with the exception of "Mary Shearer," none of them are likely to obtain
popularity.
MARY SHEARER.
She's aff and awa', like the lang summer-day,
And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary;
The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae,
But lang for blithe Mary fu' mony may weary.
For mair hearts than mine
Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer;
But nane mair will pine
For the sweet Mary Shearer!
She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers,
And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither;
The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours,
But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither.
Their sweet breath is fled--
Her kind looks still endear her;
For the heart maun be dead
That forgets Mary Shearer!
Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung;
An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover;
Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue,
Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.
Oh! he maun be bless'd
Wha's allow'd to be near her;
For the fairest and best
O' her kind 's Mary Shearer!
But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven,
My country and kin,--since I 've sae lov'd the stranger;
Whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven--
Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger.
Though I try to forget,
In my heart still I 'll wear her,
For mine may be yet--
Name and a'--Mary Shearer!
WILLIAM GARDINER.
William Gardiner, the author of "Scotland's Hills," was born at Perth
about the year 1800. He established himself as a bookseller in
Cupar-Fife. During a period of residence in Dundee, in acquiring a
knowledge of his trade, he formed the acquaintance of the poet Vedder.
With the assistance of this gifted individual, he composed his popular
song of "Scotland's Hills." Introduced at a theatre in Dundee, it was
received with marked approbation. It was first printed, in January 1829,
in the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, with a humorous preface by Vedder, and
was afterwards copied into the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_. It has
since found a place in many of the collections of Scottish song, and has
three different times been set to music.
Gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained
employment in the publishing office of the _Fife Herald_. He died at
Perth on the 4th July 1845. Some years before his death, he published a
volume of original and selected compositions, under the title of
"Gardiner's Miscellany." He was a person of amiable dispositions; and to
other good qualities of a personal character, added considerable skill
in music.
O SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME![15]
O these are not my country's hills,
Though they seem bright and fair;
Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides,
The heather blooms not there.
Let me behold the mountain steep,
And wild deer roaming free--
The heathy glen, the ravine deep--
O Scotland's hills for me!
The rose, through all this garden-land,
May shed its rich perfume,
But I would rather wander 'mong
My country's bonnie broom.
There sings the shepherd on the hill,
The ploughman on the lea;
There lives my blithesome mountain maid,
O Scotland's hills for me!
The throstle and the nightingale
May warble sweeter strains
Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour
O'er Scotland's daisied plains;
Give me the merle's mellow note,
The linnet's liquid lay;
The laverocks on the roseate cloud--
O Scotland's hills for me!
And I would rather roam beneath
Thy scowling winter skies,
Than listlessly attune my lyre
Where sun-bright flowers arise.
The baron's hall, the peasant's cot
Protect alike the free;
The tyrant dies who breathes thine air;
O Scotland's hills for me!
FOOTNOTES:
[15] At the request of one Roger, a music-master in Edinburgh, who had
obtained a copy of the first two stanzas, a third was added by Mr Robert
Chambers, and in this form the song appears in some of the collections.
Mr Chambers's stanza proceeds thus:--
In southern climes the radiant sun
A brighter light displays;
But I love best his milder beams
That shine on Scotland's braes.
Then dear, romantic native land
If e'er I roam from thee,
I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay;
O Scotland's hills for me!
ROBERT HOGG.
Robert Hogg was born in the parish of Stobo, about the close of the
century. His father was William Hogg, eldest brother of the Ettrick
Shepherd. William Hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted
man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. Receiving a
classical education at the grammar-school of Peebles, Robert proceeded
to the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the
Church. Abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press,
or reader in the printing-office of Messrs Ballantyne. John Wilson, the
future vocalist, was his yoke-fellow in office. His official duties were
arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in
prose and verse, to the periodicals. His literary talents attracted the
favourable notice of Mr J. G. Lockhart, who, on being appointed, in
1825, to conduct the _Quarterly Review_, secured his services as
secretary or literary assistant. He therefore proceeded to London, but
as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in
his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his
former situation. For a short period he acted as amanuensis to Sir
Walter Scott, while the "Life of Napoleon" was in progress. According to
his own account,[16] this must have been no relief from his ordinary
toils, for Sir Walter was at his task from early morning till almost
evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. When _Chambers's
Edinburgh Journal_ was commenced, Hogg was asked by his former
schoolfellow, Mr Robert Chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant
editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received; but this
office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give
satisfaction, he was led to decline. He was an extensive contributor,
both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular
periodical; but before the work had gone further, his health began to
give way, and he retired to his father's house in Peeblesshire, where he
died in 1834. He left a young wife and one child.
Robert Hogg was of low stature and of retiring manners. He was fond of
humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of
heart. His compositions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary
periodical literature. He contributed songs to the "Scottish and Irish
Minstrels" and "Select Melodies" of R. A. Smith; and a ballad, entitled
"The Tweeddale Raide," composed in his youth, was inserted by his uncle
in the "Mountain Bard." Those which appear in the present work are
transcribed from a small periodical, entitled "The Rainbow," published
at Edinburgh, in 1821, by R. Ireland; and from the Author's Album, in
the possession of Mr Henry Scott Riddell, to whom it was presented by
his parents after his decease. In the "Rainbow," several of Hogg's
poetical pieces are translations from the German, and from the Latin of
Buchanan. All his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression,
but they are defective in startling originality and power.[17]
FOOTNOTES:
[16] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."
[17] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr Robert Chambers for
many of the particulars contained in this memoir.
QUEEN OF FAIRIE'S SONG.
Haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me,
Over the holme so green, over the lea,
Over the corrie, and down by the lake,
Cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake,
Stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea:
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill;
Come at the dead of night when all is still;
Come over mountain steep, come over brae,
Through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray;
Come from the forest glade and greenwood tree;
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae,
Were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray,
Were ye by sunny dell up in the ben,
Or by the braken howe far down the glen,
Or by the river side; where'er ye be,
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night,
Haste to your revel sports gleesome and light,
To bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the Leven,
And dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven,
Then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea;
Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!
WHEN AUTUMN COMES.
When autumn comes an' heather bells
Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells,
An' corn that waves on lowland dales
Is yellow ripe appearing;
Bonnie lassie will ye gang
Shear wi' me the hale day lang;
An' love will mak' us eithly bang
The weary toil o' shearing?
An' if the lasses should envy,
Or say we love, then you an' I
Will pass ilk ither slyly by,
As if we werena caring.
But aye I wi' my heuk will whang
The thistles, if in prickles strang
Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang,
When we gang to the shearing.
An' aye we'll haud our rig afore,
An' ply to hae the shearing o'er,
Syne you will soon forget you bore
Your neighbours' jibes and jeering.
For then, my lassie, we'll be wed,
When we hae proof o' ither had,
An' nae mair need to mind what's said
When we're thegither shearing.
BONNIE PEGGIE, O!
Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
Down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie Peggie, O!
When the siller burn rins clear,
When the rose blooms on the brier,
An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, O!
I hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, O!
You hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, O!
My heart's been sick and sair,
But it shall be sae nae mair,
I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, O!
You hae said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, O!
An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, O!
Let the world gae as it will,
Be it weel or be it ill,
Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, O!
Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, O!
Nae mair my love is cross'd,
Sorrow's sairest pang is past,
I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, O!
A WISH BURST.
Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea,
With the winds and waves for guides,
From all the wants of Nature free
And all her ties besides.
Beyond where footstep ever trode
Would I hold my onward way,
As wild as the waves on which I rode,
And fearless too as they.
The angry winds with lengthen'd sweep
Were music to mine ear;
I'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep
Close round me without fear.
When winter storms burst from the cloud
And trouble the ocean's breast,
I'd joy me in their roaring loud,
And mid their war find rest.
By islands fair in the ocean placed,
With waves all murmuring round,
My wayward course should still be traced,
And still no home be found.
When calm and peaceful sleeps the tide,
And men look out to sea,
My bark in silence by should glide,
Their wonder and awe to be.
When sultry summer suns prevail,
And rest on the parching land,
The cool sea breeze would I inhale,
O'er the ocean breathing bland.
A restless sprite, that likes delight,
In calm and tempest found,
'Twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea
For ever and aye to bound.
I LOVE THE MERRY MOONLIGHT.[18]
I love the merry moonlight,
So wooingly it dances,
At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers,
On which the fresh dew glances.
I love the merry moonlight,
On lake and pool so brightly
It pours its beams, and in the stream's
Rough current leaps so lightly.
I love the merry moonlight,
It ever shines so cheerily
When night clouds flit, that, but for it,
Would cast a shade so drearily.
