By the bonnie Ordé's side:
Nane ken how meikle peace an' love
In a straw-roof'd cot can bide.
But thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time
The roofless wa's doth raze;
Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand
Gang ower the Ordé Braes.
Oh! an' the sun were shinin' now,
An', oh! an' I were there,
Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne,
My wanderin' joy to share.
For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame
The flock o' the hills doth graze,
Some kind hearts live to love me yet
Upon bonnie Ordé Braes.
THE MUIR O' GORSE AND BROOM.
I winna bide in your castle ha's,
Nor yet in your lofty towers;
My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame,
An' sick o' your darksome bowers;
An' oh! I wish I were far awa'
Frae their grandeur an' their gloom,
Where the freeborn lintie sings its sang
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale,
That blaws fu' kindly there,
An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell
That wave on the muirland bare;
An' the singing birds, an' the humming bees,
An' the little lochs that toom
Their gushing burns to the distant sea
O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
Oh! if I had a dwallin' there,
Biggit laigh by a burnie's side,
Where ae aik tree, in the summer time,
Wi' its leaves that hame might hide;
Oh! I wad rejoice frae day to day,
As blithe as a young bridegroom;
For dearer than palaces to me
Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom!
In a lanely cot on a muirland wild,
My mither nurtured me;
O' the meek wild-flowers I playmates made,
An' my hame wi' the wandering bee.
An', oh! if I were far awa'
Frae your grandeur an' your gloom,
Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale,
On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom.
THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.
There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms,
Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes;
But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills
As it wantons along o'er our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair;
But o' riches or beauty we mak na our care;
Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills
Our hearts to the burstin'--our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are,
Though born in the midst o' the elements' war;
O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills,
As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills.
On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand,
To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand;
A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills,
That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills.
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills,
Oh! the bonnie Hieland hills;
The bonnie hills o' Scotland O!
The bonnie Hieland hills.
THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH.
The bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen,
Where the burnie clear doth gush
In yon lane glen;
My head is white and auld,
An' my bluid is thin an' cauld;
But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
My Jeanie first I met
In yon lane glen,
When the grass wi' dew was wet
In yon lane glen;
The moon was shining sweet,
An' our hearts wi' love did beat,
By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Oh! she promised to be mine,
In yon lane glen;
Her heart she did resign,
In yon lane glen;
An' mony a happy day
Did o'er us pass away,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Sax bonnie bairns had we
In yon lane glen--
Lads an' lassies young an' spree,
In yon lane glen;
An' a blither family
Than ours there cou'dna be,
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
Now my auld wife's gane awa'
Frae yon lane glen,
An' though summer sweet doth fa'
On yon lane glen--
To me its beauty's gane,
For, alake! I sit alane
Beside the bonnie rowan bush
In yon lane glen.
BONNIE BESSIE LEE.
Bonnie Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles,
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee;
And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles,
O' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee!
Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik,
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee,
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake--
There was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee!
She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad,
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she;
And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had,
Whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee!
She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins,
An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee--
It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins,
Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.[27]
And she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa,
A limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me,
Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa',
Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee.
But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last--
For ten years had parted my auld hame and me--
And I said to mysel', as her mither's door I passed,
Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee?
But Time changes a' thing--the ill-natured loon!
Were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be;
And I rubbit at my e'en, and I thought I would swoon,
How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee!
The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld,
Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee,
She was douce too, and wise-like--and wisdom's sae cauld;
I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee.
FOOTNOTES:
[27] The last four lines of this stanza are not the production of
Nicoll, but have been contributed for the present work by Mr Alexander
Wilson, of Perth. The insertion of the lines prevents the occurrence of
a half stanza, which has hitherto interfered with the singing of this
popular song.
ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING.
Archibald Stirling Irving was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December
1816. His father, John Irving, Writer to the Signet, was the intimate
early friend of Sir Walter Scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman"
referred to in the general Introduction to the Waverley Novels. Having a
delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular
profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns
of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin
classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished
British poets. Possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could
repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome
annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting
localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He
published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "Original Songs," of
which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a
favourable specimen. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th
September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he
exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural
reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives.
THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS.
TUNE--_"Caledonia."_
The wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods,
The trees are blossom'd fair,
The lake is smiling to the sun,
And Mary wand'ring there.
The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth
Did nature's charms despoil;
They stole for her the rose's blush,
The sweet lake's dimpled smile.
The lily for her breast they took,
Nut-brown her locks appear;
But when they came to make her eyes,
They robb'd the starry sphere.
But cruel sure was their design,
Or mad-like their device--
For while they filled her eyes with fire,
They made her heart of ice.
ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE.[28]
Alexander Abernethy Ritchie, author of "The Wells o' Wearie," was born
in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively
appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable
artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His
parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a
house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the
decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his
apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the
art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual
exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became
favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church
Road," "The Gaberlunzie," "Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and "The
Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's
works, "The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and "The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of
some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of
character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more
picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh; and
contributed to the _Illustrated London News_ representations of
remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottish capital. He died
suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the
thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of
humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners
and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether
dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He
lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and
who survives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed
the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:--
Father of blissfulness,
Grant me a resting-place
Now my sad spirit is longing for rest.
Lord, I beseech Thee,
Deign Thou to teach me
Which path to heaven is surest and best:
Lonely and dreary,
Laden and weary,
Oh! for a home in the land of the blest!
Father of holiness,
Look on my lowliness;
From this sad bondage, O Lord, set me free;
Grant that, 'mid love and peace,
Sorrow and sin may cease,
While in the Saviour my trust it shall be.
When Death's sleep comes o'er me,
On waking--before me
The portals of glory all open I 'll see.
FOOTNOTES:
[28] We are indebted to Mr James Ballantine, of Edinburgh, for the
particulars contained in this memoir.
THE WELLS O' WEARIE.
AIR--_"Bonnie House o' Airlie."_
Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun,
And mak's her look young and cheerie;
Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve,
There 's nought in the world to fear ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en,
Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie,
For I 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green
By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower
At your form in the water sae clearly,
Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower,
And you 'll grow by the Wells o' Wearie.
Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane,
I felt unco douf and drearie,
For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain
At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie.
Let fortune or fame their minions deceive,
Let fate look gruesome and eerie;
True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve,
When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie.
Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve,
Nae danger will daur to come near ye;
For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave,
To gang to the Wells o' Wearie.
ALEXANDER LAING.
One of the simplest and most popular of the living national
song-writers, Alexander Laing, was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787.
His father, James Laing, was an agricultural labourer. With the
exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to
tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and
writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the
careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of
his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business
of a flax-dresser, in his native town--an occupation in which he was
employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in
mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. He now
resides at Upper Tenements, Brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned
competency.
Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen
appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia"--a respectable collection of
minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a
contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the "Scottish Minstrel,"
edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of
Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He
published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a
duodecimo volume, under the designation of "Wayside Flowers." A second
edition appeared in 1850. He has been an occasional contributor to the
local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "Laird of
Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland; and has compiled
some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics
are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of
his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled "My Ain
Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless
Exile" is the perfection of tenderness.
AE HAPPY HOUR.
AIR--_"The Cock Laird."_
The dark gray o' gloamin',
The lone leafy shaw,
The coo o' the cushat,
The scent o' the haw;
The brae o' the burnie,
A' bloomin' in flower,
An' twa' faithfu' lovers,
Make ae happy hour.
A kind winsome wifie,
A clean canty hame,
An' smilin' sweet babies
To lisp the dear name;
Wi' plenty o' labour,
An' health to endure,
Make time to row round aye
The ae happy hour.
Ye lost to affection,
Whom avarice can move
To woo an' to marry
For a' thing but love;
Awa' wi' your sorrows,
Awa' wi' your store,
Ye ken na the pleasure
O' ae happy hour.
LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME.
