"Discontented and uncheery,

Of this noise and learning weary,

Half my mind, to madness driven,

Woos the lore by nature given;

'Mong fair fields and flowing fountains,

Lonely glens and lofty mountains,

Charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur,

Lately wont was I to wander,

Wheresoever fancy led me,

Came no barrier to impede me;

Still from early morn till even,

In the light of earth and heaven,

Musing on whatever graces,

Livelier scenes or lonelier places,

Till a nameless pleasure found me

Living, like a dream, around me,--

How, then, may I be contented,

Thus confined and thus tormented!

"'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather

To be roaming through the heather;

And where flow'd the stream so glassy,

'Mong its flowers and margins mossy,

Where the flocks at noon their path on

Came to feed by birk and hawthorn;

Or upon the mountain lofty,

Seated where the wind blew softly,

With my faithful friend beside me,

And my plaid from sun to hide me,

And the volume oped before me,

I would trace the minstrel's story,

Or mine own wild harp awaken,

'Mid the deep green glens of braken,

Free and fearlessly revealing

All the soul of native feeling.

"''Stead of that eternal humming,

To the ear for ever coming--

Humming of these thoughtless beings,

In their restless pranks and pleaings;

And the sore-provoked preceptor

Roaring, "Silence!"--O'er each quarter

Silence comes, as o'er the valley,

Where all rioted so gaily,

When the sudden bursting thunder

Overpowers with awe and wonder--

Till again begins the fuss--

'Master, Jock's aye nippin' us!'

I could hear the fountains flowing,

Where the light hill-breeze was blowing,

And the wild-wing'd plover wailing,

Round the brow of heaven sailing;

Bleating flocks and skylarks singing,

Echo still to echo ringing--

Sounds still, still so wont to waken

That no note of them is taken,

Yet which seem to lend assistance

To the blessing of existence.

"'Who shall trow thee wise or witty,

Lore of "the Eternal City,"

Or derive delight and pleasure

From the blood-stain'd deeds of Cæsar,

Thus bewildering his senses

'Mong these cases, moods, and tenses?

Still the wrong-placed words arranging,

Ever in their finals changing;

Out and in with hic and hockings,

Like a loom for working stockings.

Latin lords and Grecian heroes--

Oh, ye gods, in mercy spare us!

How may mortals be contented,

Thus confined and thus tormented!'

"My teacher, the late Richard Scott, was an accurate classical scholar,

which perhaps accounts for his being, unlike some others of his

profession, free from pedantry. He was kind-hearted and somewhat

disposed to indolence, loving more to converse with one of my years than

to instruct him in languages. He had seen a good deal of the world and

its ways, and I learned much from him besides Greek and Latin. We were

great friends and companions, and rarely separate when both of us were

unengaged otherwise.

"I bore aloof from making many acquaintances; yet, ere long, I became

pretty extensively acquainted with the people of the place. It went

abroad that I was a bard from the mountains, and the rumour affixed to

me a popularity which I did not enjoy. A party of young men in the

village had prepared themselves to act 'the Douglas Tragedy,' and wished

a song, which was to be sung between this and the farce. The air was of

their own fixing, and which, in itself, was wild and beautiful; but,

unfortunately, like many others of our national airs possessed of these

qualities, it was of a measure such as rendered it difficult to write

words for. Since precluded from introducing poetic sentiment, I

substituted a dramatic plot, and being well sung by alternate voices,

the song was well received, and so my fame was enhanced.

"It was about this time that I wrote 'The Crook and Plaid'--not by

request, but with the intention of supplanting a song, I think of

English origin, called 'The Plough-boy,' and of a somewhat questionable

character. 'The Crook and Plaid' accomplished the end intended, and soon

became popular throughout the land. So soon as I got a glimpse of the

Roman language, I began to make satisfactory progress in its

acquisition. But I daily wrote more or less in my old way--now also

embracing in my attempts prose as well as verse. I wrote a Border

Romance. This was more strongly than correctly expressed. Hogg, who took

the trouble of reading it, gave me his opinion, by saying that there

were more rawness and more genius in it than in any work he had seen.

It, sometime afterwards, had also the honour of being read--for I never

offered it for publication--by one who felt much interest in the

characters and plot--Professor Wilson's lady--who, alas! went too early

to where he himself also now is; lost, though not to fond recollection,

yet to love and life below. I contributed some papers to the _Clydesdale

Magazine_, and I sent a sort of poetic tale to the editor, telling him

to do with it whatever he might think proper. He published it

anonymously, and it was sold about Clydesdale.

"My intention had been to qualify myself for the University, and,

perhaps in regard to Latin and Greek acquirements, I might have

proceeded thither earlier than I ventured to do; but having now made

myself master of my more immediate tasks, I took more liberty. A

gentleman, who, on coming home after having made his fortune abroad,

took up his residence at Biggar. I had, in these days, an aversion to

coming into contact with rich strangers, and although he lived with a

family which I was accustomed to visit, I bore aloof from being

introduced to him. But he came to me one day on the hill of

Bizzie-berry, and frankly told me that he wished to be acquainted with

me, and therefore had taken the liberty of introducing himself. I found

excuse for not dining with him on that day, but not so the next, nor for

many days afterwards. He was intellectual--and his intelligence was only

surpassed by his generosity. He gave me to understand that his horse was

as much at my service as his own; and one learned, by and by, to keep

all wishes and wants as much out of view as possible, in case that they

should be attended to when you yourself had forgotten them. When he

began to rally me about my limited knowledge of the world, I knew that

some excursion was in contemplation. We, on one occasion, rode down the

Clyde, finding out, so far as we might, all things, both natural and

artificial, worthy of being seen; and when at Greenock, he was anxious

that we should have gone into the Highlands, but I resisted; for

although not so much as a shade of the expenses was allowed to fall on

me, I felt only the more ashamed of the extent of them.

"I had become acquainted with a number of people whom I delighted to

visit occasionally; one family in particular, who lived amid the beauty

of 'the wild glen sae green.' The song now widely known by this name I

wrote for a member of this delightful family, who at that time herded

one of the _hirsels_ of his father's flocks on 'the heathy hill.' With

the greater number of persons in the district possessing literary tastes

I became more or less intimate. The schoolmasters I found friendly and

obliging; one of these, in particular (now holding a higher office in

the same locality), I often visited. His high poetic taste convinced me

more and more of the value of mental culture, and tended to subdue me

from those more rugged modes of expression in which I took a pride in

conveying my conceptions. With this interesting friend I sometimes took

excursions into rural regions more or less remote, and once we journeyed

to the south, when I had the pleasure of introducing him to the Ettrick

Shepherd. But of my acquaintances, I valued few more than my modest and

poetic friend, the late James Brown of Symington.[2] Though humble in

station, he was high in virtuous worth. His mind, imbued with and

regulated by sound religious and moral principle, was as ingenious and

powerful as his heart was 'leal, warm, and kind.'

"Entering the University of Edinburgh, I took for the first session the

Greek and Latin classes. Attending them regularly, I performed the

incumbent exercises much after the manner that others did--only, as I

have always understood it to be a rare thing with the late Mr Dunbar,

the Greek Professor, to give much praise to anything in the shape of

poetry, I may mention that marked merit was ascribed to me in his class

for a poetical translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. I had laid

the translation on his desk, in an anonymous state, one day before the

assembling of the class. He read it and praised it, expressing at the

same time his anxiety to know who was the translator; but the translator

having intended not to acknowledge it, kept quiet. He returned to it,

and praising it anew, expressed still more earnestly his desire to know

the author; and so I made myself known, as all _great unknowns_ I think,

with the exception of Junius, are sooner or later destined to do.

"Of the philosophical classes, those that I liked best were the Logic

and Moral Philosophy--particularly the latter. I have often thought that

it is desirable, could it be possibly found practicable, to have all the

teachers of the higher departments of education not merely of high

scholastic acquirements, but of acknowledged genius. Youth reveres

genius, and delights to be influenced by it; heart and spirit are kept

awake and refreshed by it, and everything connected with its

forthgivings is rendered doubly memorable. It fixes, in a certain sense,

the limit of expectation, and the prevailing sentiment is--we are under

the tuition of the highest among those on earth who teach; if we do not

profit here, we may not hope to do so elsewhere. These remarks I make

with a particular reference to the late Professor Wilson, under the

influence of whose genius and generous warmth of heart many have felt as

I was wont to feel. If it brings hope and gladness to love and esteem

the living, it also yields a satisfaction, though mingled with regret,

to venerate the dead; and now that he is no more, I cannot forbear

recording how he treated a man from the mountains who possessed no

previous claim upon his attention. I had no introduction to him, but he

said that he had heard of me, and would accept of no fee for his class

when I joined it; at least he would not do so, he said, till I should be

able to inform him whether or not I had been pleased with his lectures.

But it proved all the same in this respect at the close as it was at the

commencement of the session. He invited me frequently to his house as a

friend, when other friends were to meet him there, besides requesting me

to come and see him and his family whenever I could make it convenient.

He said that his servant John was very perverse, and would be sure to

drive me by like all others, if he possibly could; so he gave me a

watchword, which he thought John, perverse as he was, would not venture

to resist. I thus became possessed of a privilege of which I did not

fail to avail myself frequently--a privilege which might well have been

gratifying to such as were much less enthusiastic with regard to

literary men and things than I was. To share in the conversation of

those possessed of high literary taste and talent, and, above all, of

poetic genius, is the highest enjoyment afforded by society; and if it

be thus gratifying, it is almost unnecessary to add that it is also

advantageous in no ordinary degree, if, indeed, properly appreciated

and improved. Any one who ever met the late Professor in the midst of

his own happy family, constituted as it was when I had this pleasure,

was not likely soon to forget a scene wherein so much genius, kindness,

loveliness, and worth were blended. If the world does not think with a

deep and undying regret of what once adorned it, and it has now lost,

through the intervention of those shadows which no morning but the

eternal one can remove, I am one, at least, who in this respect cannot

follow its example.

