds, with the music of love, are contending;
And rapture, its passion to innocence lending,
Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.
[50] This song was written in Edinburgh.
CORMAC'S CURE.
The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for
his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her
husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained
in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and
had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter.
On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to
his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate
resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the
lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly
weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who,
with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look
for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree
who were possessed of equal charms. With the same
uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the
resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own
music. Ross applies the story to his own case.
Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile,
And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while--
"Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown,
In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."
When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear,
Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here!
Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow,
As rosy on the lip, is there--then, why so frantic thou?"
The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured,
Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured:
But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain,
And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.
Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along,
As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song,
Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide,
A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.
But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael,
Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail.
And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look
Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?
Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told,
That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold.
His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss--
He almost thought he heard her sigh, "_Come back again to bliss!_"
THE LAST LAY OF LOVE.
This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably
when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of
consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his
mistress to another lover.
Reft the charm of the social shell
By the touch of the sorrowful mood;
And already the worm, in her cell,
Is preparing the birth of her brood.
She blanches the hue of my cheek,
And exposes my desperate love;
Nor needs it that death should bespeak
The hurt no remeid can remove.
The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace,
Even that has withdrawn from the scene;
And, now, not a breeze can displace
A leaf from its summit of green
So prostrate and fallen to lie,
So far from the branch where it hung,
As, in dust and in helplessness, I,
From the hope to which passion had clung.
Yet, benison bide! where thy choice
Deems its bliss and its treasure secure,
May the months in thy blessings rejoice,
While their rise and their wane shall endure!
For me, a poor warrior, in blood
By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone,
The glow of ambition subdued,
The weapons of rivalry gone.
Yet, cruel to mock me, the base
Who scoff at the name of the bard,
To scorn the degree of my race,
Their toil and their travail, is hard.
Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew
A furrow unstraight or unpaid;
And the other, to righteousness true,
Hung even the scales of his trade.
And I--ah! they should not compel
To waken the theme of my praise;
I can boast over hundreds, to tell
Of a chief in the conflict of lays.
And now it is over--the heart
That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd,
In the song-fight shall never take part,
And weakness gives warning to yield.
As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud
That is raised by the dash of the spray
When waters are battling aloud,
Bewilderment bears me away.
And to measure the song in its charm,
Or to handle the viol with skill,
Or beauty with carols to warm,
Gone for ever, the power and the will.
No never, no never, ascend
To the mountain-pass glories, shall I,
In the cheer of the chase to unbend;
Enough, it is left but to die.
And yet, shall I go to my rest,
Where the dead of my brothers repair--
To the hall of the bards, not unblest,
That their worthies before me are there?
LACHLAN MACVURICH.
This bard, known by his territorial designation of "Strathmassie," lived
during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its
close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant
of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease
of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and
forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman,
James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with
that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor,
and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his
work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved,
"Strathmassie" evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is
nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his
namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which,
in the opinion of many, constitutes all that we have in the name of
Ossian.
THE EXILE OF CLUNY.
The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the
heights of Benalder, where he entertained his
unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the
adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for
France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that
loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie"
seems to have caught, in the following verses, some
characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful
dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest
courage in warfare.
Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman,
Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land;
And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region,
Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd.
The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord,
And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled,
And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored,
Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.
He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny;
At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood;
Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we!
In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good.
When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial
Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind:
"Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all;
"Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."
What symbols may match our brave chief's animation?
When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow;
As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation,
As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe.
So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury
To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail;
So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry,
So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.
Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race,
Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart;
The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace,
But the hand to the brand was as ready to start.
Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb
And sureness of sinew? and--for the stout blow--
'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death,
Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.
Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasing
With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife;
With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing,
Following on for the right in the havoc of life.
To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak,
His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong;
And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak
His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.
JAMES M'LAGGAN.
James M'Laggan was the son of a small farmer at Ballechin, in the parish
of Logierait, Perthshire, where he was born in 1728. Educated at the
University of St Andrews, he received license as a probationer of the
Established Church. Through the influence of the Duke of Atholl, he was
appointed to the Chapel of Ease, at Amulree, in Perthshire, and
subsequently to the chaplainship of the 42d Regiment, his commission to
the latter office bearing date the 15th of June 1764. His predecessor in
the chaplainship was Dr Adam Ferguson, author of the "History of the
Roman Republic," who was also a native of the parish of Logierait.
Than Mr M'Laggan, few could have been better qualified for the duties of
chaplain to a Highland regiment. He was intimately conversant with the
language, character, and partialities of the Gael, and was possessed of
much military ardour, as well as Christian devotedness. He accompanied
the regiment to America, and was present in several skirmishes during
the War of Independence. Anecdotes are still recounted of the humour and
spirit with which he maintained an influence over the minds of his
flock; and Stewart, in his "History of the Highlands," has described him
as having essentially contributed to form the character of the Highland
soldier, then in the novitiate of his loyalty and efficiency in the
national service. In 1776, while stationed with his regiment in Glasgow,
he had the freedom of the city conferred on him by the corporation.
After discharging the duties of military chaplain during a period of
twenty-four years, he was in 1788 presented by the Duke of Atholl to the
parish of Blair-Athole, Perthshire. He died in 1805, in the
seventy-seventh year of his age.
A pious and exemplary clergyman, Mr M'Laggan is still kindly remembered
in the scene of his parochial ministrations. An accomplished Gaelic
scholar, and with a strong admiration of the poetry of the Gael, he
recovered, from the recitation of many aged persons, large portions of
the poetry of Ossian, prior to the publication of the collections of
Macpherson.[51] He composed some spirited Gaelic lyrics during the
period of his connexion with the army, but the greater portion of his
poetry still remains in MS. A collection of Gaelic songs under his
editorial superintendence was published anonymously.
Mr M'Laggan was of fair and ruddy complexion, and was under the middle
stature. He was fond of humour, and his dispositions were singularly
benevolent. In youth, he was remarkable for his skill in athletic
exercises. He married a daughter of the Rev. James Stewart, minister of
Killin, the originator of the translation of the Scriptures into the
Gaelic language. Of a family of four sons and three daughters, one son
and two daughters still survive; his eldest son, the Rev. James
M'Laggan, D.D., was successively minister of the parishes of
Auchtergaven and Kinfauns, in Perthshire, and ultimately Free Church
Professor of Divinity in Aberdeen.
[51] Macpherson afterwards consulted Mr M'Laggan's "Collection of
Ossianic Remains" (see report on Ossian, App. 153).
SONG OF THE ROYAL HIGHLAND REGIMENT.
For success, a prayer, with a farewell, bear
To the warriors dear of the muir and the valley--
The lads that convene in their plaiding of green,
With the curtal coat, and the sweeping _eil-e_.
In their belts array'd, where the dark blue blade
Is hung, with the dirk at the side;
When the sword is at large, and uplifted the targe,
Ha! not a foe the boys will abide.
The followers in peril of Ian the Earl,
The race of the wight of hand;
Sink the eyes of the foe, of the friend's mounts the glow,
When the Murdoch's high blood takes command.