AIR--_"Lass, gin I come near you."_
"Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me,
Ye'se be ladye o' my ha',
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me.
A canty but, a cosie ben,
Weel plenish'd ye may trow me;
A brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman--
Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!"
"Walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e,
An' bidin' bein an' easy;
But brisk an' blithe ye canna be,
An' you sae auld an' crazy.
Wad marriage mak' you young again?
Wad woman's love renew you?
Awa', ye silly doitet man,
I canna, winna lo'e you!"
"Witless hizzie, e'en 's you like,
The ne'er a doit I 'm carin';
But men maun be the first to speak,
An' wanters maun be speerin'.
Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang,
An' now I'm come to woo you;
I 'm no sae auld as clashes gang,
I think you 'd better lo'e me."
"Doitet bodie! auld or young,
Ye needna langer tarry,
Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung,
He 's no for me to marry.
Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel'
How ye wad come to woo me,
An' mind me i' your latter-will,
Bodie, gin ye lo'e me!"
LASS OF LOGIE.
AIR--_"Lass of Arranteenie."_
I 've seen the smiling summer flower
Amang the braes of Yarrow;
I 've heard the raving winter wind
Amang the hills of Barra;
I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er,
Frae Teviot to Strathbogie;
But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen
Is bonnie Jean of Logie.
Her lips were like the heather bloom,
In meekest dewy morning;
Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf,
The bloomy brier adorning;
Her brow was like the milky flower
That blossoms in the bogie;
And love was laughing in her een--
The bonnie lass of Logie.
I said, "My lassie, come wi' me,
My hand, my hame are ready;
I ha'e a lairdship of my ain,
And ye shall be my ladye.
I 've ilka thing baith out and in,
To make you blithe and vogie;"
She hung her head and sweetly smiled--
The bonnie lass of Logie!
But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd,
And wrung my heart with sorrow;
The bonnie lass sae dear to me
Can never be my marrow.
For, ah! she loves another lad--
The ploughman wi' his cogie;
Yet happy, happy may she be,
The bonnie lass of Logie!
MY AIN WIFE.
AIR--_"John Anderson, my Jo."_
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see;
For, Oh! my dainty ain wife,
She 's aye sae dear to me.
A bonnier yet I 've never seen,
A better canna be;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
Though beauty is a fadin' flower,
As fadin' as it 's fair,
It looks fu' well in ony wife,
An' mine has a' her share.
She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass--
She 's bonnie aye to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheery is my Jean;
I never see her angry look,
Nor hear her word on ane.
She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun',
An' aye gude wi' me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
But Oh, her looks sae kindly,
They melt my heart outright,
When ower the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight.
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
THE MAID O' MONTROSE.
AIR--_"O tell me the Way for to Woo."_
O sweet is the calm dewy gloaming,
When saftly by Rossie-wood brae,
The merle an' mavis are hymning
The e'en o' the lang summer's day!
An' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean,
The full moon arising in majesty glows;
An' I, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion,
Wi' my lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
The fopling sae fine an' sae airy,
Sae fondly in love wi' himsel',
Is proud wi' his ilka new dearie,
To shine at the fair an' the ball;
But gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom
Waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose,
An' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom--
My ain lovely Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O what is the haill warld's treasure,
Gane nane o' its pleasures we prove?
An' where can we taste o' true pleasure,
Gin no wi' the lassie we love?
O sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty,
Where lurking the loves an' the graces repose;
An' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty,
But sweeter is Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though few are sae bonnie as thee;
O Mary, 'tis no for thy beauty,
Though handsome as woman can be.
The rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring;
The aik's stately form when the wild winter blows;
But the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring--
These bind me to Mary, the Maid o' Montrose.
JEAN OF ABERDEEN.
AIR--_"Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."_
Ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier,
On stately Dee's wild woody knowes;
Ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair,
In streamy Don's gay broomy howes:
An' ilka bonnie flower that grows,
Amang their banks and braes sae green--
These borrow a' their finest hues
Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw,
When morning gilds the welkin high;
Ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw,
When e'ening steals alang the sky.