"Edinburgh, with its 'palaces and towers,' and its many crowded ways,

was at first strangely new to me, being as different, in almost all

respects, to what I had been accustomed as it might seem possible for

contrariety to make earthly things. Though I had friends in it, and

therefore was not solitary, yet its tendency, like that of the noisy and

restless sea, was to render me melancholy. Some features which the

congregated condition of mankind exhibited penetrated my heart with

something like actual dismay. I had seen nothing of the sort, nor yet

even so much as a semblance of it, and therefore I had no idea that

there existed such a miserable shred of degradation, for example, as a

cinder-woman--desolate and dirty as her employment--bowed down--a shadow

among shadows--busily prone, beneath the sheety night sky, to find out

and fasten upon the crumb, whose pilgrimage certainly had not improved

it since falling from the rich man's table. Compassion, though not

naturally so, becomes painful when entertained towards those whom we

believe labouring under suffering which we fain would but cannot

alleviate.

"I had enough of curiosity for wishing to see all those things which

others spoke of, and characterised as worthy of being seen; but I

contented myself meanwhile with a survey of the city's external

attributes. In a week or two, however, my friend A. F. Harrower,

formerly mentioned, having come into town from Clydesdale, took pleasure

in finding out whatever could interest or gratify me, and of conveying

me thither. With very few exceptions, every forenoon he called at my

lodgings, leaving a note requesting me to meet him at some specified

time and place. I sometimes sent apologies, and at other times went

personally to apologise; but neither of these methods answered well.

Through his persevering attentions towards me, I met with much agreeable

society, and saw much above as well as somewhat below the earth, which I

might never otherwise have seen. In illustration of the latter fact, I

may state that, having gone to London, he returned with two Englishmen,

when he invited me to assist them in exploring the battle-field of

Pinkie. We terminated our excursion by descending one of Sir John Hope's

coal-pits. These humorous and frank English associates amused themselves

by bantering my friend and myself about the chastisement which Scotland

received from the sister kingdom at Pinkie. As did the young rustic

countryman--or, at least, was admonished to do--so did I. When going

away to reside in England, he asked his father if he had any advice to

give him. 'Nane, Jock, nane but this,' he said; 'dinna forget to avenge

the battle o' Pinkie on them.' Ere I slept I wrote, in support of our

native land, the song--'Ours is the land of gallant hearts;' and thus,

in my own way, 'avenged the battle of Pinkie.'

"One of two other friends with whom I delighted to associate was R. B.,

an early school companion, who, having left the mountains earlier than I

did, had now been a number of years in Edinburgh. Of excellent head and

generous heart, he loved the wild, green, and deep solitudes of nature.

The other--G. M'D.--was of powerful and bold intellect, and remarkable

for a retentive memory. Each of us, partial to those regions where

nature strives to maintain her own undisturbed dominion, on all holidays

hied away from the city, to the woodland and mountainous haunts, or the

loneliness of the least frequented shores of the sea. The spirit of our

philosophy varied much--sometimes profound and solemn, and sometimes

humorous; but still we philosophised, wandering on. They were members of

a literary society which met once a week, and which I joined. My

propensity to study character and note its varieties was here afforded a

field opening close upon me; but I was also much profited by performing

my part in carrying forward the business of the institution. During all

the sessions that I attended the University, but especially as these

advanced toward their termination, I entered into society beyond that

which might be regarded as professionally literary. I had an idea then,

as I still have, that, in every process of improvement, care should be

taken that one department of our nature is not cultivated to the neglect

of another. There are two departments--the intellectual and the

moral;--the one implying all that is rational, the other comprising

whatever pertains to feeling and passion, or, more simply, there are the

head and the heart; and if the intellect is to be cultivated, the heart

is not to be allowed to run into wild waste, nor to sink into systematic

apathy. Lore-lighted pages and unremitting abstract studies will make a

man learned; but knowledge is not wisdom; and to know much is not so

desirable, because it is not so beneficial, either to ourselves or

others, as to understand, through the more generous and active

sympathies of our nature, how the information which we possess may be

best applied to useful purposes. This we shall not well know, if the

head be allowed or encouraged to leave the heart behind. If we forget

society it will forget us, and, through this estrangement, a sympathetic

knowledge of human nature may be lost. Thus, in the haunts of seclusion

and solitary thought our acquirements may only prove availing to

ourselves as matters of self-gratification. The benevolent affections,

which ought not merely to be allowed, but taught to expand, may thus not

only be permitted but encouraged to contract, and the exercise of that

studious ingenuity, which perhaps leads the world to admire the

achievements of learning, thus deceive us into a state of existence

little better than cold selfishness itself. Sir Isaac Newton, who soared

so high and travelled so far on the wing of abstract thought, gathering

light from the stars that he might convey it in intelligible shape to

the world, seems to have thought, high as the employment was, that it

was not good, either for the heart or mind of man, to be always away

from that intercourse with humanity and its affairs which is calculated

to awaken and sustain the sympathies of life; and therefore turned to

the contemplation of Him who was _meek and lowly_. And no countenance

has been afforded to monks and hermits who retired from the world,

though it even was to spend their lives in meditation and prayer; for

Heaven had warned man, at an early date, not to withhold the

compassionate feelings of the heart, and the helping-hand, from any in

whom he recognised the attributes of a common nature, saying to him,

'See that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh.'

"My last year's attendance at the College Philosophical Classes was at

St Andrews. I had a craving to acquaint myself with a city noted in

story, and I could not, under the canopy of my native sky, have planted

the step among scenes more closely interwoven with past national

transactions, or fraught with more interesting associations. In

attending the Natural Philosophy Class, not being proficient in

mathematic lore, I derived less advantage than had otherwise been the

case with me. Yet I did not sit wholly in the shade, notwithstanding

that the light which shone upon me did not come from that which Campbell

says yielded 'the lyre of Heaven another string.' A man almost always

finds some excuse for deficiency; and I have one involving a philosophy

which I think few will be disposed to do otherwise than acquiesce

in--namely, that it is a happy arrangement in the creation and history

of man, that all minds are not so constituted as to have the same

predilections, or to follow the same bent. Considering that I had

started at a rather late hour of life to travel in the paths of

learning, and having so many things, interesting and important, to

attend to by the way, it was perhaps less remarkable that I should be

one who 'neither kenn'd nor cared' much about lines that had no breadth,

and points which were without either breadth or length, than that I

should have felt gratified to find on my arrival some of my simple

strains sung in a city famed for its scientific acquirements.

"The ruins which intermingle with the scenery and happy homes of St

Andrews, like gray hairs among those of another hue, rendered venerable

the general aspect of the place. But I did not feel only the city

interesting, but the whole of Fifeshire. By excursions made on the

monthly holidays then as well as subsequently, when in after-years I

returned to visit friends in the royal realm, I acquainted myself with a

goodly number of those haunts and scenes which history and tradition

have rendered attractive. A land, however, or any department of it,

whatever may be its other advantages, is most to be valued in respect of

the intelligence or worth of its inhabitants. And if so, then I am proud

to aver that in Fife I came to possess many intelligent and excellent

friends. Many of these have gone to another land--'the land o' the

leal,' leaving the places which now know them no more, the more

regretfully endeared to recollection. Of those friends who survive, I

cannot forbear an especial mention of one, who is now a professor in the

college in which he was then only a student. A man cannot be truly great

unless he also be good, and I do not alone value him on the colder and

statelier eminence of high intellectual powers and scientific

acquirements, but also, if not much rather, for his generous worth and

his benevolent feeling. My friend is one in whom these qualities are

combined, and as I sincerely think, I will likewise freely say, that

those will assuredly find a time, sooner or later, greatly to rejoice,

whose fate has been so favourable as to place them under the range and

influence of his tuition.

"I studied at St Andrews College under the late Dr Jackson, who was an

eminent philosopher and friendly man; also under Mr Duncan, of the

Mathematical Chair, whom I regarded as a personification of unworldly

simplicity, clothed in high and pure thought; and I regularly attended,

though not enrolled as a regular student, the Moral Philosophy Class of

Dr Chalmers. Returning to Edinburgh and its university, I became

acquainted, through my friend and countryman, Robert Hogg, with R. A.

Smith, who was desirous that I should assist him with the works in which

he was engaged, particularly 'The Irish Minstrel,' and 'Select

Melodies.' Smith was a man of modest worth and superior intelligence;

peculiarly delicate in his taste and feeling in everything pertaining to

lyric poetry as well as music; his criticisms were strict, and, as some

thought, unnecessarily minute. Diffident and retiring, he was not got

acquainted with at once, but when he gave his confidence, he was found a

pleasant companion and warm-hearted friend. If, as he had sought my

acquaintance, I might have expected more frankness on our meeting, I

soon became convinced that his shyer cast arose alone from excess of

modesty, combined with a remarkable sensitiveness of feeling. Proudly

honourable, he seemed more susceptible of the influences of all sorts

that affect life than any man I ever knew; and, indeed, a little

acquaintance with him was only required to shew that his harp was strung

too delicately for standing long the tear and wear of this world. He had

done much for Scottish melody, both by fixing the old airs in as pure a

state as possible, and by adding to the vast number of these national

treasures some exquisite airs of his own. For a number of the airs in

the works just mentioned, but particularly in the 'Select Melodies,' he

had experienced difficulty in procuring suitable words, owing chiefly to

the crampness of the measures--a serious drawback which appears to

pervade, more or less, the sweetest melodies of other nations as well as

those of our own. A number of these I supplied as well as I could.

"About this time the native taste for Scottish song in city society

seemed nearly, if not altogether lost, and a kind of songs, such as

'I've been roaming,' 'I'd be a butterfly,' 'Buy a broom,' 'Cherry-ripe,'

&c. (in which if the head contrived to find a meaning, it was still such

as the heart could understand nothing about), seemed alone to be

popular, and to prevail. R. A. Smith disliked this state of things, but,

perhaps, few more so than Mr P. M'Leod, who gave a most splendid

evidence of his taste in his 'Original National Melodies.' Both Smith

and M'Leod were very particular about the quality of the poetry which

they honoured with their music. M'Leod was especially careful in this

respect. He loved the lay of lofty and undaunted feeling as well as of

love and friendship; for his genius is of a manly tone, and has a bold

and liberal flow. And popular as some of the effusions in his work have

become, such as 'Oh! why left I my hame?' and 'Scotland yet!' many

others of them, I am convinced, will yet be popular likewise. When the

intelligence of due appreciation draws towards them, it will take them

up and delight to fling them upon the breezes that blow over the hills

and glens, and among the haunts and homes of the isle of unconquerable

men. To Mr M'Leod's 'National Melodies' I contributed a number of songs.