With Loudon to lead ye, the wise and the steady,
The daring in fight and the glorious,
Like the lightning ye 'll rush, with the sword's bright flash,
And return to your mountains victorious.
Oh, sons of the Lion! your watch is the wild-lands,
The garb of the Highlands is mingled with blue,
Though the target and bosses are bright in the Highlands,
The axe in your hands might be blunted well, too.
Then forward--and see ye be huntsmen true,
And, as erst the red deer felling,
So fell ye the Gaul, and so strike ye all
The tribes in the backwoods dwelling.
Where ocean is roaring, let top-sails be towering,
And sails to the motion of helm be flying;
Though high as the mountain, or smooth as the fountain,
Or fierce as the boiling floods angrily crying,
Though the tide with a stroke be assailing the rock;
Oh, once let the pibroch's wild signal be heard,
Then the waves will come bending in dimples befriending,
And beckoning the friends of their country on board.
The ocean-tide 's swelling, its fury is quelling,
In salute of thunder proclaiming your due;
And, methinks, that the hum of a welcome is come,
And is warbling the Jorram to you.
When your levy is landed, oh, bright as the pearls
Shall the strangers who welcome you, gladly and greeting
Speak beautiful thoughts; aye, the beautiful girls
From their eyes shall the tears o'er the ruby be meeting,
And encounter ye, praying, from the storm and the slaying,
"From the stranger, the enemy, save us, oh save!
From rapine and plunder, oh tear us asunder,--
Our noble defenders are ever the brave!"
"If the fondest ye of true lovers be,"
So cries each trembling beauty,
"Be bold in the fight, and give transport's delight
To your friends and the fair, by your duty."
"Oh, yes!" shall the beautiful hastily cry;
"Oh, yes!" in a word, shall the valiant reply;
"By our womanly faith we pledge you for both,
For where'er we contract, and where'er we betroth,
We vow with the daring to die!"
Faithful to trust is the lion-like host
Whom the dawn of their youth doth inure
To hunger's worst ire, and to action's bold fire,
And to ranging the wastes of the moor.
Accustom'd so well to each enterprise snell,
Be the chase or the warfare their quarry;
Aye ever they fight the best, for the right
To the strike of the swords, when they hurry.
GLOSSARY.
_Ahin'_, behind.
_Auld-farrant_, sagacious, cunning.
_Baudrons_, a cat.
_Beltane_, the 1st of May.
_Bield_, shelter.
_Bink_, a bank of earth.
_Birk_, birch.
_Blae_, blue.
_Blaud_, a flat piece of anything, to slap.
_Blinket_, looked kindly.
_Bonnie_, beautiful.
_Burnie_, a small rivulet.
_Byke_, a bee-hive.
_Cannily_, gently, dexterously.
_Cauldrife_, coldish.
_Chanter_, the drone of a bagpipe.
_Cleugh_, a cliff.
_Clutch_, seize.
_Coble_, a fishing-boat.
_Couthilie_, kindly.
_Crack_, to converse.
_Cuiff_, a blockhead.
_Daffin'_, diversion.
_Dautit_, fondled, caressed.
_Dighted_, wiped.
_Doited_, very stupid.
_Donnart_, stupified.
_Dow_, wither.
_Dowie_, sad, worn with grief.
_Dree_, suffer, endure.
_Dreich_, tedious.
_Dunt_, a knock.
_Eerie_, dreading things supernatural.
_Fashious_, troublesome.
_Fause_, false.
_Ferlies_, wonders.
_Flate_, scolded.
_Flow_, a small quantity.
_Gar_, compel.
_Gauds_, trinkets.
_Gawkie_, a thoughtless person.
_Gif_, if.
_Gilphie_, a half-grown person, a romping lad.
_Glaiks_, foolish talk.
_Gowd_, gold.
_Gree_, agree.
_Greet_, weep.
_Haddin_, a farmer's stock.
_Haffit-links_, a necklace.
_Haflins_, nearly half, partly.
_Haps_, outer garments.
_Haud_, hold.
_Hinnied_, honied.
_Hodden_, a coarse kind of cloth.
_Hummel_, humble.
_Kame_, comb.
_Ken_, know.
_Kilt_, to truss up the clothes.
_Kye_, cattle.
_Laigh_, low.
_Leal_, loyal, true.
_Lear_, learning.
_Lick_, wipe, beat.
_Lift_, the sky.
_Litheless_, listless.
_Loonie_, a little fellow.
_Loupin'_, leaping.
_Losh_, an exclamation of surprise.
_Lowne_, warm.
_Maen_, moan, complain.
_Mailin_, a tax, a rent.
_Maw_, to mow, the stomach.
_Meikle_, much.
_Mim_, prim.
_Mirk_, dark.
_Muter_, multure, ground corn.
_Neivefu'_, a handful.
_Newfangled_, newfashioned.
_Nit_, a nut.
_Owre_, over.
_Pow_, the head.
_Pree_, to taste, to kiss.
_Puirtith_, poverty.
_Racket_, stretched.
_Scaur_, to scare, a wound.
_Scoured_, burnished, ran.
_Scunner'd_, disgusted.
_Shiel_, a temporary cottage or hut.
_Siccan_, such.
_Siching_, sighing.
_Skailt_, emptied, scattered.
_Souch_, the sighing of the wind, the breathing of a tune.
_Speer'd_, inquired.
_Steer_, stir.
_Syne_, then, since.
_Tauld_, told.
_Tentie_, heedful, cautious.
_Tentin'_, leading.
_Tint_, lost.
_Trantlooms_, odds and ends.
_Wauken_, awaken.
_Waukrife_, watchful, sleepless.
_Waunert_, wandered.
_Wean_, a child.
_Wee_, little.
_Weel-faur'd_, well-favoured.
_Weir_, war, to herd.
_Whusslit_, whistled.
_Wooster-trystes_, wool-markets.
_Yird_, earth, soil.
END OF VOL. III.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.
[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. IV.
CAMPBELL
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Henry Scott Riddell.
Lithographed for the Modern Scottish Minstrel, by Schenck & McFarlane.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL IV.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
MDCCCLVII.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
FRANCIS BENNOCH, ESQ., F.S.A.,
ONE OF THE MOST ACCOMPLISHED OF LIVING SCOTTISH SONG-WRITERS,
AND THE MUNIFICENT PATRON OF MEN OF LETTERS,
THIS FOURTH VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SINCERE REGARD AND ESTEEM,
BY
HIS VERY FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
THE INFLUENCE OF BURNS
ON
SCOTTISH POETRY AND SONG:
An Essay.
BY THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN.
It is exceedingly difficult to settle the exact place of, as well as to
compute the varied influences wielded by, a great original genius. Every
such mind borrows so much from his age and from the past, as well as
communicates so much from his own native stores, that it is difficult to
determine whether he be more the creature or the creator of his period.
But, ere determining the influence exerted by Burns on Scottish song and
poetry, it is necessary first to inquire what he owed to his
predecessors in the art, as well as to the general Scottish atmosphere
of thought, feeling, scenery and manners.