But brighter far is Jeanie's eye,
When we 're amang the braes alane,
An' softer is the bosom-sigh
Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
Though I had a' the valleys gay,
Around the airy Bennochie;
An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray
Amang the lofty hills o' Dee;
While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee,
An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene,
My heart wi' them I'd freely gie
To lovely Jean of Aberdeen.
THE HOPELESS EXILE.
AIR--_"Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane."_
Oh! where has the exile his home?
Oh! where has the exile his home?
Where the mountain is steep,
Where the valley is deep,
Where the waves of the Ohio foam;
Where no cheering smile
His woes may beguile--
Oh! there has the exile his home.
Oh! when will the exile return?
Oh! when will the exile return?
When our hearts heave no sigh,
When our tears shall be dry,
When Erin no longer shall mourn;
When his name we disown,
When his mem'ry is gone--
Oh! then will the exile return!
GLEN-NA-H'ALBYN.[29]
AIR--_"O rest thee, my Darling."_
On the airy Ben-Nevis the wind is awake,
The boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake;
Ah! now in a moment my country I leave;
The next I am far away--far on the wave!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
I was proud of the power and the fame of my chief,
And to build up his House was the aim of my life;
And now in his greatness he turns me away,
When my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray.
Oh! fare thee well!
Farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves,
I go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves;
Or to die unlamented on Canada's shore,
Where none of my fathers were gathered before!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
Oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, Glen-na-h'Albyn!
FOOTNOTES:
[29] "Glen-na-h'Albyn, or Glen-more-na-h'Albyn, the great Glen of
Caledonia, is a name applied to the valley which runs in a direction
from north-east to south-west, the whole breadth of the kingdom, from
the Moray Firth at Inverness to the Sound of Mull below Fort-William,
and is almost filled with lakes."
ALEXANDER CARLILE.
Alexander Carlile was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors
are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts,
and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr
Carlile of Dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an
accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at
the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of
Glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his
native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has
been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the
more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the
national minstrelsy. At an early period he composed the spirited and
popular song, beginning "Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has
since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate
publication, a duodecimo volume of "Poems," appeared in 1855, and has
been favourably received. Mr Carlile is much devoted to the interests of
his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and
social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. His unobtrusive worth and elegant
accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. His
latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious
sentiment.
WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?[30]
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?
Wha but blithe Jamie Glen,
He 's come sax miles and ten,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa,
To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa.
He has plighted his troth, and a', and a',
Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a',
And sae has she dune,
By a' that 's abune,
For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a',
He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'.
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
Bridal-maidens are braw, braw,
But the bride's modest e'e,
And warm cheek are to me
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a',
'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'.
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha',
It 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha';
There 's quaffing and laughing,
There 's dancing and daffing,
And the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a',
The bride's father 's blithest of a'.
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava,
That my heart is sae eerie
When a' the lave 's cheerie,
But it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa,
It 's just that she 'll aye be awa.
FOOTNOTES:
[30] The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a
ballad recovered by Cromek, and published in his "Remains of Nithsdale
and Galloway Song," p. 219. The first line of the old ballad runs thus:
"Oh, who is this under my window."--ED.
MY BROTHERS ARE THE STATELY TREES.
My brothers are the stately trees
That in the forests grow;
The simple flowers my sisters are,
That on the green bank blow.
With them, with them, I am a child
Whose heart with mirth is dancing wild.
The daisy, with its tear of joy,
Gay greets me as I stray;
How sweet a voice of welcome comes
From every trembling spray!
How light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours
I spend among those songs and flowers!
I love the Spirit of the Wind,
His varied tones I know;
His voice of soothing majesty,
Of love and sobbing woe;
Whate'er his varied theme may be,
With his my spirit mingles free.
I love to tread the grass-green path,
Far up the winding stream;
For there in nature's loneliness,
The day is one bright dream.
And still the pilgrim waters tell
Of wanderings wild by wood and dell.