In the composition of these I found it desirable to lay aside, in some

considerable degree, my pastoral phraseology, for, as conveyed in such

productions, I observed that city society cared little about rural

scenery and sentiment. It was different with my kind and gifted friend

Professor Wilson. He was wont to say that he would not have given the

education, as he was pleased to term it, which I had received afar in

the green bosom of mountain solitude, and among the haunts and homes of

the shepherd--meaning the thing as applicable to poetry--for all that he

had received at colleges. Wilson had introduced my song, 'When the glen

all is still,' into the _Noctes_, and La Sapio composed music for it;

and not only was it sung in Drury-lane, but published in a sheet as the

production of a real shepherd; yet it did not become popular in city

life. In the country it had been popular previous to this, where it is

so still, and where no effort whatever had been made to introduce it.

"About the time when I had concluded the whole of my college course, the

'Songs of the Ark,'[3] were published by Blackwood. These, as published,

are not what they were at first, and were intended only to be short

songs of a sacred nature, unconnected by intervening narrative, for

which R. A. Smith wished to compose music. Unfortunately, his other

manifold engagements never permitted him to carry his intention into

practice; and seeing no likelihood of any decrease of these engagements,

I gave scope to my thoughts on the subject, and the work became what it

now is. But I ought to mention that this was not my first poetic

publication in palpable shape. Some years previously I published

stanzas, or a monody, on the death of Lord Byron. I had all along

thought much, and with something like mysterious awe, upon the eccentric

temperament, character and history of that great poet, and the tidings

which told the event of his demise impressed me deeply. Being in the

country, and remote from those who could exchange thoughts with me on

the occurrence, I resorted to writing. That which I advanced was much

mixed up with the result, if I may not say of former experience, yet of

former reflection, for I had entertained many conjectures concerning

what this powerful personage would or might yet do; and, indeed, his

wilful waywardness, together with the misery which he represented as

continually haunting him, constituted an impressive advertisement to the

world, and served to keep human attention awake towards him.

"Those who write because it brings a relief to feeling, will write

rapidly: likely, too, they will write with energy, because not only the

head but also the heart is engaged. 'The Monody,' which is of a goodly

length, I finished in a few days; and though I felt a desire of having

it published, yet it lay over for a time, till, being in Edinburgh, a

friend shewed it to Dr Robert Anderson. I had been well satisfied with

the result, had the production accomplished nothing more than procured

me, as it did, the friendly acquaintance of this excellent, venerable

man. He knew more of the minutiæ of literature, together with the

character and habits of the literary men of his day, and of other days

also, than any I had then or have since met with; and he seemed to take

great pleasure in communicating his knowledge to others. He thought well

of 'The Monody,' and warmly advised me to publish it. It was published

accordingly by Mr John Anderson, bookseller, North Bridge, Edinburgh.

"Some of the reviewers, in regard to the 'Songs of the Ark,' seemed to

think that a sufficiency of eastern scenery did not obtain in them.

Doubtless this was correct; but I remark, that if my object in the

undertaking had been to delineate scenery, I would not have turned my

attention to the East, the scenes of which I never saw. Human nature

being radically the same everywhere, a man, through the sympathies of

that nature, can know to a certain extent what are likely to be the

thoughts and feelings of his fellow-kind in any particular

circumstances--therefore he has data upon which he can venture to give a

representation of them; but it is very different from this in regard to

topographical phenomena. It was therefore not the natural, but, if I may

so call it, the moral scenery in which I was interested, more

particularly since the whole scene of nature here below was, shortly

after the period at which the poem commences, to become a blank of

desolate uniformity, as overwhelmed beneath a waste of waters.

"At the risk of incurring the charge of vanity, I would venture to

adduce one or two of the favourable opinions entertained in regard to

some of the miscellaneous pieces which went to make up the volume of the

'Songs of the Ark.' Of the piece entitled 'Apathy,' Allan Cunningham

thus wrote:--'Although sufficiently distressful, it is a very bold and

original poem, such as few men, except Byron, would have conceived or

could have written.' Motherwell said of the 'Sea-gray Man,' that it was

'the best of all modern ballads.' This ballad, shortly after I had

composed it, I repeated to the Ettrick Shepherd walking on the banks of

the Yarrow, and he was fully more pleased with it than with anything of

mine I had made him acquainted with. He was wont to call me his

'assistant and successor;' and although this was done humorously, it yet

seemed to furnish him with a privilege on which he proceeded to approve

or disapprove very frankly, that in either case I might profit by his

remarks. He was pleased especially with the half mysterious way in which

I contrived to get quit of the poor old man at last. This, indeed, was a

contrivance; but the idea of the rest of the ballad was taken from an

old man, who had once been a sailor, and who was wont to come to my

mother's, in the rounds which he took in pursuit of charity at regular

periods of the year, so that we called him her pensioner.

"The summer vacations of college years I passed in the country,

sometimes residing with my mother, and eldest brother, at a small farm

which he had taken at the foot of the Lammermuir hills, in East-Lothian,

called Brookside, and sometimes, when I wished a variety, with another

brother, at Dryden, in Selkirkshire. At both places I had enough of

time, not only for study, but also for what I may call amusement. The

latter consisted in various literary projects which I entered upon, but

particularly those of a poetic kind, and the writing of letters to

friends with whom I regularly, and I may say also copiously

corresponded; for in these we did not merely express immediate thoughts

and feelings of a more personal nature, but remarked with vigorous

frankness upon many standard affairs of this scene of things. To this

general rule of the manner of my life at this time, however, I must

mention an exception. A college companion and I, thinking to advantage

ourselves, and perhaps others, took a school at Fisherrow. The

speculation in the end, as to money matters, served us nothing. It was

easier to get scholars than to get much if anything for teaching them.

Yet neither was the former, in some respects, so easy as might have been

expected. The offspring of man, in that locality, may be regarded as in

some measure amphibious. Boys and girls equally, if not already in the

sea, were, like young turtles, sure to be pointing towards it with an

instinct too intense to err. I never met, indeed, with a race of beings

believed, or even suspected to be rational, that, provided immediate

impulses and inclinations could be gratified, cared so thoroughly little

for consequences. On warm summer days, when we caused the school door to

stand open, it is not easy to say how much of intense interest this

simple circumstance drew towards it. The squint of the unsettled eye was

on the door, out at which the heart and all its inheritance was off and

away long previously, and the more than ordinarily propitious moment for

the limbs following was only as yet not arrived. When that moment came,

off went one, followed by another; and down the narrow and dark lanes

of sooty houses. As well might the steps have proposed to pursue meteors

playing at hide-and-seek among the clouds of a midnight sky that the

tempest was troubling. Nevertheless, Colin Bell, who by virtue of his

ceaseless stir in the exercise of his heathen-god-like abilities, had

constituted himself captain of the detective band, would be up and at

hand immediately, and would say 'Master--sir, Young an' me will bring

them, sir, if ye'll let's.' It was just as good to 'let' as to hinder,

for, for others to be out thus, and he in, seemed to be an advantage

gained over Colin to which he could never be rightly reconciled. He was

bold and frank, and full of expedients in cases of emergency; especially

he appeared capable of rendering more reasons for an error in his

conduct than one could well have imagined could have been rendered for

anything done in life below. Another drawback in the case was, that one

could never be very seriously angry with him. If more real than

pretended at any time, his broad bright eye and bluff face,

magnificently lifted up, like the sun on frost-work, melted down

displeasure and threatened to betray all the policy depending on it; for

in the main never a bit of ill heart had Colin, though doubtlessly he

had in him, deeply established, a trim of rebellion against education

that seemed ever on the alert, and which repulsed even its portended

approach with a vigour resembling the electric energy of the torpedo.

"As we did not much like this place, we did not remain long in it. I had

meanwhile, however, resources which brought relief. Those friends whose

society I most enjoyed occasionally paid us a visit from Edinburgh; and

in leisure hours I haunted the banks of the Esk, which, with wood, and

especially with wild-roses, are very beautiful around the church of

Inveresk. This beauty was heightened by contrast--for I have ever hated

the scenery of, and the effect produced by, sunny days and dirty

streets. Nor do the scenes where mankind congregate to create bustle,

'dirdum and deray,' often fail of making me more or less melancholy. In

the week of the Musselburgh Races, I only went out one day to toss about

for a few hours in the complicated and unmeaning crowd. I insert the

protest which I entered against it on my return:--

"'What boots this turmoil

Of uproar and folly--

That renders the smile

Of creation unholy?

If that which we love

Is life's best assistant,

The thought still must rove

To the dear and the distant.

Would, then, that I were

'Mid nature's wild grandeur--

From this folly afar,

As I wont was to wander;

Where the pale cloudlets fly,

By the soft breezes driven,

And the mountains on high

Kiss the azure of heaven.

Where down the deep glen

The rivulet is rolling,

And few, few of men

Through the solitudes strolling.

Oh! bliss I could reap,

When day was returning;

O'er the wild-flowers asleep,

'Mong the dews of the morning;

And there were it joy,

When the shades of the gloaming,

With the night's lullaby,

O'er the world were coming--

To roam through the brake,

In the paths long forsaken;

My hill-harp retake,

And its warblings awaken.

The heart is in pain,

And the mind is in sadness--

And when comes, oh! when,

The return of its gladness?

The forest shall fade

At the winter's returning,

And the voice of the shade

Shall be sorrow and mourning.

Man's vigour shall fail

As his locks shall grow hoary,

And where is the tale

Of his youth and his glory?

My life is a dream--

My fate darkly furl'd;

I a hermit would seem

'Mid the crowd of the world.

Oh! let me be free

Of these scenes that encumber,

And enjoy what may be

Of my days yet to number!'

"I have dwelt at the greater length on these matters, trivial though

they be, in consequence of my non-intention of tracing minutely the

steps and stages of my probationary career. These, with me, I suppose,

were much like what they are and have been with others. My acquaintance

was a little extended with those that inhabit the land, and in some

cases a closer intimacy than mere acquaintance took place, and more

lasting friendships were formed.