I love the merry moonlight,
For when it gleams so mildly
The passions rest that rule the breast
At other times so wildly.
I love the merry moonlight,
For 'neath it I can borrow
Such blissful dreams, that this world seems
Without a sin or sorrow.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Printed from the author's MS., in the possession of Mr H. S.
Riddell.
OH, WHAT ARE THE CHAINS OF LOVE MADE OF?[19]
Oh, what are the chains of Love made of,
The only bonds that can,
As iron gyves the body, thrall
The free-born soul of man?
Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun,
Or have you power to seize,
And round your hand, like threads of silk,
Wind up the wandering breeze?
Can you collect the morning dew
And, with the greatest pains,
Beat every drop into a link,
And of these links make chains?
More fleeting in their nature still,
And less substantial are
Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew,
Smile, sigh, and tear--by far.
And yet of these Love's chains are made,
The only bonds that can,
As iron gyves the body, thrall
The free-born soul of man.
FOOTNOTES:
[19] Printed for the first time from the original MS.
JOHN WRIGHT.
A son of genius and of misfortune, John Wright was born on the 1st
September 1805, at the farm-house of Auchincloigh, in the parish of
Sorn, Ayrshire. From his mother, a woman of much originality and
shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclination towards intellectual
culture. His school education was circumscribed, but he experienced
delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities
of the vicinity of Galston, a village to which his father had removed.
At the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of
a coal driver; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the
loom. His master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity,
and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for
mutual literary improvement; but his chief happiness was still
experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the
neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially
calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. He fell in love,
was accepted, and ultimately cast off--incidents which afforded him
opportunities of celebrating the charms, and deploring the inconstancy
of the fair. He composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled
"Mahomet, or the Hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort
of retaining the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to
write. "The Retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in
1824. At the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to Edinburgh to
seek the counsel of men of letters, he submitted the MS. of his poem to
Professor Wilson, Dr M'Crie, Mr Glassford Bell, and others, who
severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. "The
Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers,
and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang,
near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving.
He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a
young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes.
The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife,
who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second
edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course
of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance
which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning
to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the
family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated
from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. In
1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical
works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of
extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed.
He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance.
As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive
powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of
his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive.
AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.
Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud,
Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud,
Floating o'er the sky
Like a spirit, to descry
Each bright realm,--and, when I die,
May it be my shroud!
I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill,
O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,--
With rising rainbows wreathed,
In mist and darkness sheathed,
Where nought but spirits breathed
Around me the while.
Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god
Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode.
There, where Nature lowers more wild
Than her most uncultured child,
Revels beauty--as one smiled
O'er life's darkest mood.
Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been,
O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen,
Where Death sits, crested high,
As he would invade the sky,
Whilst the living valleys lie
In their beautiful green!
Spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve!
Child of enchantment! behind thee leave
Thy semblance mantled o'er me;
Too full thy tide of glory
For Fancy to restore thee,
Or Memory give!
THE MAIDEN FAIR.
The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood,
The greenwood o'er the mossy stream,
That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood,
And flutter'd in the fairy beam.
Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam
O'er hill and dell,--all Nature lay
Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream
Of her that charm'd my homeward way!
Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair!
And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye,
And still, to feed my fond despair,
Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by,
I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh,
In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine,
On that fair breast to live and die,
O'er-power'd with transport so divine!
Still sacred be that hour to love,
And dear the season of its birth,
And fair the glade, and green the grove,
Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth
Of melody and woodland mirth!--
The hour, the spot, so dear to me!
That wean'd my soul from all on earth,
To be for ever bless'd in thee.
THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.
All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor,
I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
Yet thought her not false--she had ever been true
To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.
I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart,
Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.
The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread,
I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn;
I sped to the valley--I found her deep sunk,
On her way to the old blighted thorn!
I whisper'd, "My Mary!"--she spoke not: I caught
Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold;
Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er--
Nor knew how I quitted my hold.
THE WRECKED MARINER.
Stay, proud bird of the shore!
Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,
Where waits our shatter'd skiff--
One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.
Fan with thy plumage bright
Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine;
And, gently to divine
The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.
Again swoop out to sea,
With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head,
As thou thyself wert dead,
Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.
Now let her bid false Hope
For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
The peace-bereaving strain--
Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.
Oh! bid not her repine,
And deem my loss too bitter to be borne,
Yet all of passion scorn
But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.
Thou art away, sweet wind!
Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing,
And o'er her bosom fling
The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!
JOSEPH GRANT.
Joseph Grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm
of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardineshire, on the 26th of
May 1805. He was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish
school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's
farm. From boyhood he cherished a passionate love for reading, and was
no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in
nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some
merit. In 1828, he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems and
songs; and in 1830, "Kincardineshire Traditions"--a small volume of
ballads--both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of
emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in
1831, the situation of assistant to a shop-keeper in Stonehaven, and
soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office
of the _Dundee Guardian_ newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a
respectable writer.
Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_. In 1834, he published a second small volume of "Poems and
Songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a
prose work, entitled "Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however,
survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary
complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His
remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire,
where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected
to his memory. The "Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his
decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of
Dundee, editor of the _Northern Warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an
edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a
biographical preface by the poet Nicol.
Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian
sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of
becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his
elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing--
"A kinder, warmer heart than his
Was ne'er to minstrel given;
And kinder, holier sympathies
Ne'er sought their native heaven."
THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.
The blackbird's hymn is sweet
At fall of gloaming,
When slow, o'er grove and hill,
Night's shades are coming;
But there is a sound that far
More deeply moves us--
The low sweet voice of her
Who truly loves us.
Fair is the evening star
Rising in glory,
O'er the dark hill's brow,
Where mists are hoary;
But the star whose rays
The heart falls nearest,
Is the love-speaking eye
Of our heart's dearest.
Oh, lonely, lonely is
The human bosom,
That ne'er has nursed the sweets
Of young Love's blossom!
The loveliest breast is like
A starless morning,
When clouds frown dark and cold,
And storms are forming.
LOVE'S ADIEU.
The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,
Blinks over the dark green sea,
An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap,
Richt dim and drowsilie.
An' the music o' the mornin'
Is murmurin' alang the air;
Yet still my dowie heart lingers
To catch one sweet throb mair.
We've been as blest, Eliza,
As children o' earth can be,
Though my fondest wish has been knit by
The bonds of povertie;
An' through life's misty sojourn,
That still may be our fa',
But hearts that are link'd for ever
Ha'e strength to bear it a'.
The cot by the mutterin' burnie,
Its wee bit garden an' field,
May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven
Than lichts o' the lordliest bield;
There 's many a young brow braided
Wi' jewels o' far-off isles,
But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs,
While we see nought but smiles.
But adieu, my ain Eliza!
Where'er my wanderin's be,
Undyin' remembrance will make thee
The star o' my destinie;
An' well I ken, thou loved one,
That aye, till I return,
Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom,
Like a gem in a gowden urn.
DUGALD MOORE.
A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in
Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private
soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving
his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private
tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a
child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of
wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of
the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen
Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his
compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that
benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution
of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in
procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a
volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this
work a second edition was required in the following year, when he
likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "Scenes from
the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and
other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared
from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to
commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city.
His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters,
and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of
their custom.
In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical
Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The
Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One,
and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d
January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the
support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a
massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal
friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore
is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets.
Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of
feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is
everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has
chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest
illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his
Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary
popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.
RISE, MY LOVE.
Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,
Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;
Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,
Hynda comes to set thee free!
Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,
On the long and dreaming deep;
A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,
Where our eyes may cease to weep.
Oh! some little isle of gladness,
Smiling in the waters clear,
Where the dreary tone of sadness
Never smote the lonely ear--
Soon will greet us, and deliver
Souls so true, to freedom's plan;
Death may sunder us, but never
Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.
Then our lute's exulting numbers,
Unrestrain'd will wander on,
While the night has seal'd in slumbers,
Fair creation, all her own.
And we'll wed, while music stealeth
Through the starry fields above,
While each bounding spirit feeleth
All the luxury of love.
Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,
All the despot's bolts and powers;
While Time wreathes his heavy pinions
With love's brightest passion-flowers.
Rise, then! let us fly together,
Now the moon laughs on the sea;
East or west, I care not whither,
When with love and liberty!
JULIA.
Born where the glorious star-lights trace
In mountain snows their silver face,
Where Nature, vast and rude,
Looks as if by her God design'd
To fill the bright eternal mind,
With her fair magnitude.