First of all, Burns felt, in common with his _forbears_ in the genealogy
of Scottish song, the inspiring influences breathing from our
mountain-land, and from the peculiar habits and customs of a "people
dwelling alone, and not reckoned among the nations." He was not born in
a district peculiarly distinguished for romantic beauty--we mean, in
comparison with some other regions of Scotland. The whole course of the
Ayr, as Currie remarks, is beautiful; and beautiful exceedingly the Brig
of Doon, especially as it now shines through the magic of the Master's
poetry. But it yields to many other parts of Scotland, some of which
Burns indeed afterwards saw, although his matured genius was not much
profited by the sight. Ayrshire--even with the peaks of Arran bounding
the view seaward--cannot vie with the scenery around Edinburgh; with
Stirling--its links and blue mountains; with "Gowrie's Carse, beloved of
Ceres, and Clydesdale to Pomona dear;" with Straths Tay and Earn, with
their two fine rivers flowing from finer lakes, through corn-fields,
woods, and rocks, to melt into each other's arms in music, near the fair
city of Perth; with the wilder and stormier courses of the Spey, the
Findhorn, and the Dee; with the romantic and song-consecrated precincts
of the Border; with the "bonnie hills o' Gallowa" and Dumfriesshire; or
with that transcendent mountain region stretching up along Lochs Linnhe,
Etive, and Leven--between the wild, torn ridges of Morven and
Appin--uniting Ben Cruachan to Ben Nevis, and including in its sweep the
lonely and magnificent Glencoe--a region unparalleled in wide Britain
for its quantity and variety of desolate grandeur, where every shape is
bold, every shape blasted, but all blasted at such different angles as
to produce endless diversity, and yet where the whole seems twisted into
a certain terrible harmony; not to speak of the glorious isles
"Placed far amid the melancholy main,"
Iona, which, being interpreted, means the "Island of the Waves," the
rocky cradle of Scotland's Christianity; Staffa with grass growing above
the unspeakable grandeur which lurks in the cathedral-cave below, and
cows peacefully feeding over the tumultuous surge which forms the organ
of the eternal service; and Skye, with its Loch Coriskin, piercing like
a bright arrow the black breast of the shaggy hills of Cuchullin. Burns
had around him only the features of ordinary Scottish scenery, but from
these he drank in no common draught of inspiration; and how admirably
has he reproduced such simple objects as the "burn stealing under the
lang yellow broom," and the "milk-white thorn that scents the evening
gale," the "burnie wimplin' in its glen," and the
"Rough bur-thistle spreadin' wide
Amang the bearded bear."
These objects constituted the poetry of his own fields; they were linked
with his own joys, loves, memories, and sorrows, and these he felt
impelled to enshrine in song. It may, indeed, be doubted if his cast of
mind would have led him to sympathise with bold and savage scenery. In
proof of this, we remember that, although he often had seen the gigantic
ridges of Arran looming through the purple evening air, or with the
"morning suddenly spread" upon their summer summits, or with premature
snow tinging their autumnal tops, he never once alludes to them, so far
as we remember, either in his poetry or prose; and that although he
spent a part of his youth on the wild smuggling coast of Carrick, he has
borrowed little of his imagery from the sea--none, we think, except the
two lines in the "Vision"--
"I saw thee seek the sounding shore,
Delighted with the dashing roar."
His descriptions are almost all of inland scenery. Yet, that there was a
strong sense of the sublime in his mind is manifest from the lines
succeeding the above--
"And when the North his fleecy store
Drove through the sky,
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar
Struck thy young eye;"
as well as from the delight he expresses in walking beside a planting in
a windy day, and listening to the blast howling through the trees and
raving over the plain. Perhaps his mind was most alive to the sublimity
of _motion_, of agitation, of tumultuous energy, as exhibited in a
snow-storm, or in the "torrent rapture" of winds and waters, because
they seemed to sympathise with his own tempestuous passions, even as the
fierce Zanga, in the "Revenge," during a storm, exclaims---
"I like this rocking of the battlements.
Rage on, ye winds; burst clouds, and waters roar!
You bear a just resemblance of my fortune,
And suit the gloomy habit of my soul."
Probably Burns felt little admiration of the calm, colossal grandeur of
mountain-scenery, where there are indeed vestiges of convulsion and
agony, but where age has softened the storm into stillness, and where
the memory of former strife and upheaving only serves to deepen the
feeling of repose--vestiges which, like the wrinkles on the stern brow
of the Corsair,
"Speak of passion, but of passion past."
With these records of bygone "majestic pains," on the other hand, the
genius of Milton and Wordsworth seemed made to sympathise; and the
former is never greater than standing on Niphates Mount with Satan, or
upon the "hill of Paradise the highest" with Michael, or upon the
"Specular Mount" with the Tempter and the Saviour; and the latter is
always most himself beside Skiddaw or Helvellyn. Byron professes vast
admiration for Lochnagar and the Alps; but the former is seen through
the enchanting medium of distance and childish memory; and among the
latter, his rhapsodies on Mont Blanc, and the cold "thrones of eternity"
around him, are nothing to his pictures of torrents, cataracts,
thunderstorms; in short, of all objects where unrest--the leading
feeling in _his_ bosom--constitutes the principal element in _their_
grandeur. It is curious, by the way, how few good descriptions there
exist in poetry of views _from_ mountains. Milton has, indeed, some
incomparable ones, but all imaginary--such, at least, as no actual
mountain on earth can command; but, in other poets, we at this moment
remember no good one. They seem always looking up _to_, not down from,
mountains. Wordsworth has given us, for example, no description of the
view from Skiddaw; and there does not exist, in any Scottish poetical
author, a first-rate picture of the view either from Ben Lomond,
Schehallion, Ben Cruachan, or Ben Nevis.
After all, Burns was more influenced by some other characteristics of
Scotland than he was by its scenery. There was, first, its romantic
history. _That_ had not then been separated, as it has since been, from
the mists of fable, but lay exactly in that twilight point of view best
adapted for arousing the imagination. To the eye of Burns, as it glared
back into the past, the history of his country seemed intensely
poetical--including the line of early kings who pass over the stage of
Boece' and Buchanan's story as their brethren over the magic glass of
Macbeth's witches--equally fantastic and equally false--the dark
tragedy of that terrible thane of Glammis and Cawdor--the deeds of
Wallace and Bruce--the battle of Flodden--and the sad fate of Queen
Mary; and from most of these themes he drew an inspiration which could
scarcely have been conceived to reside even in them. On Wallace, Bruce,
and Queen Mary, his mind seems to have brooded with peculiar
intensity--on the two former, because they were patriots; and on the
latter, because she was a beautiful woman; and his allusions to them
rank with the finest parts in his or any poetry. He seemed especially
adapted to be the poet-laureate of Wallace--a modern edition, somewhat
improved, of the broad, brawny, ragged bard who actually, it is
probable, attended in the train of Scotland's patriot hero, and whose
constant occupation it was to change the gold of his achievements into
the silver of song. Scottish manners, too, as well as history, exerted a
powerful influence on Scotland's peasant-poet. They were then far more
peculiar than now, and had only been faintly or partially represented by
previous poets. Thus, the christening of the _wean_, with all its
ceremony and all its mirth--Hallowe'en, with its "rude awe and
laughter"--the "Rockin'"--the "Brooze"--the Bridal--and a hundred other
intensely Scottish and very old customs, were all ripe and ready for the
poet, and many of them he has treated, accordingly, with consummate
felicity and genius. It seems almost as if the _final cause_ of their
long-continued existence were connected with the appearance, in due
time, of one who was to extract their finest essence, and to embalm them
for ever in his own form of ideal representation.