"My brother having taken a farm near Teviothead, I left Brookside, and

as all the members of the family were wont to account that in which my

mother lived their home, it of course was mine. But, notwithstanding

that the change brought me almost to the very border of the vale of my

nativity, I regretted to leave Brookside. It was a beautiful and

interesting place, and the remembrance of it is like what Ossian says of

joys that are past--'sweet and mournful to the soul.' I loved the place,

was partial to the peacefulness of its retirement, its solitude, and the

intelligence of its society. I was near the laird's library, and I had a

garden in the glen. The latter was formed that I might gather home to

it, when in musing moods among the mountains, the wild-flowers, in order

to their cultivation, and my having something more of a possessory right

over them. It formed a contrast to the scenery around, and lured to

relaxation. Occasionally 'the lovely of the land' brought, with

industrious delight, plants and flowers, that they might have a share in

adorning it. Even when I was from home it was, upon the whole, well

attended to; for although, according to taste or caprice, changes were

made, yet I readily forgave the annoyances that might attend alteration,

and especially those by the hands that sometimes printed me pleasing

compliments on the clay with the little stones lifted from the walks. If

the things which I have written and given to the world, or may yet give,

continue to be cared for, these details may not be wholly without use,

inasmuch as they will serve to explain frequent allusions which might

otherwise seem introduced at capricious random, or made without a

meaning.

"Shortly after becoming a probationer, I came to reside in this

district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the

preaching-station here died. The people connected with it wished me to

become his successor, which, after some difficulties on their part had

been surmounted, I became. I had other views at the time which were

promising and important; but as there had been untoward disturbances in

the place, owing to the lack of defined rights and privileges, I had it

in my power to become a peacemaker, and, besides, I felt it my duty to

comply with a call which was both cordial and unanimous. I now laid

wholly aside those things which pertain to the pursuits of romantic

literature, and devoted myself to the performance of incumbent duties.

In consequence of no house having been provided for the preacher, and no

one to be obtained but at a very inconvenient distance, I was in this

respect very inconveniently situated. Travelling nine miles to the scene

of my official duties, it was frequently my hap to preach in a very

uncomfortable condition, when, indeed, the wet would be pouring from my

arms on the Bible before me, and oozing over my shoes when the foot was

stirred on the pulpit floor. But, by and by, the Duke of Buccleuch built

a dwelling-house for me, the same which I still occupy."

To the ministerial charge of the then preaching station of Teviothead Mr

Riddell was about to receive ordination, at the united solicitation of

his hearers, when he was suddenly visited with severe affliction. Unable

to discharge pulpit duty for a period of years, the pastoral

superintendence of the district was devolved on another; and on his

recovery, with commendable forbearance, he did not seek to interfere

with the new ecclesiastical arrangement. This procedure was generously

approved of by the Duke of Buccleuch, who conferred upon him the right

to occupy the manse cottage, along with a grant of land, and a small

annuity.

Mr Riddell's autobiography proceeds:--"In the hope of soon obtaining a

permanent and comfortable settlement at Teviothead, I had ventured to

make my own, by marriage, her who had in heart been mine through all my

college years, and who for my sake had, in the course of these, rejected

wealth and high standing in life. The heart that, for the sake of leal

faith and love, could despise wealth and its concomitants, and brave the

risk of embracing comparative poverty, even at its best estate, was not

one likely overmuch to fear that poverty when it appeared, nor flinch

with an altered tone from the position which it had adopted, when it

actually came. This, much rather, fell to my part. It preyed upon my

mind too deeply not to prove injurious in its effects; and it did this

all the more, that the voice of love, true to its own law, had the words

of hope and consolation in it, but never those of complaint. It appeared

the _acmé_ of the severity of fate itself to have lived to be the mean

of placing a heart and mind so rich in disinterested affection on so

wild and waste a scene of trial.

"From an experience of fourteen years, in which there were changes in

almost all things except in the affection which bound two hearts in one,

before the hands were united, it might be expected that I should give

some eminent admonitions concerning the imprudence of men, and

particularly of students, allowing their hearts to become interested in,

and the remembrance of their minds more fraught with the rich beauty of

auburn ringlets than in the untoward confusion, for example, of

irregular Greek verbs; yet I much fear that admonition would be of no

use. If their fate be woven of a texture similar to that of mine, how

can they help it? A man may have an idea that to cling to the shelter

which he has found, and indulge in the sleep that has overtaken him amid

the stormy blasts of the waste mountains, may be little else than

opening for himself the gates of death, yet the toils of the way through

which he has already passed may also have rendered him incapable of

resisting the dangerous rest and repose of his immediate accommodation.

In regard to my own love affairs, I, throughout all these long years

which I have specified, might well have adopted, as the motto of both

mind and heart, these lines--

"'Oh, poortith cauld and restless love,

Ye wreck my peace between ye.'

I had, as has already been hinted, a rival, who, if not so devotedly

attached as I, nevertheless was by far too much so for any one who is

destined to love without encouragement. He was as rich in proportion as

I was poor. The gifts of love, called the gifts of friendship, which he

contrived to bestow were costly; mine, as fashioned forth by a higher

hand than that of art, might be equally rich and beautiful in the main,

yet wild-flowers, though yellow as the gold, and though wrapped in

rhymes, are light ware when weighed against the solid material. He, in

personal appearance, manners, and generosity of heart, was one with whom

it was impossible to be acquainted and not to esteem; and another

feature of this affair was, that we were friends, and almost constant

companions for some years. When in the country I had to be with him as

continually as possible; and when I went to the city, it was his wont to

follow me. Here, then, was a web strangely woven by the fingers of a

wayward fate. Feelings were brought into daily exercise which might seem

the least compatible with being brought into contact and maintained in

harmony. And these things, which are strictly true, if set forth in the

contrivances of romance might, or in all likelihood would, be pronounced

unnatural or overstrained. The worth and truth of the heart to which

these fond anxieties related left me no ground to fear for losing that

regard which I valued as 'light and life' itself; but in another way

there reached me a matchless misery, and which haunted me almost as

constantly as my own shadow when the sun shone. Considering the dark

uncertainty of my future prospects in life, that regard I felt it

fearful almost beyond measure even to seek to retain, incurring the

responsibility of marring the fortune of one whom nevertheless I could

not bear the thought of another than myself having the bliss of

rendering blessed. If selfishness be thus seen to exist even in love

itself, I would fain hope that it is of an elevated and peculiar kind,

and not that which grovels, dragging downwards, and therefore justly

deserving of the name. I am the more anxious in regard to this on

account of its being in my own case felt so deeply. It maintained its

ground with more or less firmness at all times, and ultimately

triumphed, in despite of all efforts made to the contrary over the

suggestions of prudence and even the sterner reasonings of the sense of

justice. In times of sadness and melancholy, which, like the preacher's

days of darkness, were many, when hope scarcely lit the gloom of the

heart on which it sat though the band of love was about its brow, I

busied myself in endeavouring to form resolutions to resign my

pretensions to the warmer regard of her who was the object of all this

serious solicitude; but neither she herself, nor time and place seemed,

so far as I could see, disposed in the least to aid me in these efforts

of self-control and denial; and, indeed, even at best, I much suspect

that the resolutions of lovers in such cases are only like the little

dams which the rivulet forms in itself by the frail material of stray

grass-piles, and wild-rose leaves, easily overturned by the next slight

impulse that the wave receives. In a ballad called 'Lanazine,' written

somewhat in the old irregular style, sentiments relating to this matter,

a little--and only a little--disguised, are set forth. The following is

a portion of these records, written from time to time for the sake of

preserving to the memory what might once be deeply interesting to the

heart:--

"'O who may love with warm true heart,

And then from love refrain?

Who say 'tis fit we now should part

And never meet again?

"'The heart once broken bleeds no more,

And a deep sound sleep it hath,

Where the stir of pain ne'er travels o'er

The solitude of death.

"'The moon is set, and the star is gone,

And the cure, though cruel, cures,

But the heart left lone must sorrow on,

While the tie of life endures.

"'He had nor gold nor land, and trow'd

Himself unworthy all,

And sternly in his soul had vow'd

His fond love to recall.

"'For her he loved he would not wrong,

Since fate would ne'er agree,

And went to part with a sore, sore heart,

In the bower of the greenwood tree.

"'The dews were deep, and the leaves were green,

And the eve was soft and still;

But strife may reach the vale I ween,

Though no blasts be on the hill.

"'The leaves were green, and the dews were deep,

And the foot was light upon

The grass and flowers, round the bower asleep;

But parting there could be none.

"'He spoke the word with a struggle hard,

And the fair one forward sprung,

Nor ever wist, till like one too blest,

Her arms were round him flung.

"'For the fair one whom he'd woo'd before,

While the chill night breezes sigh'd,

Could wot not why she loved him more

Than ere she thus was tried.

"'A red--not weak--came o'er her cheek,

And she turn'd away anon;

But since nor he nor she could speak,

Still parting there could be none.

"'I could have lived alone for thee,'

He said; 'So lived could I,'

She answer'd, while it seem'd as she

Had wish'd even then to die.

"'For pale, pale grew her cheek I ween,

While his arms, around her thrown,

Left space no plea to come between,

So parting there could be none.

"'She cool'd his brow with the heart's own drop,

While the brain seem'd burning there,

And her whisper reach'd the realm of hope

Through the darkness of despair.

"'She bade his soul be still and free,

In the light of love to live,

And soothed it with the sympathy

Which a woman's heart can give.

"'And it seem'd more than all before

E'er given to mortal man,

The radiance came, and with it bore

The angel of the dawn.

"'For ever since Eve her love-bower would weave,

As the first of all her line,

No one on earth had had more of worth

Than the lovely Lanazine.

"'And if Fortune's frown would o'er him come down,

Less marvel it may be,

Since he woo'd all while to make his own

A lovelier far than she.'

* * * * *

"Notwithstanding the ever-living solicitude and sad suffering

constituting the keen and trying experience of many years, as arising in

consequence of this attachment and untoward circumstances, it has

brought more than a sufficient compensation; and were it possible, and

the choice given, I would assuredly follow the same course, and suffer

it all over again, rather than be without 'that treasure of departed

sorrow' that is even now at my right hand as I write these lines.

"'The Christian Politician'[4] was published during the time of my

indisposition. This work I had written at leisure hours, with the hopes

of its being beneficial to the people placed under my care, by giving

them a general and connected view of the principles and philosophical

bearing of the Christian religion. In exhorting them privately, I

discovered that many of them understood that religion better in itself,

than they appeared to comprehend the manner in which it stood in

connexion with the surrounding circumstances of this life. In other

words, they were acquainted with doctrines and principles whose

application and use, whether in regard to thought, or feeling, or daily

practice, they did not so clearly recognise. To remedy this state of

things, I wrote 'The Christian Politician' in a style as simple as the

subjects treated of in it would well admit of, giving it a

conversational cast, instead of systematic arrangement, that it might

be the less forbidding to those for whom it was principally intended.