Hers was a face, to which was given
Less portion of the earth than heaven,
As if each trait had stole
Its hue from Nature's shapes of light;
As if stars, flowers, and all things bright
Had join'd to form her soul.
Her heart was young--she loved to breathe
The air which spins the mountain's wreath,
To wander o'er the wild,
To list the music of the deep,
To see the round stars on it sleep,
For she was Nature's child!
Nursed where the soul imbibes the print
Of freedom--where nought comes to taint,
Or its warm feelings quell:
She felt love o'er her spirit driven,
Such as the angels felt in heaven,
Before they sinn'd and fell.
Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,
From all that's beautiful on earth--
Lights which cannot expire--
From all their glory, she had caught
A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught
With heaven's celestial fire.
The desert streams familiar grown,
The stars had language of their own,
The hills contain'd a voice
With which she could converse, and bring
A charm from each insensate thing,
Which bade her soul rejoice.
She had the feeling and the fire,
That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,
Though delicate and young;
Her bosom was not formed to bend--
Adversity, that firmest friend,
Had all its fibres strung.
Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide
A passion which she deem'd a pride!
Oft have we sat and view'd
The beauteous stars walk through the night,
And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,
To curb old Ocean's mood.
She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,
That I might feel her beating heart--
Might read her living eye;
Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll
Through every vein, which to my soul,
Said--Nature could not lie.
LUCY'S GRAVE.
My spirit could its vigil hold
For ever at this silent spot;
But, ah! the heart within is cold,
The sleeper heeds me not:
The fairy scenes of love and youth,
The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,
By her are all forgot:
Her spirit with my bliss is fled--
I only weep above the dead!
I need not view the grassy swell,
Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;
I need no monument to tell
That thou art lying there:
I feel within, a world like this,
A fearful blank in all my bliss--
An agonized despair,
Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,
But tells me, thou art in the tomb!
I knew Death's fatal power, alas
Could doom man's hopes to pine,
But thought that many a year would pass
Before he scatter'd mine!
Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,
Brief were our loves of early days--
Brief as those bolts that shine
With beautiful yet transient form,
Round the dark fringes of the storm!
I little thought, when first we met,
A few short months would see
Thy sun, before its noontide, set
In dark eternity!
While love was beaming from thy face,
A lover's eye but ill could trace
Aught that obscured its ray;
So calm its pain thy bosom bore,
I thought not death was at its core!
The silver moon is shining now
Upon thy lonely bed,
Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,
Cold as thy virgin head;
She seems to breathe of many a day
Now shrouded with thee in the clay,
Of visions that have fled,
When we beneath her holy flame,
Dream'd over hopes that never came!
Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,
It mars the hallow'd scene;
And must we bid again--farewell!
Must life still intervene?
Its charms are vain! my heart is laid
E'en with thine own, celestial maid!
A few short days have been
An age of pain--a few may be
A welcome passport, love! to thee.
THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.
'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,
As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,
With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,
On the heath of the desert they lie.
Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,
Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;
Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,
But red when the battle was past.
They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met
The foes of their country in battle array;
But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,
And the flowers of the forest are faded away!
Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,
No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,
To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,
Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.
THE FIRST SHIP.
The sky in beauty arch'd
The wide and weltering flood,
While the winds in triumph march'd
Through their pathless solitude--
Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,
That like space in darkness slept,
When his watch old Silence kept,
Ere the earliest planet leapt
From its breast.
A speck is on the deeps,
Like a spirit in her flight;
How beautiful she keeps
Her stately path in light!
She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee--
The sun has on her smiled,
And the waves, no longer wild,
Sing in glory round that child
Of the sea.
'Twas at the set of sun
That she tilted o'er the flood,
Moving like God alone
O'er the glorious solitude--
The billows crouch around her as her slaves.
How exulting are her crew--
Each sight to them is new,
As they sweep along the blue
Of the waves!
Fair herald of the fleets
That yet shall cross the wave,
Till the earth with ocean meets
One universal grave,
What armaments shall follow thee in joy!
Linking each distant land
With trade's harmonious band,
Or bearing havoc's brand
To destroy!
WEEP NOT.
Though this wild brain is aching,
Spill not thy tears with mine;
Come to my heart, though breaking,
Its firmest half is thine.
Thou wert not made for sorrow,
Then do not weep with me;
There is a lovely morrow,
That yet will dawn on thee.
When I am all forgotten--
When in the grave I lie--
When the heart that loved thee 's broken,
And closed the sparkling eye;
Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,
Unsullied, pure, and deep;
For the God who 's ever near thee,
Will never see thee weep.
TO THE CLYDE.
When cities of old days
But meet the savage gaze,
Stream of my early ways
Thou wilt roll.
Though fleets forsake thy breast,
And millions sink to rest--
Of the bright and glorious west
Still the soul.
When the porch and stately arch,
Which now so proudly perch
O'er thy billows, on their march
To the sea,
Are but ashes in the shower;
Still the jocund summer hour,
From his cloud will weave a bower
Over thee.
When the voice of human power
Has ceased in mart and bower,
Still the broom and mountain flower
Will thee bless.
And the mists that love to stray
O'er the Highlands, far away,
Will come down their deserts gray
To thy kiss.
And the stranger, brown with toil,
From the far Atlantic soil,
Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
Yet may come
To search the solemn heaps
That moulder by thy deeps,
Where desolation sleeps,
Ever dumb.
Though fetters yet should clank
O'er the gay and princely rank
Of cities on thy bank,
All sublime;
Still thou wilt wander on,
Till eternity has gone,
And broke the dial stone
Of old Time.
REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.
The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid,"
Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry,
D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother,
Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde,
Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his
elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently
prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the
University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was
admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He
subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church,
Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's
Episcopal Church, Dundee.
Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry
Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music
and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in
1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a
wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The
Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854,
respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms,"
published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of
1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency.
He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had
succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at
Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three
times married--first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw,
whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly,
he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter,
R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he
married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.
THE ARABY MAID.
Away on the wings of the wind she flies,
Like a thing of life and light--
And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,
And the beauty of eastern night.
Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,
Why wings it so speedy a flight?
'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,
To fly with her Christian knight.
She hath left her sire and her native land,
The land which from childhood she trode,
And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,
To worship the Christian's God.
Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,
It were death one moment's delay;
For behind there is many a blade glancing bright--
Then away--away--away!
They are safe in the land where love is divine,
In the land of the free and the brave--
They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,
Nought can sever them now but the grave.
THE MAIDEN'S VOW.
The maid is at the altar kneeling,
Hark the chant is loudly pealing--
Now it dies away!
Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,
No other thought but thought divine
Doth her sad bosom fill.
The world to her is nothing now,
For she hath ta'en a solemn vow
To do her father's will.
But why hath one so fair, so young,
The joys of life thus from her flung--
Why hath she ta'en the veil?
Her lover fell where the brave should fall,
Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call
Proclaim'd the victory.
He fought, he fell, a hero brave--
And though he fill a lowly grave,
His name can never die.
The victory's news to the maiden came--
They loudly breathed her lover's name,
Who for his country fell.
But vain the loudest trumpet tone
Of fame to her, when he was gone
To whom the praise was given!
Her sun of life had set in gloom--
Its joys were withered in his tomb--
She vow'd herself to Heaven.
I LOVE THE SEA.
I love the sea, I love the sea,
My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,
My cradle in my infancy--
The only bosom I have press'd.
I cannot breathe upon the land,
Its manners are as bonds to me,
Till on the deck again I stand,
I cannot feel that I am free.
Then tell me not of stormy graves--
Though winds be high, there let them roar;
I 'd rather perish on the waves
Than pine by inches on the shore.
I ask no willow where I lie,
My mourner let the mermaid be,
My only knell the sea-bird's cry,
My winding-sheet the boundless sea!
GEORGE ALLAN.
George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes,
near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had
completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both
his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served
an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a
member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished
legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career
of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were
encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he
accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the
climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly
after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the
editorship of the _Dumfries Journal_, a respectable Conservative
newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for
three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in
the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan
Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor,
is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:--
"Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with
such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure
readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant
paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free
and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the
district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land.
These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and
these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs
you can easily scatter about; these attract
booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements
where they find their works are noticed. Above all
things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if
you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are
severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake
the head. You will have friends on one side of the
water desiring one thing, friends on the other side
desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you
vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good
conscience, will enable you to get well through all."
On terminating his connexion with the _Dumfries Journal_, Allan
proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs
Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend,
about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising
employers:--
"They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive
to their business, and they go through their labours with a
spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with
their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most
mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly
uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The
interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond
everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way
in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable
at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of
anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks
for."