Or up the mountain's brow I toil
Beneath a wid'ning sky,
Seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide,
Crowding the wondering eye.
Then, then, my soul on eagle's wings,
To cloudless regions upwards springs!
The stars--the stars! I know each one,
With all its soul of love,
They beckon me to come and live
In their tearless homes above;
And then I spurn earth's songs and flowers,
And pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers.
THE VALE OF KILLEAN.
O yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green,
'Mid Scotia's dark mountains--the Vale of Killean.
The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam,
The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home,
That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close,
Singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose.
How solemn the broad hills that curtain around
This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found,
Whose echoes low whisper, "Bid the world farewell,
And with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!"
Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore,
'Mid the world's wild turmoil I 'll mingle no more,
And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear,
Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear.
Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day,
Will teach fading Hope to rekindle her ray;
And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart
To the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart.
The heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest,
As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast;
And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise,
Like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies.
JOHN NEVAY.
John Nevay, the bard of Forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of
January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and
considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age,
under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh
School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary
rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in
verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of
surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near
the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of
the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he
was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to
the world a "Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced
him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an
interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the
author of "The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one
volume, 12mo. In the following year he published "The Child of Nature,
and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by
subscription, a third volume, entitled "Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans,
and other Poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by
the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production--"The Fountain of the
Rock, a Poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly
written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to
_Blackwood's Magazine_ and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.
From the labour of a long career of honourable industry, John Nevay is
now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. He continues to compose verses
with undiminished ardour, and has several MS. poems ready for the press.
He has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. As a poet, his
prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. His lyrical
pieces somewhat lack simplicity. His best production--"The Emigrant's
Love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. It was
composed during the same week with Motherwell's "Jeanie Morrison," which
it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment.
THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER.
My young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been
A century to me;
I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard
Thy voice's melodie.
The mony hardships I ha'e tholed
Sin' I left Larocklea,
I maun na tell, for it would bring
The saut tear in thine e'e.
But I ha'e news, an' happy news,
To tell unto my love--
What I ha'e won, to me mair dear
That it my heart can prove.
Its thochts unchanged, still it is true,
An' surely sae is thine;
Thou never, never canst forget
That twa waur ane langsyne.
The simmer sun blinks on the tarn,
An' on the primrose brae,
Where we, in days o' innocence,
Waur wont to daff an' play;
An' I amang the mossy springs
Wade for the hinny blooms--
To thee the rush tiara wove,
Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes.
When on the ferny knowe we sat,
A happy, happy pair--
Thy comely cheek laid on my knee,
I plaited thy gowden hair.
Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht
That e'er enter'd my mind--
It, Mary, was to be to thee
For ever true an' kind.
Though fair the flowers that bloom around
My dwallin' owre the sea--
Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers,
They are na _sae_ to me.
I hear the bulbul's mellow leed
Upo' the gorgeous paum--
The sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee
Amang the fields o' baum.
But there are nae auld Scotland's burds,
Sae dear to childhood's days--
The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite,
That taught us luve's sweet lays.
Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think
On him that's owre the sea,
Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell
My heart's luve-thochts to thee.
Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart,
An' bricht smile in thine e'e--
The bonnie bark is in the bay,
I 'm coming hame to thee;
I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary,
Wi' mony a pearl fine,
An' I will lay them in thy lap,
For the kiss o' sweet langsyne.
THOMAS LYLE.
Thomas Lyle, author of the highly popular song, "Kelvin Grove," is a
native of Paisley. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in
the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the
year 1816. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained
till 1826, when he removed to the parish of Airth in Stirlingshire. The
latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his
favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to
great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his
peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession,
or the conveniences of his patients. At an earlier period of life,
having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the
habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly
passing into oblivion. He was particularly struck with one of these
airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which
it was commonly sung.[31] At this period he often resorted, in his
botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin,
about two miles north-west of Glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was
led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song,
"Kelvin Grove." "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was now in the course of
being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his
college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he
contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song
appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised
alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr
John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did
not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr
Murdoch, the editorship of "The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to
the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the
index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period;[33]
and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie,
music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his
representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the
piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the
authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being
submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his
claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after
invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the "Irish Minstrel," one of
his numerous musical publications.