Burns, too, doubtless derived much from previous poets. This is a common
case, as we have before hinted, with even the most original. Had not
Shakspeare and Milton been "celestial thieves," their writings would
have been far less rich and brilliant than they are; although, had they
not possessed true originality, they would not have taken their present
lofty position in the world of letters. So, to say that Burns was much
indebted to his predecessors, and that he often imitated Ramsay and
Fergusson, and borrowed liberally from the old ballads, is by no means
to derogate from his genius. If he took, he gave with interest. The most
commonplace songs, after they had, as he said, "got a brushing" from his
hands, assumed a totally different aspect. Each ballad was merely a
piece of canvas, on which he inscribed his inimitable paintings.
Sometimes even by a single word he proclaimed the presence of the
master-poet, and by a single stroke exalted a daub into a picture. His
imitations of Ramsay and Fergusson far surpass the originals, and remind
you of Landseer's dogs, which seem better than the models from which he
drew. When a king accepts a fashion from a subject, he glorifies it, and
renders it the rage. It was in this royal style that Burns treated the
inferior writers who had gone before him; and although he highly admired
and warmly praised them, he must have felt a secret sense of his own
vast superiority.
We come now shortly to speak of the influence he has exerted on Scottish
poetry. This was manifold. In the first place, a number were encouraged
by his success to collect and publish their poems, although few of them
possessed much merit; and he complained that some were a wretched
"spawn" of mediocrity, which the sunshine of his fame had warmed and
brought forth prematurely. Lapraik, for instance, was induced by the
praise of Burns to print an edition of his poems, which turned out a
total failure. There was only one good piece in it all, and _that_ was
pilfered from an old magazine. Secondly, Burns exerted an inspiring
influence on some men of real genius, who, we verily believe, would, but
for Burns, have never written, or, at least, written so well--such as
Alexander Wilson, Tannahill, Macneil, Hogg, and the numerous members of
the "Whistle-Binkie" school. In all these writers we trace the influence
of the large "lingering star" of the genius of Burns. "Wattie and Meg,"
by Wilson, when it first appeared anonymously, was attributed to Burns.
Tannahill is, in much of his poetry, an echo of Burns, although in
song-writing he is a real original. Macneil was roused by Burns' praises
of whisky to give a _per contra_, in his "Scotland's Scaith; or, the
History of Will and Jean." And although the most of Hogg's poetry is
entirely original, we find the influence of Burns distinctly marked in
some of his songs--such as the "Kye come Hame."
But there is a wider and more important light in which to regard the
influence of our great national Bard. He first fully revealed the
interest and the beauty which lie in the simpler forms of Scottish
scenery, he darted light upon the peculiarities of Scottish manners, and
he opened the warm heart of his native land. Scotland, previous to
Burns' poetry, was a spring shut up and a fountain sealed.
"She lay like some unkenned-of isle
Ayont New Holland."
The glories of her lakes, her glens, her streams, her mountains, the
hardy courage, the burning patriotism, the trusty attachments, the
loves, the games, the superstitions, and the devotion of her
inhabitants, were all unknown and unsuspected as themes for song till
Burns took them up, and less added glory than shewed the glory that was
in them, and shewed also that they opened up a field nearly
inexhaustible. Writers of a very high order were thus attracted to
Scotland, not merely as their native country, but as a theme for poetry;
and, while disdaining to imitate Burns' poetry slavishly, and some of
them not writing in verse at all, they found in Scottish subjects ample
scope for the exercise of their genius; and in some measure to his
influence we may attribute the fictions of Mrs Hamilton and Miss
Ferrier, Scott's poems and novels, Galt's, Lockhart's, Wilson's,
Delta's, and Aird's tales and poetry, and much of the poetry of
Campbell, who, although he never writes in Scotch, has embalmed, in his
"Lochiel's Warning," "Glenara," "Lord Ullin's Daughter," some
interesting subjects connected with Scotland, and has, in "Gertrude of
Wyoming," and in the "Pilgrim of Glencoe," made striking allusions to
Scottish scenery. That the progress of civilisation, apart from Burns,
would have ultimately directed the attention of cultivated men to a
country so peculiar and poetical as Scotland cannot be doubted; but the
rise of Burns hastened the result, as being itself a main element in
propelling civilisation and diffusing genuine taste. His dazzling
success, too, excited emulation in the breasts of our men of genius, as
well as tended to exalt in their eyes a country which had produced such
a stalwart and gifted son. We may, indeed, apply to the feeling of pride
which animates Scotchmen, and particularly Scotchmen in other lands, at
the thought of Burns being their countryman, the famous lines of
Dryden--
"Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took;
Each to congratulate his friends made haste,
And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd."
The poor man, says Wilson, as he speaks of Burns, always holds up his
head and regards you with an elated look. Scotland has become more
venerable, more beautiful, more glorious in the eyes of her children,
and a fitter theme for poetry, since the feet of Burns rested on her
fields, and since his ardent eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he saw her
scenery, and as he sung her praise; while to many in foreign parts she
is chiefly interesting as being (what a portion of her has long been
called) the Land of Burns.
The real successors of Burns, it is thus manifest, were not Tannahill or
Macneil, but Sir Walter Scott, Campbell, Aird, Delta, Galt, Allan
Cunningham, and Professor Wilson. To all of these, Burns, along with
Nature, united in teaching the lessons of simplicity, of brawny
strength, of clear common sense, and of the propriety of staying at home
instead of gadding abroad in search of inspiration. All of these have
been, like Burns, more or less intensely Scottish in their subjects and
in their spirit.
That Burns' errors as a man have exerted a pernicious influence on many
since, is, we fear, undeniable. He had been taught, by the lives of the
"wits," to consider aberration, eccentricity, and "devil-may-careism" as
prime badges of genius, and he proceeded accordingly to astonish the
natives, many of whom, in their turn, set themselves to copy his faults.