Besides contributing many interesting articles to _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_, and furnishing numerous communications to the _Scotsman_
newspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo
volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the
public press. In preparing that elegant work, the "Original National
Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was
favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that
publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives
succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate
situation in the Stamp Office,--one which at once afforded him a certain
subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his
literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system
did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died
suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his
thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow,
eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan
Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a
man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion,
and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a
handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of
literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by
overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are
largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]
FOOTNOTES:
[20] We are indebted to William Pagan, Esq. of Clayton, author of "Road
Reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Pagan
kindly procured for our use the whole of Mr Allan's papers and MSS.
IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?
Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,
Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,
To give back our wrongs to the giver?
To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,
Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,
With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them,
And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them;
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)
Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom
As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,
But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;
Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,
And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,
But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never--
Never! Never! Never!
III.--(CLANSMEN.)
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!
FOOTNOTES:
[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to
the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the
Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is
accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the
Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical
talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This
song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National
Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.
I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.
I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.
I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.
I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;
And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,
A light to my soul when no other is seen.
LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.
Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,
And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',
But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,
Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!
I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,
And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;
But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover
Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!
The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,
And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,
Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!
But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!
Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing
Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,
For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,
And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.
WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]
When I look far down on the valley below me,
Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,
While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me
How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,
How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted
My hours in such spot to have peacefully run,
Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,
And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.
I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,
Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;
I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd
Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!
Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd,
As the senses might sway or the passions command;
That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,
Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.
Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice
And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,
To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise
Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?
Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,
Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,
And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,
Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.
FOOTNOTES:
[22] Printed, for the first time, from the author's MS.
I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]
I will wake my harp when the shades of even
Are closing around the dying day,
When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven
Are weaning my heart from the world away;
And my strain will tell of a land and home
Which my wand'ring steps have left behind,
Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam
Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.
I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper
Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,
When not a leaf is heard to whisper
That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.
And you, dear friends of my youthful years,
Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,
And a smile for the past will gild the tears
That tell how my heart is far away.
I will wake my harp when the moon is holding
Her star-tent court in the midnight sky,
When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,
Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.
And well may I hail that blissful hour,
For my spirit will then, from its thrall set free,
Return to my own lov'd maiden's bower,
And gather each sigh that she breathes for me.
Thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing
The feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell,
I will charm each cloud from my soul by singing
Of all I have left and lov'd so well.
Oh! Fate may smile, and Sorrow may cease,
But the dearest hope we on earth can gain
Is to come, after long sad years, in peace,
And be join'd with the friends of our love, again.
FOOTNOTES:
[23] Printed for the first time.
THOMAS BRYDSON.
Thomas Brydson was born in Glasgow in 1806. On completing the usual
course of study at the Universities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, he became
a licentiate of the Established Church. He assisted in the Middle
Church, Greenock, and in the parish of Kilmalcolm, Renfrewshire, and
was, in 1839, ordained minister of Levern Chapel, near Paisley. In 1842,
he was translated to the full charge of Kilmalcolm, where he continued
to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place
suddenly on the 28th January 1855.
A man of fine fancy and correct taste, Mr Brydson was, in early life,
much devoted to poetical composition. In 1829, he published a duodecimo
volume of "Poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces
in 1832, under the title of "Pictures of the Past." He contributed, in
prose and verse, to the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_; the _Republic of
Letters_, a Glasgow publication; and some of the London annuals. Though
fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly
hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great
measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of Kilmalcolm. Among
his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour
which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the
gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. Of domestic
animals he was devotedly fond. He took delight in pastoral scenery, and
in solitary musings among the hills. His poetry is pervaded by elegance
of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression.
ALL LOVELY AND BRIGHT.
All lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time,
Seem the days when I wander'd with you,
Like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime,
On the deeps that are trackless and blue.
And now, while the torrent is loud on the hill,
And the howl of the forest is drear,
I think of the lapse of our own native rill--
I think of thy voice with a tear.
The light of my taper is fading away,
It hovers, and trembles, and dies;
The far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray,
But sleep will not come to mine eyes.
Yet why should I ponder, or why should I grieve
O'er the joys that my childhood has known?
We may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve,
As we met in the days that are gone.
CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.
Though a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to
enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a
Scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He
was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March 1807. His father,
who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Royal
Artillery.[24] He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera
on the 27th and 28th of July 1809; but from his fatigues died soon
after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr
Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of
James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire.
Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much
advantage from scholastic training. His favourite themes were poetry and
music, and these he assiduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of
other important studies. At a subsequent period he devoted himself with
ardour to his improvement in general knowledge. He read extensively, and
became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages.
Disappointed in obtaining a commission in the Royal Artillery, on which
he had calculated, he proceeded to India as midshipman in a merchant
vessel. Conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage,
he entered on the study of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. From
early youth he composed verses. In 1829, while only in his twenty-second
year, he published, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, entitled
"Vallery; or, the Citadel of the Lake." This production, which refers to
the times of Chivalry, was well received; and, in the following year,
the author ventured on the publication of a second poem, in two books,
entitled "Eldred of Erin." In the latter composition, which is pervaded
by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal
experiences. In 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, "The
Exiles of Chamouni; a Drama," a production which received only a limited
circulation. About the same period, he became a contributor of verses to
the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_. He ultimately undertook the editorial
superintendence of a religious periodical.
Delicate in constitution, and of a highly nervous temperament, Sillery
found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the
intention of qualifying himself for the Church. He calculated on early
ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of Her Majesty Queen
Adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some
interest on his behalf. But his prospects were soon clouded by the slow
but certain progress of an insidious malady. He was seized with
pulmonary consumption, and died at Edinburgh on the 16th May 1836, in
his twenty-ninth year.
Of sprightly and winning manners, Sillery was much cherished in the
literary circles of the capital. He was of the ordinary height, and of
an extremely slender figure; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing,
was singularly indicative of power. Poetry, in its every department, he
cherished with the devotion of an enthusiast; and though sufficiently
modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in
singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he
had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his
views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before
his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the
proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more
advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. With
occasional defects, the poem of "Vallery" is possessed of much boldness
of imagery, and force and elegance of expression.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] Captain Doyne Sillery was born in Drogheda, Ireland, of which place
his father was mayor during the Rebellion of 1798, and where he
possessed considerable property. He was descended from one of the most
ancient and illustrious families in France, of which the representative
took refuge in England during the infamous persecution of the
Protestants in the sixteenth century. On the reduction of priestly power
in Ireland by Cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the United
Kingdom. The family name was originally Brulart. Nicolas Brulart,
Marquis de Sillery, Lord de Pinsieux, de Marinis, and de Berny, acquired
much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in France.
(See "L'Histoire Généalogique et Chronologique des Chanceliers de
France," tom. vi. p. 524). On the maternal side Captain Sillery was
lineally descended from Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the famous
chancellor.
SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.
She died in beauty! like a rose
Blown from its parent stem;
She died in beauty! like a pearl
Dropp'd from some diadem.
She died in beauty! like a lay
Along a moonlit lake;
She died in beauty! like the song
Of birds amid the brake.
She died in beauty! like the snow
On flowers dissolved away;
She died in beauty! like a star
Lost on the brow of day.
She _lives_ in glory! like night's gems
Set round the silver moon;
She lives in glory! like the sun
Amid the blue of June!
THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS.
Let the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers,
His pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells;
While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain,
For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells,
And dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain,
That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
And shout in the chorus for ever and ever--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming,
And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells,
And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming
On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue-bells.
Awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather,
Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells--
Come forth with your chorus, all chanting together--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river,
The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells,
And shout in the chorus for ever and ever--
The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue-bells.
ROBERT MILLER.
Robert Miller, the author of the two following songs, was a native of
Glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. He contributed
verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate
publication. He died at Glasgow, in September 1834, at the early age of
twenty-four. His "Lay of the Hopeless" was written within a few days of
his decease.
WHERE ARE THEY?
The loved of early days!
Where are they?--where?
Not on the shining braes,
The mountains bare;--
Not where the regal streams
Their foam-bells cast--
Where childhood's time of dreams
And sunshine pass'd.
Some in the mart, and some
In stately halls,
With the ancestral gloom
Of ancient walls;
Some where the tempest sweeps
The desert waves;
Some where the myrtle weeps
On Roman graves.
And pale young faces gleam
With solemn eyes;
Like a remember'd dream
The dead arise;
In the red track of war
The restless sweep;
In sunlit graves afar
The loved ones sleep.