Being published, however, at the time when, through my indisposition, I

could take no interest in it, it was sent forth in a somewhat more

costly shape than rightly suited the original design; and although

extensively introduced and well received, it was in society of a higher

order than that which it was its object chiefly to benefit.

"My latest publication is a volume of 'Poems and Songs,'[5] published by

Messrs Sutherland and Knox of Edinburgh. 'The Cottagers of Glendale,'

the 'Lay of Life,' and some others of the compositions in this volume,

were written during the period of my convalescence; the songs are, for

the greater part, the production of 'the days of other years.' Many of

the latter had been already sung in every district of the kingdom, but

had been much corrupted in the course of oral transmission. These

wanderers of the hill-harp are now secured in a permanent form."

To this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that Mr Riddell

is possessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the

Scottish lyre. He has viewed the national character where it is to be

seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most

favourable to its development. He has lived, too, among scenes the best

calculated to foster the poetic temperament. "He has got," wrote

Professor Wilson, "a poet's education: he has lived the greater part of

his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and

beautiful solitudes of nature." Sufficiently imaginative, he does not,

like his minstrel predecessor the Ettrick Shepherd, soar into the

regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless

world. He sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of

Caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life.

His style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to

nature. Several of his songs, such as "Scotland Yet," "The Wild Glen sae

Green," "The Land of Gallant Hearts," and "The Crook and Plaid," will

find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is read or sung.

In 1855, Mr Riddell executed a translation of the Gospel of Matthew into

the Scottish language by command of Prince Lucien Bonaparte, a

performance of which only a limited number of copies have been printed

under the Prince's auspices. At present, he is engaged in preparing a

romance connected with Border history.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A flock of sheep.

[2] See Minstrel, vol. iii. p. 186.

[3] "Songs of the Ark, with other Poems." Edin. 1831. 8vo.

[4] "The Christian Politician, or the Right Way of Thinking." Edinburgh,

1844, 8vo. This work, now nearly out of print, we would especially

commend to the favourable attention of the Religious Tract Society.--ED.

[5] "Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, 12mo.

THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

AIR--_"The Posy, or Roslin Castle."_

When my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest,

And the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast,

I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen,

And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

I'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane,

Where I hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane,

There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween

Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.

Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share

The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care,

And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene,

While I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale;

The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale--

Our simple tale o' tender love--that tauld sae oft has been

To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day,

To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay;

But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en,

Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss,

If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this;

And I could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen,

For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green!

SCOTIA'S THISTLE.

Scotia's thistle guards the grave,

Where repose her dauntless brave;

Never yet the foot of slave

Has trode the wilds of Scotia.

Free from tyrant's dark control--

Free as waves of ocean roll--

Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul,

Still roam the sons of Scotia.

Scotia's hills of hoary hue,

Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue,

Watering with its dearest dew

The heathy locks of Scotia.

Down each green-wood skirted vale,

Guardian spirits, lingering, hail

Many a minstrel's melting tale,

As told of ancient Scotia.

When the shades of eve invest

Nature's dew-bespangled breast,

How supremely man is blest

In the glens of Scotia!

There no dark alarms convey

Aught to chase life's charms away;

There they live, and live for aye,

Round the homes of Scotia.

Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!

Sound by lee and lonely lake,

Never shall this heart forsake

The bonnie wilds of Scotia.

Others o'er the ocean's foam

Far to other lands may roam,

But for ever be my home

Beneath the sky of Scotia!

THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.

Ours is the land of gallant hearts,

The land of lovely forms,

The island of the mountain-harp,

The torrents and the storms;

The land that blooms with freeman's tread,

And withers with the slave's,

Where far and deep the green woods spread,

And wild the thistle waves.

Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice

Had told of Fingal's fame,

Ere ever from their native clime

The Roman eagles came,

Our land had given heroes birth,

That durst the boldest brave,

And taught above tyrannic dust,

The thistle tufts to wave.

What need we say how Wallace fought,

And how his foemen fell?

Or how on glorious Bannockburn

The work went wild and well?

Ours is the land of gallant hearts,

The land of honour'd graves,

Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart

While yet the thistle waves.

THE YELLOW LOCKS O' CHARLIE.

The gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens,

Wi' martial steps are bounding,

And loud and lang, the wilds amang,

The war pipe's strains are sounding;

The sky and stream reflect the gleam

Of broadswords glancing rarely,

To guard till death the hills of heath

Against the foes o' Charlie.

Then let on high the banners fly,

And hearts and hands rise prouder,

And wake amain the warlike strain

Still louder, and still louder;

For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn

O'er Appin's mountains early,

Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon

The yellow locks o' Charlie.

While banners wave aboon the brave

Our foemen vainly gather,

And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame,

Our hills and glens o' heather.

For seas shall swell to wild and fell,

And crown green Appin fairly,

Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield

The rights o' royal Charlie.

Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud,

And let the mountains hoary

Re-echo round the warlike sound

That speaks of Highland glory.

For strains sublime, through future time,

Shall tell the tale unsparely,

How Scotland's crown was placed aboon

The yellow locks o' Charlie.

WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN.

We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us

The sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green,

And the visions of life shall be lovely before us

As the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene.

The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading,

And sorrow is deep when the dearest must part,

But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading

A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart.

We'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting

The peace of our minds in a moment like this,

Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting,

Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss.

We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us;

We've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all,

And the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us,

When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral.

We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness

Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers,

And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness

Shall gather delight from the transport of ours;

Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish,

And thine is the star that my guide still shall be,

Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish

Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee.

OUR AIN NATIVE LAND.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

There's a charm in the words that we a' understand,

That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell,

And makes us love mair what we a' love so well.

The heart may have feelings it canna conceal,

As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal,

But alike he the feelings and thought can command

Who names but the name o' our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand,

The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea,

When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free.

Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld,

But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld

As those that unite, and uniting expand,

When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand,

For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove

To name but the names that we honour and love.

The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still,

And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill,

And songster and sage can alike still command

A garland of fame from our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!

Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand,

And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen,

The charms of her maids and the worth of her men.

Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave,

And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave,

Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand,

The freedom and faith of our ain native land.

THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.

On! on to the fields, where of old

The laurels of freedom were won;

Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold,

Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd,

And the deeds by our forefathers done!

O yet, if there's aught that is dear,

Let bravery's arm be its shield;

Let love of our country give power to each spear,

And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear

In the light of the weapons we wield.

Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be

The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

Rear! rear the proud trophies once more,

Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown;

Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore,

Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore,

To the fields where our foemen lie strewn!

Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease

Till the garlands of freedom shall wave

In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace,

Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece,

And cool not the lip of a slave;

Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be

The land--the proud land of the famed and the free!

FLORA'S LAMENT.

More dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands,

Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore;

For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands

'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more.

Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee

Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast;

Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee,

But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee,

That she--only she--should be true to the last?

The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters,

That now should have been on the floor of a throne;

And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters!

Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own.

But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken,

And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam,

And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken;

Thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken,

And more--never more will it yield thee a home.

Oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger,

If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be

Of her who was true in these moments of danger,

Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee.

The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow

A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew,

But Charlie, ah! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora

Can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow

Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue.

WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL.

AIR--_"Cold Frosty Morning."_

When the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain,

When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam,

And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain,

Inviting her mate to return to his home--

Oh! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild-wood,

Where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew,

And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood,

And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue.

Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming,

And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn;

The spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming,

And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn.

No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing,

Of the past and the future my dreams may not be,

For the light of thine eye seems the home of my being,

And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee.

SCOTLAND YET.[6]

Gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,--

Gae, bring it free and fast,--

For I maun sing another sang

Ere a' my glee be past;

And trow ye as I sing, my lads,

The burden o't shall be

Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes,

And Scotland's hills for me--

I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet

Wi' a' the honours three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills,

And foaming frae the fells,

Her fountains sing o' freedom still,

As they dance down the dells;

And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,

That's girded by the sea;

Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales,

And Scotland's hills for me--

I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet

Wi' a' the honours three.

The thistle wags upon the fields

Where Wallace bore his blade,

That gave her foemen's dearest bluid

To dye her auld gray plaid;

And looking to the lift, my lads,

He sang this doughty glee--

Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,

And Scotland's hills for me--

I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet

Wi' a' the honours three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,

Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;

Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,

And Coila's minstrel sang;

For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,

That ken nae to be free;

Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,

And Scotland's hills for me--

I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet

Wi' a' the honours three.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a

separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum,

given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the

monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary,

And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade,

For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story,

That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid:

I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me,

I heard not its anthems the mountains among;

But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely

Than others would seem to the earth that belong.

"Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber

Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away;

For the lips of the living the ages shall number

That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay:

Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood,

Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen,

Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood,

And the worm only living where rapture hath been.

"Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking,

No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come,

To break the repose that thy ashes are taking,

And call them to life from their chamber of gloom:

Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever,

Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung;

No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever

The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."

OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_

No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread

O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew--

Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid

That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.

With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,

'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;

And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,

Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.

Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,

Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,

And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,

Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,

Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,

But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles

With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

The anthems of music delightful may roll,

Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,

But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul

Are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free!

THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,

Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;

Where still I might linger in many a dream,

And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.

From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,

Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,

I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,

And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,

And sought my lone grotto still day after day,

And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn

That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.

Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair

Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;

And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,

She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.

The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,

And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,

And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,

Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.

Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,

I sing in my sorrow still day after day.

The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled,

And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!

THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_

I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,

Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;

For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,

Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;

For he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie,

Who wears the crook and plaid.

At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,

While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;

His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,

Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;

And he's aye true, &c.

At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,

And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;

And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;

O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;

And he's aye true, &c.

He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,

Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;

His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;

And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;

For he's aye true, &c.

When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on,

When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan,

He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made

To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid;

For he's aye true, &c.

Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,

He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,

To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,

He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;

For he's aye true, &c.

The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,

And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;

But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,

Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid;

And he's aye true, &c.

To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,

Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?

If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;

And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;

For he's aye true, &c.

THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_

Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,

I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;

I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,

And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.

When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,

In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;

I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell

Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.

Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,

As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;

There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,

But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love

As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;

In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,

And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.

When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,

Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;

For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,

Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!

WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.

When the star of the morning is set,

And the heavens are beauteous and blue,

And the bells of the heather are wet

With the drops of the deep-lying dew;

'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,

'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,

When these all my thoughts would employ;

But now I must think upon thee.