But when we subtract some half-dozen pieces, either coarse in language
or equivocal in purpose, the influence of his poetry may be considered
good. (We of course say nothing here of the volume called the "Merry
Muses," still extant to disgrace his memory.) It is doubtful if his
"Willie brew'd a peck o' Maut" ever made a drunkard, but it is certain
that his "Cottar's Saturday Night" has converted sinners, edified the
godly, and made some erect family altars. It has been worth a thousand
homilies. And, taking his songs as a whole, they have done much to stir
the flames of pure love, of patriotism, of genuine sentiment, and of a
taste for the beauties of nature. And it is remarkable that all his
followers and imitators have, almost without exception, avoided his
faults while emulating his beauties; and there is not a sentence in
Scott, or Campbell, or Aird, or Delta, and not many in Wilson or Galt,
that can be charged with indelicacy, or even coarseness. So that, on the
whole, we may assert that, whatever evil he did by the example of his
life, he has done very little--but, on the contrary, much good, both
artistically and morally, by the influence of his poetry.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, 1
The wild glen sae green, 49
Scotia's thistle, 50
The land of gallant hearts, 51
The yellow locks o' Charlie, 52
We 'll meet yet again, 53
Our ain native land, 54
The Grecian war-song, 56
Flora's lament, 57
When the glen all is still, 58
Scotland yet, 58
The minstrel's grave, 60
My own land and loved one, 61
The bower of the wild, 62
The crook and plaid, 63
The minstrel's bower, 65
When the star of the morning, 66
Though all fair was that bosom, 67
Would that I were where wild-woods wave, 68
O tell me what sound, 69
Our Mary, 70
MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS, 73
Sweet bard of Ettrick's Glen, 75
Young Jamie, 76
Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, 77
Heard ye the bagpipe? 78
Bruce's address, 79
Removed from vain fashion, 80
When shall we meet again? 81
JAMES KING, 83
The lake is at rest, 85
Life 's like the dew, 86
ISOBEL PAGAN, 88
Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 89
JOHN MITCHELL, 90
Beauty, 91
To the evening star, 92
O waft me to the fairy clime, 92
The love-sick maid, 93
ALEXANDER JAMIESON, 95
The maid who wove, 96
A sigh and a smile, 97
JOHN GOLDIE, 98
And can thy bosom, 100
Sweet 's the dew, 101
ROBERT POLLOK, 103
The African maid, 105
J. C. DENOVAN, 106
Oh! Dermot, dear loved one, 107
JOHN IMLAH, 108
Kathleen, 109
Hielan' heather, 110
Farewell to Scotland, 111
The rose of Seaton Vale, 112
Katherine and Donald, 113
Guid nicht, and joy be wi' you a', 114
The gathering, 115
Mary, 116
Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins, 117
JOHN TWEEDIE, 120
Saw ye my Annie? 121
THOMAS ATKINSON, 122
Mary Shearer, 124
WILLIAM GARDINER, 126
Oh! Scotland's hills for me, 127
ROBERT HOGG, 129
Queen of fairy's song, 131
When autumn comes, 132
Bonnie Peggie, O! 133
A wish burst, 133
I love the merry moonlight, 135
Oh, what are the chains of love made of? 136
JOHN WRIGHT, 137
An autumnal cloud, 139
The maiden fair, 140
The old blighted thorn, 141
The wrecked mariner, 141
JOSEPH GRANT, 143
The blackbird's hymn is sweet, 145
Love's adieu, 146
DUGALD MOORE, 147
Rise, my love, 149
Julia, 150
Lucy's grave, 152
The forgotten brave, 153
The first ship, 154
Weep not, 155
To the Clyde, 156
REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON, 158
The Araby maid, 160
The maiden's vow, 160
I love the sea, 162
GEORGE ALLAN, 163
Is your war-pipe asleep? 166
I will think of thee yet, 167
Lassie, dear lassie, 168
When I look far down on the valley below me, 169
I will wake my harp when the shades of even, 170
THOMAS BRYDSON, 172
All lovely and bright, 173
CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY, 174
She died in beauty, 177
The Scottish blue bells, 177
ROBERT MILLER, 179
Where are they? 179
Lay of the hopeless, 180
ALEXANDER HUME, 182
My wee, wee wife, 187
O, poverty! 187
Nanny, 188
My Bessie, 189
Menie Hay, 190
I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, 192
Oh! years hae come, 193
My mountain hame, 194
THOMAS SMIBERT, 195
The Scottish widow's lament, 197
The hero of St. John D'Acre, 199
Oh! bonnie are the howes, 200
Oh! say na you maun gang awa, 201
JOHN BETHUNE, 203
Withered flowers, 207
A spring song, 208
ALLAN STEWART, 211
The sea boy, 212
Menie Lorn, 213
The young soldier, 214
The land I love, 215
ROBERT L. MALONE, 216
The thistle of Scotland, 217
Hame is aye hamely, 218
PETER STILL, 220
Jeanie's lament, 221
Ye needna be courtin' at me, 222
The bucket for me, 223
ROBERT NICOLL, 225
Ordé Braes, 228
The Muir o' Gorse and Broom, 229
The bonnie Hieland hills, 230
The bonnie rowan bush, 231
Bonnie Bessie Lee, 233
ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING, 235
The wild rose blooms, 236
ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE, 237
The Wells o' Wearie, 239
ALEXANDER LAING, 241
Ae happy hour, 243
Lass gin ye wad lo'e me, 244
Lass of Logie, 245
My ain wife, 246
The maid o' Montrose, 247
Jean of Aberdeen, 249
The hopeless exile, 250
Glen-na-H'Albyn, 250
ALEXANDER CARLILE, 252
Wha 's at the window, 253
My brothers are the stately trees, 254
The Vale of Killean, 255
JOHN NEVAY, 257
The emigrant's love-letter, 259
THOMAS LYLE, 261
Kelvin Grove, 264
The trysting hour, 265
Harvest song, 266
JAMES HOME, 267
Mary Steel, 268
Oh, hast thou forgotten? 269
The maid of my heart, 270
Song of the emigrant, 271
This lassie o' mine, 272
JAMES TELFER, 273
Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me? 273
I maun gae over the sea, 275
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
PAGE
EVAN MACLACHLAN, 279
A melody of love, 281
The mavis of the clan, 282
JOHN BROWN, 286
The sisters of Dunolly, 287
CHARLES STEWART, D.D., 289
Luineag--a love carol, 290
ANGUS FLETCHER, 292
The Clachan of Glendaruel, 292
The lassie of the glen, 294
* * * * *
GLOSSARY, 295
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.
Henry Scott Riddell, one of the most powerful and pleasing of the living
national song-writers, was born on the 23d September 1798, at Sorbie, in
the Vale of Ewes--a valley remarkable for its pastoral beauty, lying in
the south-east of Dumfriesshire. His father was a shepherd, well
acquainted with the duties of his profession, and a man of strong though
uneducated mind. "My father, while I was yet a child," writes Mr
Riddell, in a MS. autobiography, "left Sorbie; but when I had become
able to traverse both _burn_ and _brae_, hill and glen, I frequently
returned to, and spent many weeks together in, the vale of my nativity.
We had gone, under the same employer, to what pastoral phraseology terms
'_an out-bye herding_,' in the wilds of Eskdalemuir, called
Langshawburn. Here we continued for a number of years, and had, in this
remote, but most friendly and hospitable district, many visitors,
ranging from Sir Pulteney Malcolm down to Jock Gray, whom Sir Walter
Scott, through one of his strange mistakes, called Davy Gellatly....