The braes are dight with flowers,
The mountain streams
Foam past me in the showers
Of sunny gleams;
But the light hearts that cast
A glory there,
In the rejoicing past,
Where are they?--where?
LAY OF THE HOPELESS.
Oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now
O'er the restless and weary wave,
Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough
O'er the calm of my early grave--
And my heart with its pulses of fire and life,
Oh! would it were still as stone.
I am weary, weary, of all the strife,
And the selfish world I 've known.
I 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup,
When youth and joy were mine;
But the cold black dregs are floating up,
Instead of the laughing wine;
And life hath lost its loveliness,
And youth hath spent its hour,
And pleasure palls like bitterness,
And hope hath not a flower.
And love! was it not a glorious eye
That smiled on my early dream?
It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh,
In the churchyard by the stream:
And fame--oh! mine were gorgeous hopes
Of a flashing and young renown:
But early, early the flower-leaf drops
From the withering seed-cup down.
And beauty! have I not worshipp'd all
Her shining creations well?
The rock--the wood--the waterfall,
Where light or where love might dwell.
But over all, and on my heart,
The mildew hath fallen sadly,
I have no spirit, I have no part
In the earth that smiles so gladly!
I only sigh for a quiet bright spot
In the churchyard by the stream,
Whereon the morning sunbeams float,
And the stars at midnight dream;
Where only Nature's sounds may wake
The sacred and silent air,
And only her beautiful things may break
Through the long grass gathering there.
ALEXANDER HUME.
Alexander Hume was born at Kelso on the 1st of February 1809. His
father, Walter Hume, occupied a respectable position as a retail trader
in that town. Of the early history of our author little has been
ascertained. His first teacher was Mr Ballantyne of Kelso, a man
somewhat celebrated in his vocation. To his early preceptor's kindness
of heart, Hume frequently referred with tears. While under Mr
Ballantyne's scholastic superintendence, his love of nature first became
apparent. After school hours it was his delight to wander by the banks
of the Tweed, or reclining on its brink, to listen to the music of its
waters. From circumstances into which we need not inquire, his family
was induced to remove from Kelso to London. The position they occupied
we have not learned; but young Hume is remembered as being a quick,
intelligent, and most affectionate boy, eager, industrious,
self-reliant, and with an occasional dash of independence that made him
both feared and loved. He might have been persuaded to adopt almost any
view, but an attempt at coercion only excited a spirit of antagonism. To
use an old and familiar phrase, "he might break, but he would not bend."
About this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had
authority over him, he suddenly disappeared from home, and allied
himself to a company of strolling players, with whom he associated for
several months. He had an exquisite natural voice, and sung the melting
melodies of Scotland in a manner seldom equalled. With the itinerant
manager he was a favourite, because he was fit for anything--tragedy,
comedy, farce, a hornpipe, and, if need be, a comic song, in which
making faces at the audience was an indispensable accomplishment. His
greatest hit, we are told, was in the absurdly extravagant song, "I am
such a Beautiful Boy;" when he used to say that in singing one verse, he
opened his mouth so wide that he had difficulty in closing it; but it
appears he had neither difficulty nor reluctance in closing his
engagement. Getting tired of his new profession, and disgusted with his
associates, poorly clad and badly fed, he slipped away when his
companions were fast asleep, and returned to London. Here, weary and
footsore, he presented himself to a relative, who received him kindly,
and placed him in a position where by industry he might provide for his
necessities.
In 1827, he obtained a situation with Forbes & Co. of Mark Lane, the
highly respectable agents for Berwick & Co. of Edinburgh, the celebrated
brewers of Scotch ale. His position being one of considerable
responsibility, he was obliged to find security in the sum of £500,
which he obtained from the relative who had always stood his friend. But
such was his probity and general good conduct, that his employers
cancelled the security, and returned the bond as a mark of their
appreciation of his integrity and worth.
About this period it was that he first gave utterance to his feelings in
verse. Impulsive and impassioned naturally, his first strong attachment
roused the deepest feelings of the man, and awoke the dormant passion of
the poet. The non-success of his first wooing only made his song the
more vehement for a while, but as no flame can burn intensely for ever,
his love became more subdued, and his song gradually assumed that
touching pathos which has ever characterised the best lyrics of
Scotland.
Some time between the years 1830 and 1833, he became a member of the
Literary and Scientific Institution, Aldersgate Street, where he made
the acquaintance of many kindred spirits, young men of the same standing
as himself, chiefly occupied in the banks, offices, and warehouses of
the city of London. There they had classes established for the study of
history, for the discussion of philosophical and literary subjects, and
for the practice of elocution. The recitations of the several members
awoke the embers that smouldered in his heart from the time he had left
the stage. His early experience had made him acquainted with the manner
in which the voice ought to be modulated to make the utterance
effective; and although he seldom ventured to recite, he was always a
fair critic and a deeply interested auditor. The young ambition of a few
had led them to aspire to authorship, and they established a monthly
magazine. Although the several articles were not of the highest order,
they were, nevertheless, quite equal to the average periodical writings
of the day. In this magazine it is believed that Hume published his
first song. It had been sent in the ordinary way, signed _Daft Wattie_,
and the editor, not appreciating the northern dialect in which it was
written, had tossed it aside. Shortly afterwards, one of the managers on
turning over the rejected papers was attracted by the verses, read them,
and was charmed. He placed them back in the editor's box, certifying
them as fit for publication by writing across them,
"Musical as is Apollo's lute,"
to which he signed his name, William Raine. This circumstance soon led
to an intimate acquaintance with Mr Raine, who was a man of considerable
original power, excellent education, and of a social and right manly
nature. This new acquaintance coloured the whole of Hume's future life.
They became fast friends, and were inseparable. The imagination of Hume
was restrained by the acute judgment and critical ability of Mr Raine.
When Hume published his first volume of "Songs," it would perhaps be
difficult to determine whether their great success and general
popularity resulted from the poet whose name they bore, or from the
friend who weighed and suggested corrections in almost every song, until
they finally came before the public in a collected form. The volume was
dedicated to Allan Cunningham, and in the preface he says: "I composed
them by no rules excepting those which my own observation and feelings
formed; I knew no other. As I thought and felt, so have I written. Of
all poetical compositions, songs, especially those of the affections,
should be natural, warm gushes of feeling--brief, simple, and condensed.
As soon as they have left the singer's lips, they should be fast around
the hearer's heart."
In 1837, Hume married Miss Scott, a lady well calculated to attract the
eye and win the heart of a poet. He remained connected with the house of
Berwick & Co. until 1840, when, to recover his health, which had been
failing for some time, he was advised to visit America, where he
travelled for several months. On his return to England, he entered into
an engagement with the Messrs Lane of Cork, then the most eminent
brewers in the south of Ireland. To this work he devoted himself with
great energy, and was duly rewarded for his labour by almost immediate
success. The article he sold became exceedingly popular in the
metropolis; nor was he disappointed in the hope of realising
considerable pecuniary advantages.
For several years he had written very little. The necessity to make
provision for a rapidly increasing family, and the ambition to take a
high position in the business he had chosen, occupied his every hour,
and became with him a passion as strong as had ever moved him in works
of the imagination.
In 1847 there were slight indications of a return of the complaint from
which he had suffered in 1840, and he again crossed the Atlantic.
Although he returned considerably improved in health, he was by no means
well. Fortunately he had secured the services of a Mr Macdonald as an
assistant in his business, whose exertions in his interest were
unremitting. Mr Hume's health gradually declined, and ultimately
incapacitated him for the performance of any commercial duty. In May
1851 he died at Northampton, leaving a widow and six children.
As a song writer, Hume is entitled to an honourable place among those
authors whose writings have been technically called "the Untutored Muse
of Scotland." His style is eminently graceful, and a deep and genuine
pathos pervades his compositions. We confidently predict that some of
his lyrics are destined to obtain a lasting popularity. In 1845, a
complete edition of his "Songs and Poems" was published at London in a
thin octavo volume.
MY WEE, WEE WIFE.
AIR--_"The Boatie Rows."_
My wee wife dwells in yonder cot,
My bonnie bairnies three;
Oh! happy is the husband's lot,
Wi' bairnies on his knee.
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonnie bairnies three;
How bright is day how sweet is life!
When love lights up the e'e.
The king o'er me may wear a crown,
Have millions bow the knee,
But lacks he love to share his throne,
How poor a king is he!
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonnie bairnies three,
Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife,
Your hearts are thrones to me.
I 've felt oppression's galling chain,
I 've shed the tear o' care,
But feeling aye lost a' its pain,
When my wee wife was near.