In 1827 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song
literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "Ancient
Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce
Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the
more interesting portion consists of "Miscellaneous Poems, by Sir
William Mure, Knight of Rowallan," together with several songs of
various merit by the editor.
Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of
twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow,
where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of
the city during the prevalence of the Asiatic Cholera. At the present
time he is one of the city district surgeons. A man of the most retiring
dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written
verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. He will,
however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and
simple lyrics.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] The former words to this air commenced, "Oh, the shearing's no for
you, bonnie lassie, O!"
[32] The wooded scenery of the Kelvin will in a few years be included
within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a
very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song.
[33] See vol. iii., p. 226.
KELVIN GROVE.
Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the rose in all her pride,
Paints the hollow dingle side,
Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!
Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the glens rebound the call
Of the roaring water's fall,
Through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!
O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!
When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!
There the May pink's crimson plume
Throws a soft but sweet perfume
Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!
Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O!
As the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, O!
Yet with fortune on my side,
I could stay thy father's pride,
And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!
But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!
Ere yon golden orb of day
Wake the warblers on the spray,
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!
Then farewell to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O!
And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!
To the river winding clear,
To the fragrant-scented breer,
Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!
When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O!
Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O!
Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear
Of thy lover on his bier,
To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!
THE TRYSTING HOUR.
The night-wind's Eolian breezes,
Chase melody over the grove,
The fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses,
Float rosy the woodlands above;
Then tarry no longer, my true love,
The stars hang their lamps in the sky,
'Tis lovely the landscape to view, love,
When each bloom has a tear in its eye.
So stilly the evening is closing,
Bright dew-drops are heard as they fall,
Eolian whispers reposing
Breathe softly, I hear my love call;
Yes, the light fairy step of my true love
The night breeze is wafting to me;
Over heathbell and violet blue, love,
Perfuming the shadowy lea.
HARVEST SONG.[34]
The harvest morning breaks
Breathing balm, and the lawn
Through the mist in rosy streaks
Gilds the dawn,
While fairy troops descend,
With the rolling clouds that bend
O'er the forest as they wend
Fast away, when the day
Chases cloudy wreaths away
From the land.
The harvest breezes swell,
And the song pours along,
From the reapers in the dell,
Joyous throng!
The tiny gleaners come,
Picking up their harvest home,
As they o'er the stubble roam,
Dancing here, sporting there,
All the balmy sunny air
Is full of song.
The harvest evening falls,
While each flower round the bower,
Breathing odour, now recalls
The lover's hour.
The moon enthroned in blue
Lights the rippling lake anew,
And the wailing owls' whoo! whoo!
From the glen again, again,
Wakes the stillness of the scene
On my adieu.
FOOTNOTES:
[34] Contributed by Mr Lyle to the present work.
JAMES HOME.
James Home, the author of "Mary Steel," and other popular songs, was
born, early in the century, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south
of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he has been
engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peeblesshire. He
resides in the hamlet of Rachan Mill in that county, where, in addition
to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster.
Home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the
composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an
enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and
poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been
popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled "This Lassie o'
Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His
compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's
tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and
fears of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the "Unknown
Poets" of Mr Alexander Campbell,--a work which only reached a single
number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits,
Home is much respected in private life. Of a somewhat sanguine
complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. He
enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected
office-bearer of the Free Church congregation at Broughton.
MARY STEEL.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the lark begins to sing,
And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts
Are welcoming the spring:
When the merle and the blackbird build their nest
In the bushy forest tree,
And a' things under the sky seem blest,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the simmer spreads her flowers,
And the lily blooms and the ivy twines
In beauty round the bowers;
When the cushat coos in the leafy wood,
And the lambs sport o'er the lea,
And every heart 's in its happiest mood,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When har'st blithe days begin,
And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field,
The foremost rig to win;
When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld,
Where light-hair'd lasses be,
And mony a tale o' love is tauld,
My thoughts shall be o' thee.