Among others who constituted a part of the company of these days, was
one whom I have good reason to remember--the Ettrick Shepherd. Nor can I
forbear observing that his seemed one of those hearts that do not become
older in proportion as the head grows gray. Cheerful as the splendour of
heaven, he carried the feelings, and, it may be said, the simplicity and
pursuits of youth, into his maturer years; and if few of the sons of men
naturally possessed such generous influence in promoting, so likewise
few enjoyed so much pleasure in participating in the expedients of
recreation, and the harmless glee of those who meet under the rural
roof--the shepherd's _bien_ and happy home. This was about the time when
Hogg began to write, or at least to publish: as I can remember from the
circumstance of my being able to repeat the most part of the pieces in
his first publication by hearing them read by others before I could read
them myself. It may, perhaps, be worth while to state that at these
meetings the sons of farmers, and even of lairds, did not disdain to
make their appearance, and mingle delightedly with the lads that wore
the crook and plaid. Where pride does not come to chill nor foppery to
deform homely and open-hearted kindness, yet where native modesty and
self-respect induce propriety of conduct, society possesses its own
attractions, and can subsist on its own resources.
"At these happy meetings I treasured up a goodly store of old Border
ballads, as well as modern songs; for in those years of unencumbered and
careless existence, I could, on hearing a song, or even a ballad, sung
twice, have fixed it on my mind word for word. My father, with his
family, leaving Langshawburn, went to Capplefoot, on the Water of Milk,
and there for one year occupied a farm belonging to Thomas Beattie, Esq.
of Muckledale, and who, when my father was in Ewes, had been his
friend. My employment here was, along with a younger brother, to tend
the cows. In the winter season we entered the Corrie school, but had
only attended a short while when we both took fever, and our attendance
was not resumed. At Langshawburn, my father for several winters hired a
person into his house, who taught his family and that of a neighbouring
shepherd. In consequence of our distance from any place of regular
education, I had also been boarded at several schools--at Devington in
Eskdale, Roberton on Borthwick Water, and Newmill on the Teviot, at each
of which, however, I only remained a short time, making, I suppose, such
progress as do other boys who love the football better than the
spelling-book.
"At the Whitsunday term my father relinquished his farm, and returned to
his former employment in the Forest of Ettrick, under Mr Scott of
Deloraine, to whom he had been a shepherd in his younger days. With this
family, indeed, and that of Mr Borthwick, then of Sorbie, and late of
Hopesrigg, all his years since he could wear the plaid were passed, with
the exception of the one just mentioned. It was at Deloraine that I
commenced the shepherd's life in good earnest. Through the friendly
partiality of our employer, I was made principal shepherd at an age
considerably younger than it is usual for most others to be intrusted
with so extensive a _hirsel_[1] as was committed to my care. I had by
this time, however, served what might be regarded as a regular
apprenticeship to the employment, which almost all sons of shepherds do,
whether they adhere to herding sheep in after-life or not. Seasons and
emergencies not seldom occur when the aid which the little boy can lend
often proves not much less availing than that of the grown-up man.
Education in this line consequently commences early. A knowledge of the
habits, together with the proper treatment of sheep, and therefore of
pastoral affairs in general, 'grows with the growth' of the individual,
and becomes, as it were, a portion of his nature. I had thus assisted my
father more or less all along; and when a little older, though still a
mere boy, I went for a year to a friend at Glencotha, in Holmswater, as
assistant shepherd or lamb-herd. Another year in the same capacity I was
with a shepherd in Wester Buccleuch. It was at Glencotha that I first
made a sustained attempt to compose in rhyme. When in Wester Buccleuch
my life was much more lonely, and became more tinged with thoughts and
feelings of a romantic cast. Owing to the nature of the stock kept on
the farm, it was my destiny day after day to be out among the mountains
during the whole summer season from early morn till the fall of even.
But the long summer days, whether clear or cloudy, never seemed long to
me--I never wearied among the wilds. My flocks being _hirsled_, as it is
expressed, required vigilance: but, if this was judiciously maintained,
the task was for the most part an easy and pleasant one. I know not if
it be worth while to mention that the hills and glens on which my charge
pastured at this period formed a portion of what in ancient times was
termed the Forest of Rankleburn. The names of places in the district,
though there were no other more intelligible traditions, might serve to
shew that it is a range of country to which both kings and nobles had
resorted. If from morning to night I was away far from the homes of
living men, I was not so in regard to those of the dead. Where a lesser
stream from the wild uplands comes down and meets the Rankleburn, a
church or chapel once stood, surrounded, like most other consecrated
places of the kind, by a burial-ground. There tradition says that five
dukes, some say kings, lie buried under a marble stone. I had heard that
Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, had, a number of years previously, made a
pilgrimage to this place, for the purpose of discovering the sepulchres
of the great and nearly forgotten dead, but without success. This,
however, tended, in my estimation, to confirm the truth of the
tradition; and having enough of time and opportunity, I made many a
toilsome effort of a similar nature, with the same result. With hills
around, wild and rarely trodden, and the ceaseless yet ever-varying
tinkling of its streams, together with the mysterious echoes which the
least stir seemed to awaken, the place was not only lonely, but also
creative of strange apprehensions, even in the hours of open day. It is
strange that the heart will fear the dead, which, perhaps, never feared
the living. Though I could muster and maintain courage to dig
perseveringly among the dust of the long-departed when the sun shone in
the sky, yet when the shadow of night was coming, or had come down upon
the earth, the scene was sacredly secure from all inroad on my part: and
to make the matter sufficiently intelligible, I may further mention
that, some years afterwards, when I took a fancy one evening to travel
eight miles to meet some friends in a shepherd's lone muirland dwelling,
I made the way somewhat longer for the sake of evading the impressive
loneliness of this locality. I had no belief that I should meet accusing
spirits of the dead; but I disliked to be troubled in waging war with
those _eery_ feelings which are the offspring of superstitious
associations.
"While a lamb-herd at Buccleuch, I read when I could get a book which
was not already threadbare. I had a few chisels, and files, and other
tools, with which I took pleasure in constructing, of wood or bone,
pieces of mechanism; and I kept a diary in which I wrote many minute and
trivial matters, as well, no doubt as I then thought, many a sage
observation. In this, likewise, I wrote rude rhymes on local
occurrences. But I have anticipated a little. On returning home from
Glencotha, and two years before I went to Buccleuch, a younger brother
and I had still another round at herding cattle, which pastured in a
park near by my father's cottage. Our part was to protect a meadow which
formed a portion of it; and the task being easy to protect that for
which the cattle did not much care, nor yet could skaithe greatly though
they should trespass upon it, we were far too idle not to enter upon and
prosecute many a wayward and unprofitable ploy. Our predilections for
taming wild birds--the wilder by nature the better--seemed boundless;
and our family of hawks, and owls, and ravens was too large not to cost
us much toil, anxiety, and even sorrow. We fished in the Ettrick and the
lesser streams. These last suited our way of it best, since we generally
fished with staves and plough-spades--thus far, at least, honourably
giving the objects of our pursuit a fair chance of escape. When the hay
had been won, we went to Ettrick school, at which we continued
throughout the winter, travelling to and from it daily, though it lay at
the distance of five miles. This we, in good weather, accomplished
conveniently enough; but it proved occasionally a serious and toilsome
task through wind and rain, or keen frost and deep snow, when winter
days and the mountain blasts came on.