My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife,
My bonnie bairnies three,
The chains we wear are sweet to bear,
How sad could we go free!
O POVERTY!
AIR--_"The Posie."_
Eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel,
Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel;
But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd,
I spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd;
But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
I next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain,
I told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain;
Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
Oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man,
And canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan';
To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e;
O poverty! O poverty! that love should bow to thee.
But wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay,
It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way;
In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be;
O poverty! O poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee.
NANNY.
AIR--_"Fee him, Father."_
There 's mony a flower beside the rose,
And sweets beside the honey;
But laws maun change ere life disclose
A flower or sweet like Nanny.
Her e'e is like the summer sun,
When clouds can no conceal it,
Ye 're blind if it ye look upon,
Oh! mad if ere ye feel it.
I 've mony bonnie lassies seen,
Baith blithesome, kind, an' canny;
But oh! the day has never been
I 've seen another Nanny!
She 's like the mavis in her sang,
Amang the brakens bloomin',
Her lips ope to an angel's tongue,
But kiss her, oh! she's woman.
MY BESSIE.
AIR--_"The Posie."_
My Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers,
Oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours,
When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play,
An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day?
The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem,
An' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them,
To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me,
I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee.
Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew,
An' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you;
How aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck,
An' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak!
We 'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays,
An' sing that tearfu' tale about Doon's bonnie banks and braes;
But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet,
Like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet.
Oh! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth,
In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth?
The linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree,
Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me!
MENIE HAY.
AIR--_"Heigh-ho! for Somebody."_
A wee bird sits upon a spray,
And aye it sings o' Menie Hay,
The burthen o' its cheery lay
Is "Come away, dear Menie Hay!
Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!
There 's not a bonnie flower in May
Shows a bloom wi' Menie Hay."
A light in yonder window 's seen,
And wi' it seen is Menie Hay;
Wha gazes on the dewy green,
Where sits the bird upon the spray?
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Fair I trow, O Menie Hay!
At sic a time, in sic a way,
What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"
"What seek ye there, my daughter dear?
What seek ye there, O Menie Hay?"
"Dear mother, but the stars sae clear
Around the bonnie Milky Way."
"Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
Ye something see ye daurna say,
Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"
The window 's shut, the light is gane,
And wi' it gane is Menie Hay;
But wha is seen upon the green,
Kissing sweetly Menie Hay?
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
For ane sae young ye ken the way,
And far from blate, O Menie Hay!"
"Gae scour the country, hill and dale;
Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay?
Search ilka nook, in town or vale,
For my daughter, Menie Hay."
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay,
O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."
I 'VE WANDER'D ON THE SUNNY HILL.
I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale,
Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale;
But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me--
The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee.
The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom--
The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom;
But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea,
Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee.
I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand,
When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand;
The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free,
Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee.
I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun,
I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone;
Ye smiled in look, but no in heart--your heart was no for me;
Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee.
OH! YEARS HAE COME.
Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane,
Sin' first I sought the warld alane,
Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But oh! behold the present gloom,
My early friends are in the tomb,
And nourish now the heather bloom
On the hills o' Caledonia.
My father's name, my father's lot,
Is now a tale that 's heeded not,
Or sang unsung, if no forgot
On the hills o' Caledonia.
O' our great ha' there 's left nae stane--
A' swept away, like snaw lang gane;
Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain
On the hills o' Caledonia.
The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high,
The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by,
Like some sad heart maist grutten dry
On the hills o' Caledonia.
The wee birds sing no frae the tree,
The wild-flowers bloom no on the lea,
As if the kind things pitied me
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But friends can live, though cold they lie,
An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh,
When we forget them, then they die
On the hills o' Caledonia.
An' howsoever changed the scene,
While mem'ry an' my feeling 's green,
Still green to my auld heart an' e'en
Are the hills o' Caledonia.
MY MOUNTAIN HAME.
AIR--_"Gala Water."_
My mountain hame, my mountain hame!
My kind, my independent mother;
While thought and feeling rule my frame,
Can I forget the mountain heather?
Scotland dear!
I love to hear your daughters dear
The simple tale in song revealing,
Whene'er your music greets my ear
My bosom swells wi' joyous feeling--
Scotland dear!
Though I to other lands may gae,
Should Fortune's smile attend me thither,
I 'll hameward come, whene'er I may,
And look again on the mountain heather--
Scotland dear!
When I maun die, oh! I would lie
Where life and me first met together;
That my cauld clay, through its decay,
Might bloom again in the mountain heather--
Scotland dear!
THOMAS SMIBERT.
A poet and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in
Peebles on the 8th February 1810. Of his native town his father held for
a period the office of chief magistrate. With a view of qualifying
himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an
apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in
the University of Edinburgh. Obtaining licence as a surgeon, he
commenced practice in the village of Inverleithen, situated within six
miles of his native town. He was induced to adopt this sphere of
professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young
lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness,
but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. Disappointed in love,
and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the
annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left Inverleithen after the
lapse of a year, and returned to Peebles. He now began to turn his
attention to literature, and was fortunate in procuring congenial
employment from the Messrs Chambers, as a contributor to their popular
_Journal_. Of this periodical he soon attained the position of
sub-editor; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services
in this literary connexion, it is worthy of record that, during the
period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he contributed to the
_Journal_ no fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and
about fifty biographical sketches. Within the same period he edited a
new edition of Paley's "Natural Theology," with scientific notes, and
wrote extensively for a work of the Messrs Chambers, entitled
"Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the
sub-editorship of the _Scotsman_ newspaper. The bequest of a relative
afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he
continued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and
industry. He became a frequent contributor to _Hogg's Instructor_, an
Edinburgh weekly periodical; produced a work on "Greek History;" and
collated a "Rhyming Dictionary." A large, magnificently illustrated
volume, the "Clans of the Highlands of Scotland," was his most ambitious
and successful effort as a prose-writer. His poetical compositions,
which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced
to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, "Io Anche! Poems
chiefly Lyrical;" Edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. An historical play from his
pen, entitled "Condé's Wife," founded on the love of Henri Quatre for
Marguerite de Montmorency, whom the young Prince of Condé had wedded,
was produced in 1842 by Mr Murray in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and
during a run of nine nights was received with applause.
Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth
year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions,
and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation.
In person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He
was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and
has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent
periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment,
and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs
indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos.
THE SCOTTISH WIDOW'S LAMENT.
Afore the Lammas tide
Had dun'd the birken-tree,
In a' our water side
Nae wife was bless'd like me.
A kind gudeman, and twa
Sweet bairns were 'round me here,
But they're a' ta'en awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Sair trouble cam' our gate,
And made me, when it cam',
A bird without a mate,
A ewe without a lamb.
Our hay was yet to maw,
And our corn was to shear,
When they a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I downa look a-field,
For aye I trow I see
The form that was a bield
To my wee bairns and me;
But wind, and weet, and snaw,
They never mair can fear,
Sin' they a' got the ca'
In the fa' o' the year.
Aft on the hill at e'ens,
I see him 'mang the ferns--
The lover o' my teens,
The faither o' my bairns;
For there his plaid I saw,
As gloamin' aye drew near,
But my a's now awa'
Sin' the fa' o' the year.
Our bonnie rigs theirsel',
Reca' my waes to mind;
Our puir dumb beasties tell
O' a' that I hae tyned;
For wha our wheat will saw,
And wha our sheep will shear,
Sin' my a' gaed awa'
In the fa' o' the year?
My hearth is growing cauld,
And will be caulder still,
And sair, sair in the fauld
Will be the winter's chill;
For peats were yet to ca',
Our sheep they were to smear,
When my a' passed awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
I ettle whiles to spin,
But wee, wee patterin' feet
Come rinnin' out and in,
And then I just maun greet;
I ken it 's fancy a',
And faster rows the tear,
That my a' dwined awa'
In the fa' o' the year.
Be kind, O Heaven abune!
To ane sae wae and lane,
And tak' her hamewards sune
In pity o' her maen.
Lang ere the March winds blaw,
May she, far far frae here,
Meet them a' that's awa
Sin' the fa' o' the year!
THE HERO OF ST JOHN D'ACRE.[25]
Once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing
The banner of England is spread to the breeze,
And loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing
Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas.
No tempest shall daunt her,
No victor-foe taunt her,
What manhood can do in her cause shall be done--
Britannia's best seaman,
The boast of her freemen,
Will conquer or die by his colours and gun.
On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying,
Which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold;
And bold is their crying, and fierce their defying,
When trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old.