When noontide displays all its powers,

And the flocks to the valley return,

To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers

That bloom on the banks of the burn;

O sweet, sweet it was to recline

'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,

And think on the charge that was mine;

But now I must think upon thee.

When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,

With her fingers of shadowy light,

And the dews of the eve in her locks,

To spread down a couch for the night;

'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,

That border the brook and the lea;

But now, 'tis a wearisome way,

Unless it were travell'd with thee.

All lovely and pure as thou art,

And generous of thought and of will,

Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,

And bid its wild beating be still;

I'd give all the ewes in the fold--

I'd give all the lambs on the lea,

By night or by day to behold

One look of true kindness from thee.

THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.

Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,

While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;

And though that eye, with beauty's light,

Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;

Oh! charms there were still more divine,

When woke that melting voice of thine,

The charms that caught this soul of mine,

And taught it to adore thee.

Then died the woes of the heart away

With the thoughts of joys departed;

For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,

While it told of the faithful-hearted.

Methought how sweet it were to be

Far in some wild green glen with thee;

From all of life and of longing free,

Save what pure love imparted.

Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew

Never fell on the desert round me,

And dwell where the fair flowers never grew

If the hymns of thy voice still found me.

Thy smile itself could the soul invest

With all that here makes mortals bless'd;

While every thought thy lips express'd

In deeper love still bound me.

WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.

Would that I were where wild woods wave

Aboon the beds where sleep the brave;

And where the streams o' Scotia lave

Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,

Bright as the sun upon the fells,

When autumn brings the heather-bells

In all their native splendour.

The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,

The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,

And heart with dauntless heart combines

For ever to defend her.

Then would I were, &c.

There roam the kind, and live the leal,

By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;

And she for whom the heart must feel

A kindness still mair tender.

Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,

The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;

But she is fairer than them a',

Wherever she may wander.

Then would I were, &c.

Still, far or near, by wild or wood,

I'll love the generous, wise, and good;

But she shall share the dearest mood

That Heaven to life may render.

What boots it then thus on to stir,

And still from love's enjoyment err,

When I to Scotland and to her

Must all this heart surrender.

Then would I were, &c.

OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_"Paddy's Resource."_

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear--

The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?

'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,

When chanting the songs of her own native vale.

More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,

Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;

More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,

When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,

Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?

'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye

Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.

More charming is this than the glory of art,

More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;

It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,

Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek

That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?

'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek

When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!

More tender is this--more celestial and fair--

Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;

A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,

And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

OUR MARY.[7]

Our Mary liket weel to stray

Where clear the burn was rowin',

And trouth she was, though I say sae,

As fair as ought ere made o' clay,

And pure as ony gowan.

And happy, too, as ony lark

The clud might ever carry;

She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,

E'en mair than weel was understood;

And a' fouk liket Mary.

But she fell sick wi' some decay,

When she was but eleven;

And as she pined frae day to day,

We grudged to see her gaun away,

Though she was gaun to Heaven.

There's fears for them that's far awa',

And fykes for them are flitting,

But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',

We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';

But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's bands are hard to break,

When thus they maun be broken;

And e'en the form we loved to see,

We canna lang, dear though it be,

Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart--

Heaven did as gently free her;

Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,

Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start

Had ye been there to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,

And growing meek and meeker,

Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,

She wore a little angel's air,

Ere angels cam to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by,

The wee wild-flowers to gather;

She oft her household plays wad try,

To hide her illness frae our eye,

Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did,

Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;

Indeed ye wad hae thought she had

A something in her made her glad

Ayont the course o' nature.

For though disease, beyont remeed,

Was in her frame indented,

Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,

She grew and grew the lovelier still,

And mair and mair contented.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,

As it to a' is comin';

And may it be, whene'er it fa's,

Nae waur to others than it was

To Mary, sweet wee woman!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cottagers of Glendale,"

Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem.

MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.

The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis

was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner,

who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of

Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October

1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a

subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took

place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her

family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of

John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of

Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her

second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which

her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her

widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in

prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends,

a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly

Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are

several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of

elegant fancy.

Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted

as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet

Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own

songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in

general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in

estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded

cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and

songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the

present work.

SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

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

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!

Where art thou wandering?

Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.

Why round yon craggy rocks

Wander thy heedless flocks,

While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?

Cold as the mountain stream,

Pale as the moonlight beam,

Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.

Wild may the tempest's wave

Sweep o'er thy lonely grave;

Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.

Like a meteor's brief light,

Like the breath of the morning,

Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;

Till thy soft numbers stealing

O'er mem'ry's warm feeling,

Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.

Sweet was thy melody,

Rich as the rose's dye,

Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;

Love laugh'd on golden wing,

Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,

All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.

Cold on Benlomond's brow

Flickers the drifted snow,

While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;

Winter's mad winds may sweep

Fierce o'er each glen and steep,

Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.

And when on dewy wing

Comes the sweet bird of spring,

Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;

The Bird of the Wilderness,

Low in the waving grass,

Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick

Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.

YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_

Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,

Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,

But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,

Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.

O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,

The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,

But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,

And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.

Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,

Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,

Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see

The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.

Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,

And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,

And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,

Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,

Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,

He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;

Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.

Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,

And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;

Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,

But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.

CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR--_"Tullymet."_

Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,

And bonnets blue and white cockades,

Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,

And conquest fell begin;

And let the word be Scotland's heir:

And when their swords can do nae mair,

Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair

Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie.

Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,

Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;

Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,

Draw yer dirk and rin.

Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,

And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,

And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,

And Ruthven light and trim--

Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack

Laid Cressingham upon his back,

Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,

And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.

Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.

HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE?

Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners

That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;

Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,

Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?

Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,

Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;

Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,

Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?

Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,

Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;

Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,

Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?

But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,

Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;

Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,

That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.

Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,

Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;

Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,

Borne down by lawless might--gallant Prince Charlie?

Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,

Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;

But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart--

Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?

BRUCE'S ADDRESS.

When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,

And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,

And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms

Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;

The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,

And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,

In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,

And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.

O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,

And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,

While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--Do not spare,

Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;

For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,

Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;

Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,

And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.

To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,

Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;

Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,

Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;

Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,

For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,

While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors

Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.

REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION.

Removed from vain fashion,

From title's proud ken,

In a straw-cover'd cottage,

Deep hid in yon glen,

There dwells a sweet flow'ret,

Pure, lovely, and fair,

Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,

'Midst hardships' chill air.

No soft voice of kindred,

Or parent she knows--

In the desert she blooms,

Like the sweet mountain rose,

Like the little stray'd lammie

That bleats on the lea;

She's soft, kind, and gentle,

And dear, dear to me.

Though the rich dews of fortune

Ne'er water'd this stem,

Nor one fostering sunbeam

Matured the rich gem--

Oh! give me that pure bosom,

Her lot let me share,

I'll laugh at distinction,

And smile away care.

WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?

When shall we meet again,

Meet ne'er to sever?

When shall Peace wreath her chain

Round us for ever?

When shall our hearts repose,

Safe from each breath that blows,

In this dark world of woes?

Never! oh, never!

Fate's unrelenting hand

Long may divide us,

Yet in one holy land

One God shall guide us.

Then, on that happy shore,

Care ne'er shall reach us more,

Earth's vain delusions o'er,

Angels beside us.

There, where no storms can chill,

False friends deceive us,

Where, with protracted thrill,

Hope cannot grieve us;

There with the pure in heart,

Far from fate's venom'd dart,

There shall we meet to part

Never! oh, never!

JAMES KING.

James King was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a

course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes.

Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight,

required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a

circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he

early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who

has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his

fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards

stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to

the loom at Paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a

recruit in the Renfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment

to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and London, and subsequently to

Leith, the French prisoners' depôt at Penicuick, and the Castle of

Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some

attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several

others of the poets of the capital.

Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a

portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment

was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge,

fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived

to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the

vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of

Galloway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural

labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when,

on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the

charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. He now settled

as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and

Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 27th September

1849, in his seventy-third year.

Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the

humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his

own. His mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical

compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and

sentiment.

THE LAKE IS AT REST.

The lake is at rest, love,

The sun's on its breast, love,

How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;

Its verdant banks shewing

The richest flowers blowing,

A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!

Then, O fairest maiden!

When earth is array'd in

The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,

Let me still delight in

The glories that brighten,

For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.

But, Anna, why redden?

I would not, fair maiden,

My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;

The traitor, the demon,

That could deceive woman,

His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.

Believe me then, fairest,

To me thou art dearest;

And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,

With flower blooming mountains,

And crystalline fountains,

I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.

LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR--_"Scott's Boat Song."_

No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,

Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,

Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,

That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.

At length from the hill I heard,

Plaintively wild, a bard,

Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;

"Remember what Morard says,

Morard of many days,

Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.

"Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,

Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;

Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,

Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.

Hard are the laws that bind

Poor foolish man and blind;

But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,

Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,

Till time clothes with snow thy head,

Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.

"Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,

Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;

Innocence leads to the summit of glory,

Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.

The tyrant, whose hands are red,

Trembles alone in bed;

But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,

No horror fiends haunt his rest,

Hope fills his placid breast,

Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."

Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,

Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,

The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,

Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,

Yet still from the hoary bard,

Methought the sweet song I heard,

Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;

And oft as I pass along,

Chimes in mine ear his song,

"Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."

ISOBEL PAGAN.

The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by

Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical

notice. She was born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, about the

year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an

imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which

an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and

singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her

chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a

mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel

rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had

offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her

name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on

the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were

interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,

Ca' them where the heather grows,

Ca' them where the burnie rows,

My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed down the water-side,

There I met my shepherd lad,

He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,

An' he ca'd me his dearie.

"Will ye gang down the water-side,

And see the waves sae sweetly glide

Beneath the hazels spreading wide?

The moon it shines fu' clearly.

"Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,

Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,

And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,

And ye shall be my dearie."

"If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,

I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,

And ye may row me in your plaid,

And I shall be your dearie."

"While water wimples to the sea,

While day blinks in the lift sae hie,

Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,

Ye shall be my dearie."

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original

chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis'

evening sang."

JOHN MITCHELL.

John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August

1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour

of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He

contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary

Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he

was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the

Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840

by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter

being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise

produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a

work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His

next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original

Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs,"

was published in 1852.

Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his

publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable

maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with

considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present

work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had

Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche

in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was

not unconscious of his poetical endowments.

BEAUTY.

What wakes the Poet's lyre?

'Tis Beauty;

What kindles his poetic fire?