"My father after being three years in Stanhopefoot, on the banks of the
Ettrick, went to Deloraineshiels, an _out-bye herding_, under the same
employer. In the winter season either I or some other of the family
assisted him; but so often as the weather was fine, we went to a school
instituted by a farmer in the neighbourhood for behoof of his own
family. When by and by I went to herd the _hirsel_ which my father
formerly tended, like most other regular shepherds I delighted in and
was proud of the employment. A considerable portion of another _hirsel_
lying contiguous, and which my elder brother herded, was for the summer
season of the year added to mine, so that this already large was made
larger; but exempted as I was from attending to aught else but my flock,
I had pleasant days, for I loved the wilds among which it had become
alike my destiny and duty to walk at will, and 'view the sheep thrive
bonnie.' The hills of Ettrick are generally wild and green, and those of
them on which I daily wandered, musing much and writing often, were as
high, green, and wild, as any of them all.... It may be the partiality
arising from early habit which induces me to think that a man gets the
most comprehensive and distinct view of any subject which may occupy
thought when he is walking, provided fatigue has not overtaken him.
Mental confidence awake amid the stir seems increased by the exercise of
bodily power, and becomes free and fearless as the step rejoicing in the
ample scope afforded by the broad green earth and circumambient sky. On
the same grounds, I have sometimes marvelled if it might not be the
majesty of motion, as one may say, reigning around the seaman's soul,
that made his heart so frank in communication, and in action his arm so
vigorously energetic. At all events, there was in these days always
enough around one to keep interest more or less ardent awake--
"'Prompting the heart to pour the impassion'd strain
Afar 'mid solitude's eternal reign,
In numbers fearless all as unconfined,
And wild as wailings of the desert wind.'
"According to my ability I studied while wandering among the mountains,
and at intervals, adopting my knee for my desk, wrote down the results
of my musing. Let not the shepherd ever forget his dog--his constant
companion and best friend, and without which all his efforts would
little avail! Mine knew well the places where in my rounds I was wont to
pause, and especially the majestic seat which I occupied so often on the
loftiest peak of Stanhopelaw. It had also an adopted spot of rest the
while, and, confident of my habits, would fold itself down upon it ere I
came forward; and would linger still, look wistful, and marvel why if at
any time I passed on without making my wonted delay. I did not follow
these practices only 'when summer days were fine.' The lines of an
epistle written subsequently will convey some idea of my habits:--
"'My early years were pass'd far on
The hills of Ettrick wild and lone;
Through summer sheen and winter shade
Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd.
In bold enthusiastic glee
I sung rude strains of minstrelsy,
Which mingling with died o'er the dale,
Unheeded as the plover's wail.
Oft where the waving rushes shed
A shelter frail around my head,
Weening, though not through hopes of fame,
To fix on these more lasting claim,
I'd there secure in rustic scroll
The wayward fancies of the soul.
Even where yon lofty rocks arise,
Hoar as the clouds on wintry skies,
Wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath
The colder cone of drifted wreath,
I noted them afar from ken,
Till ink would freeze within the pen;
So deep the spell which bound the heart
Unto the bard's undying art--
So rapt the charm that still beguiled
The minstrel of the mountains wild.'
"The ancients had a maxim--'Revenge is sweet.' In rural, as well as in
other life, there are things said and done which are more or less
ungenerous. These, if at any time they came my way, I repelled as best I
might. But I did not stop here; whether such matters, when occurring,
might concern myself as an individual or not, I took it upon me, as if I
had been a 'learned judge,' to write satires upon such persons as I knew
or conceived to have spoken or acted in aught contrary to good manners.
These squibs were written through the impulse of offended feeling, or
the stirrings of that injudicious spirit which sometimes prompts a man
to exercise a power merely because he possesses it. They were still,
after all, only as things of private experiment, and not intended ever
to go forth to the world--though it happened otherwise. I usually
carried a lot of these writings in my hat, and by and by, unlike most
other young authors, I got a publisher unsought for. This was the wind,
which, on a wild day, swept my hat from my head, and tattering its
contents asunder from their fold, sent them away over hill and dale like
a flock of wild fowl. I recovered some where they had halted in bieldy
places; others of them went further, and fell into other hands, and
particularly into those of a neighbour, who, a short while previously,
had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the march which ran
between us. He found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an
epistle which, I daresay, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to
him but the unblushing mountain blast. He complained to others, whom he
found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went
disagreeably abroad. My master, through good taste and feeling, was
vexed, as I understood, that I should have done anything that gave
ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself;
but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me
upon the hill, and not in very good humour, disapproved of my imprudent
conduct. As for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the
mean of revealing what I had hitherto concealed--procuring for me a sort
of local popularity little to be envied. I made the best improvement of
it, as I then thought, that lay in my power--by writing a satire upon
myself.
"I continued shepherd at Deloraine two years, and then went in the same
capacity to the late Mr Knox of Todrigg; and if at the former place I
had been well and happy, here I was still more so. His son William, the
poet of 'The Lonely Hearth,' paid me much friendly attention. He
commended my verses, and augured my success as one of the song-writers
of my native land. In those days, I did not write with the most remote
view to publication. My aim did not extend beyond the gratification of
hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or lass, as time and place might
favour. And when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home
from the hill, and 'the kye were in the loan,' I did hear this much, I
thought, no doubt, that
"'The swell and fall of these wild tones
Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.'
"William Crozier, author of 'The Cottage Muse,' was also my neighbour
and friend at Todrigg, during the summer part of the year; and even at
this hour I feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of
thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial sunshine
of those departed days. I rejoice to dwell upon those remote and
rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years
of life was so continually cast; few may well conceive how distinctly I
can recall them. Memory, which seems often to constitute the mind
itself, more, perhaps, than any other faculty, can set them so brightly
before me, as if they were painted on a dark midnight sky with brushes
dipped in the essence of living light. To appreciate thoroughly the
grandeur of the mountain solitudes, it is necessary to have dwelt among
the scenes, and to have looked upon them at every season of the
ever-changing year. They are fresh with solemn beauty, when bathed in
the deep dews of a summer morning; or in autumn, if you have attained to
the border of the mystery which has overhung your path, and therefore to
a station high enough for the survey, all that meets the eye shall be as
a dream of poetry itself. The deep folds of white vapour fill up glen
and hollow, till the summit of the mountains, near and far away--far as
sight itself can penetrate--are only seen tinged with the early radiance
of the sun, the whole so combined as to appear a limitless plain of
variegated marble, peaceful as heaven, and solemnly serene as eternity.