But lo! in the offing,
To punish their scoffing,
Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done;
No danger can stay him,
No foeman dismay him,
He conquers or dies by his colours and gun.
Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag humbled,
Its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone;
The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled,
And England's flag waves over ruin'd St John.
But Napier now tenders
To Acre's defenders
The aid of a friend when the combat is won;
For mercy's sweet blossom
Blooms fresh in his bosom,
Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun.
"All hail to the hero!" his country is calling,
And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave,
They fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling,
But fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave.
And long may the ocean,
In calm and commotion,
Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won,
And when foes would wound us
May Napier be round us,
To conquer or die by their colours and gun!
FOOTNOTES:
[25] Admiral Sir Charles Napier.
OH! BONNIE ARE THE HOWES.
Oh! bonnie are the howes
And sunny are the knowes
That feed the kye and yowes
Where my life's morn dawn'd;
And brightly glance the rills
That spring amang the hills
And ca' the merry mills
In my ain dear land.
But now I canna see
The lammies on the lea,
Nor hear the heather bee
On this far, far strand.
I see nae father's ha',
Nae burnie's waterfa',
But wander far awa'
Frae my ain dear land.
My heart was free and light,
My ingle burning bright,
When ruin cam' by night
Through a foe's fell hand.
I left my native air,
I gaed to come nae mair;
And now I sorrow sair
For my ain dear land.
But blithely will I bide
Whate'er may yet betide
When ane is by my side
On this far, far strand.
My Jean will soon be here
This waefu' heart to cheer,
And dry the fa'ing tear
For my ain dear land.
OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA'.
Oh! say na you maun gang awa',
Oh! say na you maun leave me;
The dreaded hour that parts us twa
Of peace and hope will reave me.
When you to distant shores are gane
How could I bear to tarry,
Where ilka tree and ilka stane
Would mind me o' my Mary?
I couldna wander near yon woods
That saw us oft caressing,
And on our heads let fa' their buds
In earnest o' their blessing.
Ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd
Its half-o'erspreading heather,
And how we lo'ed the least the best
That made us creep thegither.
I couldna bide, when you are gane,
My ain, my winsome dearie,
I couldna stay to pine my lane--
I live but when I 'm near ye.
Then say na you maun gang awa',
Oh! say na you maun leave me;
For ah! the hour that parts us twa
Of life itself will reave me.
JOHN BETHUNE.
The younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled
to remembrance, John Bethune, was born at the Mount, in the parish of
Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his
parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught
reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother
Alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. After some years'
employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to
break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade,
he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring
village. In his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that,
at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of
fifteen shillings. Desirous of assisting his aged parents, he now
purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his
elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarrassments
which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed
heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to
six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the
shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of
his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical
composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825
that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of
literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued
labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and
composition. Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced
upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length,
and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till
considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only
known to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "Up to
the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch,
"the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had
been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apartment in the
house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book,
upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life,
was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old
newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any
one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand
were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had,
in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading."
For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the
grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the death of
the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering
on the duties at the term of Martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying
him as his assistant. The appointment yielded £26 yearly, with the right
of a cow's pasturage--emoluments which considerably exceeded the average
of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied
himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his
evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his
comparative prosperity was of short duration. During the summer
following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the
new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another
year the landlord required the little cottage at Lochend, occupied by
his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother
summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near
Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future
career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He
became a contributor to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, _Wilson's Tales
of the Borders_, and other serial publications. In 1838 appeared "Tales
and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the
poet and his brother--a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well
received. A work on "Practical Economy," on which the brothers had
bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of
persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to
attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health
of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by
repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved
the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the
1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year.
With a more lengthened career, John Bethune would have attained a high
reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. His
genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its
important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was
practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of
industry. His tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and
contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model
of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were
published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a
second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been
erected over his grave in the churchyard of Abdie.
FOOTNOTES:
[26] Alexander Bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant
companion and coadjutor in literary work, was born at Upper Rankeillor,
in the parish of Monimail, in July 1804. His education was limited to a
few months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with
occasional lessons from his parents. Like his younger brother, he
followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry
or breaking stones on the public road. Early contracting a taste for
literature, his leisure hours were devoted to reading and composition.
In 1835, several of his productions appeared in _Chambers' Edinburgh
Journal_. "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," a volume by
the brothers, of which the greater portion was written by Alexander, was
published in 1838; their joint-treatise on "Practical Economy" in the
year following. In 1843, Alexander published a small volume of tales,
entitled "The Scottish Peasant's Fireside," which was favourably
received. During the same year he was offered the editorship of the
_Dumfries Standard_ newspaper, with a salary of £100 a-year, but he was
unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. He died at Mount
Pleasant, near Newburgh, on the 13th June 1843, and his remains were
interred in his brother's grave in Abdie churchyard. An interesting
volume of his Memoirs, "embracing Selections from his Correspondence and
Literary Memoirs," was published in 1845 by Mr William M'Combie.
WITHER'D FLOWERS.
Adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets!
Your day of glory's past;
But your latest smile was loveliest,
For we knew it was your last.
No more the sweet aroma
Of your golden cups shall rise,
To scent the morning's stilly breath,
Or gloaming's zephyr-sighs.
Ye were the sweetest offerings
Which Friendship could bestow--
A token of devoted love
In pleasure or in woe!
Ye graced the head of infancy,
By soft affection twined
Into a fairy coronal
Its sunny brows to bind.
* * * * *
But ah! a dreary blast hath blown
Athwart you in your bloom,
And, pale and sickly, now your leaves
The hues of death assume.
We mourn your vanish'd loveliness,
Ye sweet departed flowers;
For ah! the fate which blighted you
An emblem is of ours.
* * * * *
And though, like you, sweet flowers of earth,
We wither and depart,
And leave behind, to mourn our loss,
Full many an aching heart;
Yet when the winter of the grave
Is past, we hope to rise,
Warm'd by the Sun of Righteousness,
To blossom in the skies.
A SPRING SONG.
There is a concert in the trees,
There is a concert on the hill,
There 's melody in every breeze,
And music in the murmuring rill.
The shower is past, the winds are still,
The fields are green, the flow'rets spring,
The birds, and bees, and beetles fill
The air with harmony, and fling
The rosied moisture of the leaves
In frolic flight from wing to wing,
Fretting the spider as he weaves
His airy web from bough to bough;
In vain the little artist grieves
Their joy in his destruction now.
Alas! that, in a scene so fair,
The meanest being e'er should feel
The gloomy shadow of despair
Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal.
But in a world where woe is real,
Each rank in life, and every day,
Must pain and suffering reveal,
And wretched mourners in decay--
When nations smile o'er battles won,
When banners wave and streamers play,
The lonely mother mourns her son
Left lifeless on the bloody clay;
And the poor widow, all undone,
Sees the wild revel with dismay.
Even in the happiest scenes of earth,
When swell'd the bridal-song on high,
When every voice was tuned to mirth,
And joy was shot from eye to eye,
I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh;
And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair,
I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie
In beauty with the fairest there,
Grown deadly pale, although a smile
Was worn above to cloak despair.
Poor maid! it was a hapless wile
Of long-conceal'd and hopeless love
To hide a heart, which broke the while
With pangs no lighter heart could prove.
The joyous spring and summer gay
With perfumed gifts together meet,
And from the rosy lips of May
Breathe music soft and odours sweet;
And still my eyes delay my feet
To gaze upon the earth and heaven,
And hear the happy birds repeat
Their anthems to the coming even;
Yet is my pleasure incomplete;
I grieve to think how few are given
To feel the pleasures I possess,
While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven,
Must pine in utter loneliness,
Or be to desperation driven.
Oh! could we find some happy land,
Some Eden of the deep blue sea,
By gentle breezes only fann'd,
Upon whose soil, from sorrow free,
Grew only pure felicity!
Who would not brave the stormiest main
Within that blissful isle to be,
Exempt from sight or sense of pain?
There is a land we cannot see,
Whose joys no pen can e'er portray;
And yet, so narrow is the road,
From it our spirits ever stray--
Shed light upon that path, O God!
And lead us in the appointed way.
There only joy shall be complete,
More high than mortal thoughts can reach,
For there the just and good shall meet,
Pure in affection, thought, and speech;
No jealousy shall make a breach,
Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy;
There sunny streams of gladness stretch,
And there the very air is joy.
There shall the faithful, who relied
On faithless love till life would cloy,
And those who sorrow'd till they died
O'er earthly pain and earthly woe,
See Pleasure, like a whelming tide,
From an unbounded ocean flow.