'Tis Beauty;

What makes him seek, at evening's hour,

The lonely glen, the leafy bower,

When dew hangs on each little flower?

Oh! it is Beauty.

What melts the soldier's soul?

'Tis Beauty;

What can his love of fame control?

'Tis Beauty;

For oft, amid the battle's rage,

Some lovely vision will engage

His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:

Such power has Beauty.

What tames the savage mood?

'Tis Beauty;

What gives a polish to the rude?

'Tis Beauty;

What gives the peasant's lowly state

A charm which wealth cannot create,

And on the good alone will wait?

'Tis faithful Beauty.

Then let our favourite toast

Be Beauty;

Is it not king and peasant's boast?

Yes, Beauty;

Then let us guard with tender care

The gentle, th' inspiring fair,

And Love will a diviner air

Impart to Beauty.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star of descending Night!

Lovely and fair,

Robed in thy mellow light,

Subtle and rare;

Whence are thy silvery beams,

That o'er lone ocean gleams,

And in our crystal streams

Dip their bright hair?

Far in yon liquid sky,

Where streamers play

And the red lightnings fly,

Hold'st thou thy way;

Clouds may envelop thee,

Winds rave o'er land and sea,

O'er them thy march is free

As thine own ray.

OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.

Oh! waft me to the fairy clime

Where Fancy loves to roam,

Where Hope is ever in her prime,

And Friendship has a home;

There will I wander by the streams

Where Song and Dance combine,

Around my rosy waking dreams

Ecstatic joys to twine.

On Music's swell my thoughts will soar

Above created things,

And revel on the boundless shore

Of rapt imaginings.

The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken

My fancy will explore,

And seek, far from the haunts of men,

The Poet's mystic lore.

Love will add gladness to the scene,

And strew my path with flowers;

And Joy with Innocence will lean

Amid my rosy bowers.

Then waft me to the fairy clime

Where Fancy loves to roam,

Where Hope is ever in her prime,

And Friendship has a home.

THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,

Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?

Can the doctor cure her woe

When she will not let him know

Why the tears incessant flow

From the love-sick maid?

The flaunting day, the flaunting day,

She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!

For she sits and pines alone,

And will comfort take from none;

Nay, the very colour's gone

From the love-sick maid.

The secret 's out, the secret 's out,

A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!

For she finds at e'ening's hour,

In a rosy woodland bower,

Charms worth a prince's dower

To a love-sick maid.

ALEXANDER JAMIESON.

Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire,

on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of

Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he

settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful

mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he

was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses

with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the _Stirling

Journal_ newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed

one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of

Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit

a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated

about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next

morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours

afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of

varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply

regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in

Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford

evidence of power.

THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

_"Russian Air."_

The maid who wove the rosy wreath

With every flower--hath wrought a spell,

And though her chaplets fragrance breathe

And balmy sweets--I know full well,

'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,

There lurks a chain--Love's tyranny.

Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,

Sits stillness, soft as evening skies--

Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,

Or glances from her downcast eyes--

There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,

Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.

O trust not to her silent tongue;

Her settled calm, or absent smile;

Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,

May not enchain in Love's soft guile;

For where Love is--or what's Love's spell--

No mortal knows--no tongue can tell.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This song was addressed by Mr Jamieson to Miss Jane Morrison of

Alloa, the heroine of Motherwell's popular ballad of "Jeanie Morrison,"

and who had thus the singular good fortune to be celebrated by two

different poets. For some account of Miss Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, see

vol. iii. p. 233.

A SIGH AND A SMILE.

WELSH AIR--_"Sir William Watkin Wynne."_

From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,

Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;

Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes

The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.

But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,

His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,

Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,

Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.

They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,

At random the shafts from his silken string fly,

But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,

Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.

O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;

There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;

A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,

The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."

JOHN GOLDIE.

A short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born

at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian

name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the

academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant

to a grocer in Paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a

stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own

account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr; but proving unfortunate in

business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being

devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of

support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and

verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant

editor of the _Ayr Courier_, and shortly after obtained the entire

literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he published a

pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as

the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he

inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter

publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were

composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and

twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is

altogether creditable to his genius and taste.

Deprived of the editorship of the _Courier_, in consequence of a change

in the proprietary, Goldie proceeded to London, in the hope of forming

a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis.

Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing _The

London Scotsman_, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration

of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the

ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the

third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to

Scotland. He now projected the _Paisley Advertiser_, of which the first

number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this

newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the

27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year.

Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste,

Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet

and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his

compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. Of

sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of

admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his

countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.

AND CAN THY BOSOM?

AIR--_"Loudon's Bonnie Woods and Braes."_

And can thy bosom bear the thought

To part frae love and me, laddie?

Are all those plighted vows forgot,

Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?

Canst thou forget the midnight hour,

When in yon love-inspiring bower,

You vow'd by every heavenly power

You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?

Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--

Win my heart and then deceive me?

Oh! that heart will break, believe me,

Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.

Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek,

Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie,

Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,

But love and live wi' me, laddie.

But soon those cheeks will lose their red,

Those eyes in endless sleep be hid,

And 'neath the turf the heart be laid

That beats for love and thee, laddie.

Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--

Win my heart and then deceive me?

Oh! that heart will break, believe me,

Gin ye part frae me, laddie.

You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,

Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,

But, oh! the heart can never bear

A love sae true as mine, laddie.

But when that heart is laid at rest--

That heart that lo'ed ye last and best--

Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast

Will sharper be than mine, laddie.

Broken vows will vex and grieve me,

Till a broken heart relieve me--

Yet its latest thought, believe me,

Will be love an' thine, laddie.

SWEET'S THE DEW.

Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June

And lily fair to see, Annie,

But there's ne'er a flower that blooms

Is half so fair as thee, Annie.

Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine

The opening rose its beauties tine,

Thy lips the rubies far outshine,

Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.

The snaw that decks yon mountain top

Nae purer is than thee, Annie;

The haughty mien and pridefu' look

Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie.

And in thy sweet angelic face

Triumphant beams each modest grace;

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace

A form sae bright as thine, Annie.

Wha could behold thy rosy cheek

And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie;

What heart could view thy smiling looks,

And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?

Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,

My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave,

And never, till I cease to breathe,

I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.

ROBERT POLLOK.

Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, "The Course of Time," was

the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,

where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of

employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his

seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to

prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in

classical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrshire, and in

twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the

literary and philosophical classes in Glasgow College, during five

sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United

Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year

composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable

translations from the Classics as college exercises. His great poem,

"The Course of Time," was commenced in December 1824, and finished

within the space of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem

was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the

author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success

of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his

professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok

only preached four times. His constitution, originally robust, had

suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course

of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production

of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was

necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only

reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the

18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where

his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.

Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative

to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work

respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon

literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen

have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he

was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was

pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "He

was," writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain

simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took

pleasure in good-humoured controversy." The copyright of "The Course of

Time" continues to produce emolument to the family.

THE AFRICAN MAID.

On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood,

Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste,

All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,

Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.

A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,

And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;

Ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side,

Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.

Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,

Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,

Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;

Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:--

"O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?

Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!

Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow

To waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?

* * * * *

"Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,

When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?

Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?

Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?

"Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,

And sleep never visit the place of their bed!

On their children and wives, on their life and their death,

Abide still the curse of an African maid!"

J. C. DENOVAN.

J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a

predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of

war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a

single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to

abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh.

He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he

subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He

died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and

unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours

of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of

Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.

OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!

Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,

And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,

She laments and looks back on the past happy days

When thy presence had left her no object to mourn

Those days that are past,

Too joyous to last,

A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;

No joy now is mine,

In sadness I pine,

Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.

O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leave

The girl who holds thee so dear in her heart?

Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve,

Or think for one moment from Norah to part?

Couldst thou reconcile

To leave this dear isle,

In a far unknown country, where dangers there be?

Oh! for thy dear sake

This poor heart will break,

If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.

In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come,

Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night,

Still praying of Heaven to send him safe home

To her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight.

Then come, like a dove,

To thy faithful love,

Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free;

From danger's alarms

Speed to her open arms,

O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.

JOHN IMLAH.

John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish

song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the

year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his

father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in

succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an

ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a

pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this

capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an

engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the

year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during

the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached

to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He

composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a

duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he

followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed

to Macleod's "National Melodies" and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.

On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had

gone on a visit to one of his brothers.

Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his

numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of

his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.

KATHLEEN.

AIR--_"The Humours of Glen."_

O distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein

My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;

And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!

No space can the links of my love-chain divide.

Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!

How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!

While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,

Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,

The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;

What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?

What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?

Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,

And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;

Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,

Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!

As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,

Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,

Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;

While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,

That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;

And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon

And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

HIELAN' HEATHER.

AIR--_"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."_

Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Dear to me, an' aye shall be,

The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!

The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,

Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;

The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,

Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!

Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,

Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;

While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,

Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!

Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,

Young lads and lasses trip thegither;

The native Norlan rant and reel

Amang the halesome Hielan' heather!

Hey for the Hielan' heather!

The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,

Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;

How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair

The purple bells o' Hielan' heather!

Hey for the Hielan' heather!

Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,

My fancy fondly travels thither;

Nae countrie charms, nae customs change

My feelings frae the Hielan' heather!

Hey, for the Hielan' heather!

FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Kinloch."_

Loved land of my kindred, farewell--and for ever!

Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;

When fated with each fond endearment to sever,

And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!

Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,

Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,

Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish

The dearest regard and the deepest regret.

Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!

Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;

Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones--where have rested

The snow-falls of ages--eternally white.

Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains

Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;

No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,

I'll pore on with pleasure--deep, lonely, yet dear.

Yet--yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,

Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;

But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,

To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.

Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,

Where yet my heart dwells--where it ever shall dwell,

While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,

My country--my kindred--farewell, oh farewell!

THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.

A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,

As sweet a bud I trow

As ever breathed the morning air,

Or drank the evening dew.

A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,

With sigh and fond love tale;

It woo'd within its briery bower

The rose of Seaton Vale.

With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd

This bud at morning light;

At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,

And nestled there at night.

But other flowers sprung up thereby,

And lured the roving gale;

The Zephyr left to droop and die

The Rose of Seaton Vale.

A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,

Loved by as fair a youth;

Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one

Wi' tenderness and truth.

Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour--

For Ellen's type and tale

Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower,

The Rose of Seaton Vale.

KATHERINE AND DONALD.