What Winter writes with his frozen finger I need not state. When the
venerable old man, Gladstanes, perished among the stormy blasts of these
wilds, I was one of about threescore of men who for three days traversed
them in search of the dead. Then was the scenery of the mountains
impressive, much beyond what can well be spoken. The bridal that loses
the bride through some wayward freak of the fair may be sad enough; so
also the train, in its dark array, that conveys the familiar friend to
the chamber where the light of nature cannot come. But in this latter
case, the hearts that still beat, necessarily know that their part is
resignation, and suspense and anxiety mingle not in the mood of the
living, as it relates to the dead; but otherwise is it with those who
seem already constituting the funeral train of one who should have
been--yet who is not there to be buried.
"'The feeling is nameless that makes us unglad,
And a strange, wild dismayment it brings;
Which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad
Desolation of men and of things.
* * * * *
"'The hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way,
When his aim and his pathway were lost;
And effort has then oft too much of dismay
To pay well the toil it may cost.
If fate has its privilege, death has its power,
And is fearful where'er it may fall,
But worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor,
Where all that approaches portends to devour,
Nor fixes till first it appal.
"'No mercy obtains in the tempests that rave,
By the sky-frozen elements fed,
And there comes no hand that is willing to save,
And soothe, till the spirit be fled;
But the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break
O'er the frail in the solitude cast,
And howl in their strength and impatience to take
Their course to commix with the roar of the lake
Where it flings forth its foam on the blast.
"'Lo! 'neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak,
Another of Adam lay lone,
Where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak,
By the strife of the tempest o'erthrown.
No raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled,
If there he had yet come abroad,
And the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed,
Which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead
When the spirit return'd to its God.'
* * * * *
These are a few out of many more lines written on this subject, which at
the time was so deeply interesting to mind and heart."
Mr Riddell here states that his poetical style of composition about this
period underwent a considerable change. He laid aside his wayward wit
for serious sentiment, an improvement which he ascribes to his
admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young Knox.
"My fortune in life," he proceeds, "had not placed me within the reach
of a library, and I had read almost none; and although I had attempted
to write, I merely followed the course which instinct pointed out. Need
I state further, that if in these days I employed my mind and pen among
the mountains as much as possible, my thoughts also often continued to
pursue the same practice, even when among others, by the 'farmer's
ingle.' I retired to rest when others retired, but if not outworn by
matters of extra toil, the ardour of thought, through love of the poet's
undying art, would, night after night for many hours, debar the inroads
of sleep. The number of schools which I have particularised as having
attended may occasion some surprise at the deficiency of my scholarship.
For this, various reasons are assignable, all of which, however, hinge
upon these two formidable obstacles--the inconveniency of local
position, and the thoughtless inattention of youth. In remote country
places, long and rough ways, conjoined not unfrequently with wild
weather, require that children, before they can enter school, be pretty
well grown up; consequently, they quit it the sooner. They are often
useful at home in the summer season, or circumstances may destine them
to hire away. Among these inconveniences, one serious drawback is, that
the little education they do get is rarely obtained continuously, and
regular progress is interrupted. Much of what has been gained is lost
during the intervals of non-attendance, and every new return to the book
is little else than a new beginning. So was it with me. At the time when
my father hired a teacher into his house, it was for what is termed the
winter quarter, and I was then somewhat too young to be tied down to the
regular routine of school discipline; and if older when boarded away,
the other obstruction to salutary progress began to operate grievously
against me. I acquired bit by bit the common education--reading,
writing, and arithmetic. So far as I remember, grammar was not much
taught at any of these schools, and the spelling of words was very
nearly as little attended to as the meaning which they are appointed to
convey was explained or sought after.
"But the non-understanding of words is less to be marvelled at than that
a man should not understand himself. At this hour I cannot conceive how
I should have been so recklessly careless about learning and books when
at school, and yet so soon after leaving it seriously inclined towards
them. I see little else for it than to suppose that boys who are bred
where they have no companions are prone to make the most of
companionship when once attained to. And then, in regard to books, as of
these I rarely got more than what might serve as a whet to the appetite,
I might have the desire of those whose longings after what they would
obtain are increased by the difficulties which interpose between them
and the possession. One book which in school I sometimes got a glance
of, I would have given anything to possess: this was a small volume
entitled, 'The Three Hundred Animals.'
"I cannot forbear mentioning that, when at Deloraine, I was greatly
advantaged by an old woman, called Mary Hogg, whose cottage stood on an
isolated corner of the lands on which my flock pastured. Her husband had
been a shepherd, who, many years previous to this period, perished in a
snow-storm. In her youth she had opportunities of reading history, and
other literature, and she did not only remember well what she had read,
but could give a distinct and interesting account of it. In going my
wonted rounds, few days there were on which I did not call and listen to
her intelligent conversation. She was a singularly good woman--a sincere
Christian; and the books which she lent me were generally of a religious
kind, such as the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the 'Holy War;' but here I
also discovered a romance, the first which I had ever seen. It was
printed in the Gothic letter, and entitled 'Prissimus, the Renowned
Prince of Bohemia.' Particular scenes and characters in 'Ivanhoe'
reminded me strikingly of those which I had formerly met with in this
old book of black print. And I must mention that few books interested me
more than 'Bailey's Dictionary.' Day after day I bore it to the
mountains, and I have an impression that it was a more comprehensive
edition of the work than I have ever since been able to meet with.
"At Todrigg my reading was extended; and having begun more correctly to
appreciate what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes
entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a
regular education. The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had
hitherto bridled my ambition; but having herded as a regular shepherd
nearly three years, during which I had no occasion to spend much of my
income, my prospects behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in
this year that the severest trial which had yet crossed my path had to
be sustained. The death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the
same time, instead of subduing my secret aim, the event rather
strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects
added something considerable to my own gainings; and, resigning my
situation, I bade farewell to the crook and plaid. I went to Biggar, in
Clydesdale, where I knew the schoolmaster was an approved classical
scholar. Besides, my Glencotha reminiscences tended to render me partial
to this part of the world, and in the village I had friends with whom I
could suitably reside. The better to insure attention to what I was
undertaking, I judged it best to attend school during the usual hours. A
learner was already there as old in years, and nearly as stout in form,
as myself, so that I escaped from the wonderment which usually attaches
to singularity much more comfortably than I anticipated. There were also
two others in the school, who had formerly gone a considerable way in
the path of classic lore, and had turned aside, but who, now repenting
of their apostasy, returned to their former faith. These were likewise
well grown up, and I may state that they are now both eminent as
scholars and public men. The individual first mentioned and I sat in the
master's desk, which he rarely, if ever, occupied himself; and although
we were diligent upon the whole, yet occasionally our industry and
conduct as learners were far from deserving approbation. To me the
confinement was frequently irksome and oppressive, especially when the
days were bright with the beauty of sunshine. There were ways, woods,
and even wilds, not far apart from the village, which seemed eternally
wooing the step to retirement, and the mind to solitary contemplation.
Some verses written in this school have been preserved, which will
convey an idea of the cast of feeling which produced them:--