ALLAN STEWART.
Allan Stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born
in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His
father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his
mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind
attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious
subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education at school,
he followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were
employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus
fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year.
His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo
volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his
friend, Mr Charles Fleming.
Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and
somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order;
his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment.
THE SEA-BOY.
AIR--_"The Soldier's Tear."_
The storm grew faint as daylight tinged
The lofty billows' crest;
And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed,
Danced in the sea-boy's breast.
And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung
To the billows' less'ning roar--
"O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
I 'll see thee yet once more!"
And O what joy beam'd in his eye,
When, o'er the dusky foam,
He saw, beneath the northern sky,
The hills that mark'd his home!
His heart with double ardour strung,
He sung this ditty o'er--
"O Ellen, so fair, so free, and young,
I 'll see thee yet once more!"
Now towers and trees rise on his sight,
And many a dear-loved spot;
And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright,
He saw young Ellen's cot.
The scenes on which his memory hung
A cheerful aspect wore;
He then, with joyous feeling, sung,
"I 'll see her yet once more!"
The land they near'd, and on the beach
Stood many a female form;
But ah! his eye it could not reach
His hope in many a storm.
He through the spray impatient sprung,
And gain'd the wish'd-for shore;
But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young,
Was gone for evermore!
MENIE LORN.
While beaus and belles parade the streets
On summer gloamings gay,
And barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets,
And all such vain display;
My walks are where the bean-field's breath
On evening's breeze is borne,
With her, the angel of my heart--
My lovely Menie Lorn.
Love's ambuscades her auburn hair,
Love's throne her azure eye,
Where peerless charms and virtues rare
In blended beauty lie.
The rose is fair at break of day,
And sweet the blushing thorn,
But sweeter, fairer far than they,
The smile of Menie Lorn.
O tell me not of olive groves,
Where gold and gems abound;
Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves,
With every virtue crown'd.
I ask no other ray of joy
Life's desert to adorn,
Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy--
The love of Menie Lorn.
THE YOUNG SOLDIER.
AIR--_"The Banks of the Devon."_
O say not o' war the young soldier is weary,
Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame;
Remember his daring when danger was near ye,
Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame.
Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming,
Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free;
But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming;
He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.
'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted,
'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear;
The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted,
He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear.
An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie,
Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day;
Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey
'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.
An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing,
In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea;
His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing--
'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e.
The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit,
As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a';
But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit,
Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.
Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them,
Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream;
Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them,
Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream.
An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing
The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame?
The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling
His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.
THE LAND I LOVE.
The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e,
Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue,
Of the gallant heart, the firm and true,
The land of the hardy thistle.
Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest,
Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd,
The loveliest star on ocean's breast
Is the land of the hardy thistle.
Fair are those isles of Indian bloom,
Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume;
But dearer far are the braes o' broom
Where blooms the hardy thistle.
No luscious fig-tree blossoms there,
No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear;
Her sons are free as the mountain air
That shakes the hardy thistle.
Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky,
And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie;
But I wish to live, and I wish to die
In the land of the hardy thistle!
ROBERT L. MALONE.
Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born
in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was
employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute.
Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his
fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig _Marshall_, which
attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean
ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health,
to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he
returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town
of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs
at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of
his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of
sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a
duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other
Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock
on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and
retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet.
His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince
considerable power.
THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.
AIR--_"Humours o' Glen."_
Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers,
And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea,
The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers,
Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning,
And breathing perfume over moorland and lea,
But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning
Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken,
Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free,
And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!
Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers,
And cold as the grave my affections must be,
Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers,
Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e,
Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!
HAME IS AYE HAMELY.
AIR--_"Love's Young Dream."_
Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be,
An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.
There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand,
Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?
I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name,
And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.
'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream,
And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream;
His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim,
But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.
No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still,
For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill;
And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game,
As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.
Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw;
He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa';
And her he loved--his Hieland girl--there 's magic in the name--
They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.
He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands,
And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands;
And with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame--
'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.
Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be,
Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.
PETER STILL.
Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the
1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a
farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of
his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the
parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject
of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When
somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having
married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more
precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he
suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months
together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of
convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the
world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's
Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo
volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead,
on the 21st March 1848.
Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still
meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate
in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his
wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his
reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and
religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In
person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark
blue eyes, and curling black hair.
JEANIE'S LAMENT.
AIR--_"Lord Gregory."_
I never thocht to thole the waes
It 's been my lot to dree;
I never thocht to sigh sae sad
Whan first I sigh'd for thee.
I thocht your heart was like mine ain,
As true as true could be;
I couldna think there was a stain
In ane sae dear to me.
Whan first amang the dewy flowers,
Aside yon siller stream,
My lowin' heart was press'd to yours,
Nae purer did they seem;
Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew,
The flowers on whilk they hung,
Than seem'd the heart I felt in you
As to that heart I clung.
But I was young an' thochtless then,
An' easy to beguile;
My mither's warnin's had nae weight
'Bout man's deceitfu' smile.
But noo, alas! whan she is dead,
I 've shed the sad, saut tear,
And hung my heavy, heavy head
Aboon my father's bier!
They saw their earthly hope betray'd,
They saw their Jeanie fade;
They couldna thole the heavy stroke,
An' baith are lowly laid!
Oh, Jamie! but thy name again
Shall ne'er be breathed by me,
For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen,
I 'll wander till I die.
YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME.
AIR--_"John Todd."_
"Ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me;
Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e,
Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man,
Ye needna' be courtin' at me.
"Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man,
Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be;
Ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald,
An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man,
Ye 're nae for a lassie like me."
"Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass,
Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee;
I 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd,
An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass,
A heart that lo'es nane but thee.
"I 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass,
I 'll busk you as braw as a queen;
I 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair,
I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass,
Only twa score an' fifteen."
"Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man,
Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear;
There 's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain,
An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man,
To me he shall ever be dear.
"Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man,
Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair;
There 's a something in love that your gowd canna move--
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man,
I 'll be Johnie's although I gang bare."
THE BUCKET FOR ME.
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree;
Though good ye may think it, I 'll never mair drink it--
The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me!
There 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket,
There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see;
An' aye whan I leuk in 't, I find there 's a beuk in 't
That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me.
Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit,
An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e;
But noo--wad you think it?--whan water I drink it
Right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me.
The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure,
It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me;
An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle,
I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee.
The bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker,
The bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me;
In pool or in gutter nae langer I 'll splutter,
But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free.
Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo--
Come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me;
Ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water,"
Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee!
ROBERT NICOLL.
One of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers,
Robert Nicoll, was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of
Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814. Of a family of nine
children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian
name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years
afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to
the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the
rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior
shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended
cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the
parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood
fond of reading, books were his constant companions--in the field, on
the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's
cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the
correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant
in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine
o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual
hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to
_Johnstone's Magazine_, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and
attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious
proprietor. By this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made
to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm
interest in his career.
In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying
his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in
public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal
opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent
contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author
of a volume of "Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed
by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning
business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated
proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr
Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in
Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he
was appointed editor of the _Leeds Times_ newspaper, with a salary of
£100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition
and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and
success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon
began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which,
never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary
occupation. The excitement of a political contest at Leeds, during a
general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of
the poet; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to
Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone.
His case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of
entire prostration, he departed this life in December 1837, in his
twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were
consigned to the churchyard of North Leith.
Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a
conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy.
Several of his songs, especially "Bonnie Bessie Lee" and "Ordé Braes,"
have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since
the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have
been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs
Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting
memoir. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many
of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his
revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he
portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he
depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted
and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was
rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance,
which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his
eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was
modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the
maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the
belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the
aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music
of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not
long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory, towards which
nearly £100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the
Ordé Braes, in his native parish.
ORDÉ BRAES.
There 's nae hame like the hame o' youth,
Nae ither spot sae fair;
Nae ither faces look sae kind
As the smilin' faces there.
An' I ha'e sat by mony streams,
Ha'e travell'd mony ways;
But the fairest spot on the earth to me
Is on bonnie Ordé Braes.
An ell-lang wee thing then I ran
Wi' the ither neeber bairns,
To pu' the hazel's shining nuts,
An' to wander 'mang the ferns;
An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown,
An' gather the glossy slaes,
By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne
I ha'e loved sweet Ordé Braes.
The memories o' my father's hame,
An' its kindly dwellers a',
O' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love
Ere care that heart could thraw,
Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn,
An' its fairy crooks an' bays,
That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.