Young Donald dearer loved than life

The proud Dunallan's daughter;

But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,

In vain he loved and sought her.

She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,

The chieftain of Clanronald;

A thousand plaided Highlandmen

Clasp'd the claymore for Donald.

On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,

Dunallan met his foemen;

Beneath him bared ten thousand swords

Of vassal, serf, and yeomen.

The fray was fierce--and at its height

Was seen a visor'd stranger,

With red lance foremost in the fight,

Unfearing Dane and danger.

"Be praised--brave knight! thy steel hath striven

The sharpest in the slaughter;

Crave what thou wilt of me--though even

My fair--my darling daughter!"

He lifts the visor from his face--

The chieftain of Clanronald!

And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,

Dunallan and young Donald.

Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee--

The feast-cup glads Glengarry;

The joy that should for ever be

When mutual lovers marry.

The shout and shell the revellers raise,

Dunallan and Clanronald;

And minstrel measures pour to praise

Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!

GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'.

Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!

Since it is sae that I maun gang;

Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!

To gang again as wearie lang.

Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang

That I sae sune sou'd haste awa';

But since it's sae that I maun gae,

Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!

This night I ween we've had the heart

To gar auld Time tak' to his feet;

That makes us a' fu' laith to part,

But aye mair fain again to meet!

To dree the winter's drift and weet

For sic a night is nocht ava,

For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;

Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,

In younker revels fidgin' fain;

Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,

Like daffin hizzies, young again!

To mony a merrie auld Scot's strain

We've deftly danced the time awa':

We met in mirth--we part wi' pain,

Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

My nimble gray neighs at the yett,

My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;

I've clapt the spur upon my buit,

The guid braid bonnet on my brow!

Then night is wearing late I trow--

My hame lies mony a mile awa';

The mair's my need to mount and go,

Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

THE GATHERING.[12]

Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,

Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;

Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,

Belt on your broad claymores--fight for Prince Charlie;

Down from the mountain steep,

Up from the valley deep,

Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,

Bugle and battle-drum

Bid chief and vassal come,

Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.

Men of the mountains--descendants of heroes!

Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;

Say, shall the Southern--the Sassenach fear us

When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?

Too long on the trophied walls

Of your ancestral halls,

Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;

Seize then, ye mountain Macs,

Buckler and battle-axe,

Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!

When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?

When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?

Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,

Follow your leader--the rightful--the royal!

Chief of Clanronald,

Donald Macdonald!

Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!

Rouse every kilted clan,

Rouse every loyal man,

Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!

FOOTNOTES:

[12] A MS. copy of this song had been sent by the author to the Ettrick

Shepherd. Having been found among the Shepherd's papers after his

decease, it was regarded as his own composition, and has consequently

been included in the posthumous edition of his songs, published by the

Messrs Blackie. The song appears in Imlah's "May Flowers," published in

1827.

MARY.

AIR--_"The Dawtie."_

There lives a young lassie

Far down yon lang glen,

How I lo'e that lassie

There's nae ane can ken!

Oh! a saint's faith may vary,

But faithfu' I'll be--

For weel I lo'e Mary,

And Mary lo'es me.

Red, red as the rowan

Her smiling wee mou,

An' white as the gowan

Her breast and her brow;

Wi' the foot o' a fairy

She links o'er the lea--

Oh! weel I lo'e Mary,

An' Mary lo'es me.

Where yon tall forest timmer,

An' lowly broom bower,

To the sunshine o' simmer,

Spread verdure an' flower;

There, when night clouds the cary,

Beside her I'll be--

For weel I lo'e Mary,

An' Mary lo'es me!

OH! GIN I WERE WHERE GADIE RINS.[13]

Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,

Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--

Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins

By the foot o' Bennachie.

I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd by Tay,

By Border Nith, and Highland Spey,

But dearer far to me than they

The braes o' Bennachie.

When blade and blossoms sprout in spring,

And bid the burdies wag the wing,

They blithely bob, and soar, and sing

By the foot o' Bennachie.

When simmer cleeds the varied scene

Wi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green,

I fain would be where aft I've been

At the foot o' Bennachie.

When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn,

And barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' corn,

'Tis blithe to toom the clyack horn

At the foot o' Bennachie.

When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill

O'er icy burn and sheeted hill,

The ingle neuk is gleesome still

At the foot o' Bennachie.

Though few to welcome me remain,

Though a' I loved be dead and gane,

I'll back, though I should live alane,

To the foot o' Bennachie.

Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins,

Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--

Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins

By the foot o' Bennachie.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] The chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally

connected with a plaintive Jacobite ditty, now lost, has suggested

several modern songs similar in manner and sentiment. Imlah composed two

songs with this chorus. The earlier of these compositions appears in the

"May Flowers." It is evidently founded upon a rumour, which prevailed in

Aberdeenshire during the first quarter of the century, to the effect,

that a Scottish officer, serving in Egypt, had been much affected on

hearing a soldier's wife _crooning_ to herself the original words of the

air. We have inserted in the text Imlah's second version, as being

somewhat smoother in versification. It is the only song which we have

transcribed from his volume, published in 1841. But the most popular

words which have been attached to the air and chorus were the

composition of a student in one of the colleges of Aberdeen, nearly

thirty years since, who is now an able and accomplished clergyman of the

Scottish Church. Having received the chorus and heard the air from a

comrade, he immediately composed the following verses, here printed from

the author's MS.:--

Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,

Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins,

Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,

At the back o' Bennachie!

I wish I were where Gadie rins,

'Mong fragrant heath and yellow whins,

Or, brawlin' doun the bosky lins

At the back o' Bennachie;

To hear ance mair the blackbird's sang,

To wander birks and braes amang,

Wi' friens and fav'rites, left sae lang,

At the back o' Bennachie.

How mony a day, in blithe spring-time,

How mony a day, in summer's prime,

I wil'd awa' my careless time

On the heights o' Bennachie.

Ah! Fortune's flowers wi' thorns are rife,

And walth is won wi' grief and strife--

Ae day gie me o' youthfu' life

At the back o' Bennachie.

Oh, Mary! there, on ilka nicht,

When baith our hearts were young and licht,

We've wander'd whan the moon was bricht

Wi' speeches fond and free.

Oh! ance, ance mair where Gadie rins,

Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--

Oh! micht I dee where Gadie rins

At the back o' Bennachie.

"The air," communicates the reverend author of this song, "is

undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several Gaelic and Irish airs.

'Cuir's chiste moir me,' and several others, might be thought to have

been originally the same _in the first part_. The second part of the air

is, I think, modern." The Gadie is a rivulet, and Bennachie a mountain,

in Aberdeenshire.

JOHN TWEEDIE.

John Tweedie was born in the year 1800, in the vicinity of Peebles,

where his father was a shepherd. Obtaining a classical education, he

proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for

the Established Church. By acting as a tutor during the summer months,

he was enabled to support himself at the university, and after the usual

curriculum, he was licensed as a probationer. Though possessed of

popular talents as a preacher, he was not successful in obtaining a

living in the Church. During his probationary career, he was employed as

a tutor in the family of the minister of Newbattle, assisted in the

parish of Eddleston, and ultimately became missionary at Stockbridge,

Edinburgh. He died at Linkfieldhall, Musselburgh, on the 29th February

1844. Tweedie was a person of amiable dispositions and unaffected piety;

he did not much cultivate his gifts as a poet, but the following song

from his pen, to the old air, "Saw ye my Maggie," has received a

considerable measure of popularity.[14]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the "Cottagers of Glendale," Mr H. S. Riddell alludes to two of

Tweedie's brothers, who perished among the snow in the manner described

in that poem. The present memoir is prepared from materials chiefly

supplied by Mr Riddell.

SAW YE MY ANNIE?

Saw ye my Annie,

Saw ye my Annie,

Saw ye my Annie,

Wading 'mang the dew?

My Annie walks as light

As shadow in the night

Or downy cloudlet light

Alang the fields o' blue.

What like is your Annie,

What like is your Annie,

What like is your Annie,

That we may ken her be?

She's fair as nature's flush,

Blithe as dawning's blush,

And gentle as the hush

When e'ening faulds her e'e.

Yonder comes my Annie,

Yonder comes my Annie,

Yonder comes my Annie,

Bounding o'er the lea.

Lammies play before her,

Birdies whistle o'er her,

I mysell adore her,

In heavenly ecstasy.

Come to my arms, my Annie,

Come to my arms, my Annie,

Come to my arms, my Annie,

Speed, speed, like winged day.

My Annie's rosy cheek

Smiled fair as morning's streak,

We felt, but couldna speak,

'Neath love's enraptured sway.

THOMAS ATKINSON.

Thomas Atkinson, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at

Glasgow about the year 1800. Having completed an apprenticeship to Mr

Turnbull, bookseller, Trongate, he entered into copartnership with Mr

David Robertson, subsequently King's publisher in the city. Of active

business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive

bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant

literature. At an early age he published "The Sextuple Alliance," a

series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, which afforded

considerable promise, and received the commendation of Sir Walter Scott.

In 1827, he published "The Ant," a work in two volumes, one of which

consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. "The

Chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, commenced in 1831,

and extended to three octavo volumes. Of this work, a _melange_ of prose

and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own

composition. The last volume appeared in September 1833, shortly before

his death.

Deeply interested in the public affairs, Atkinson was distinguished as a

public speaker. At the general election, subsequent to the passing of

the Reform Bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal

interest for the parliamentary representation of the Stirling burghs, in

opposition to Lord Dalmeny, who was returned. Naturally of a sound

constitution, the exertions of his political canvass superinduced an

illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. During a voyage he

had undertaken to Barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at

sea on the 10th October 1833. His remains, placed in an oaken coffin,

which he had taken along with him, were buried in the deep. He

bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after accumulation, in erecting a

building in Glasgow for scientific purposes. A monument to his memory

has been erected in the Glasgow Necropolis. The following stanzas were

composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than

three weeks prior to his decease; they are dated the "River Mersey,"

21st September 1833:--

I could not, as I gazed my last--there was on me a spell,

In all its simple agony--breathe that lone word--"Farewell,"

Which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies,

In song alone 'twould pass the lips that loved the dear disguise.

I go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark,

As forth the dove went trembling--but to my Father's ark

Shall I return? I may not ask my doubting heart, but yet

To hope and wish in one--how hard the lesson to forget.

* * * * *

But drooping head and feeble limbs--and, oh! a beating heart,

Remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part;

Yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell,

In this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe--"Farewell."