I 'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the winter winds rave high,
And the tempest wild is pourin' doun
Frae the dark and troubled sky:
When a hopeless wail is heard on land,
And shrieks frae the roaring sea,
And the wreck o' nature seems at hand,
My thoughts shall be o' thee!
OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN?
Oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade,
And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary?
Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made,
When so fondly 't was pressed to thine, Mary?
Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget,
The hours we have spent together?
Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet
Shine on as brightly as ever!
Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss,
So fraught with the heart's full feeling?
As we clung to each other in the last embrace,
The soul of love revealing!
Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot,
Where the farewell word was spoken?
Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot,
The vow and the promise broken?
Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one;
Though other arms caress thee,
Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain,
And a smoother tongue should bless thee:--
Yet never again on thy warm young cheek
Will breathe a soul more warm than mine,
And never again will a lover speak
Of love more pure to thine.
THE MAID OF MY HEART.
AIR--_"The Last Rose of Summer."_
When the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye,
The only beloved of my bosom is nigh,
I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
When around and above us there 's nought to be seen,
But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green,
And all is at rest in the glen and the hill,
Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill.
Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd,
Then all I hold dear in this world is possess'd;
Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart,
Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart.
SONG OF THE EMIGRANT.
Oh! the land of hills is the land for me,
Where the maiden's step is light and free;
Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn,
Awake the joys of the rosy morn.
There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake,
That tells how the foamy billows break;
There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood,
That tells of dreary solitude.
But, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells,
Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells,
Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain
I ne'er in this world can wake again.
The warm blood leaps in its wonted course,
And fresh tears gush from their briny source,
As if I had hail'd in the passing wind
The all I have loved and left behind.
THIS LASSIE O' MINE.[35]
TUNE--_"Wattie's Ramble."_
O, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine?
Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine?
Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e?
Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me.
It 's no that she dances sae light on the green,
It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien--
But, O! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e
That keeps me aye happy as happy can be.
To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees,
When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees;
To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss--
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy,
When friends circle round, and nought to annoy;
I have felt every joy which illumines the breast
When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd.
But, O! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm
In life's early day, when the bosom is warm,
When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss,
On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this.
FOOTNOTES:
[35] This song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as
the composition of the Ettrick Shepherd. The error is not ours; we found
the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the Shepherd's songs, p.
201 (Blackie, Glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the
authenticity. We have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having
been handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger, of Peebles,
Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author,
introduced it shortly after in his _Noctes Bengerianæ_, in the
"Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i. p. 258). Being included in this
periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that
the song was the Shepherd's own composition. So much for uncertainty as
to the authorship of our best songs!
JAMES TELFER.
James Telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born
about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river Jed,
in the parish of Southdean, and county of Roxburgh. Passionate in his
admiration of Hogg's "Queen's Wake," he early essayed imitations of some
of the more remarkable portions of that poem. In 1824 he published at
Jedburgh a volume of "Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which he
inscribed to the Bard of Ettrick. "Barbara Gray," an interesting prose
tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at Newcastle. A collected
edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at
London in 1852, with the title of "Tales and Sketches." He has long been
a contributor to the provincial journals.
Some of Mr Telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of
compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the
narrative of "Barbara Gray" being especially interesting. For many years
he has taught an adventure school at Saughtree, Liddisdale; and with
emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to
support a family. He has long maintained a literary correspondence with
his ingenious friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle; and his letters,
some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting
speculations.
OH, WILL YE WALK THE WOOD WI' ME?[36]
"Oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?
Oh, will ye walk the green?
Or will ye sit within mine arms,
My ain kind Jean?"
"It 's I 'll not walk the wood wi' thee,
Nor yet will I the green;
And as for sitting in your arms,
It 's what I dinna mean."
"Oh! slighted love is ill to thole,
And weel may I compleen;
But since that better mayna be,
I e'en maun thol 't for Jean."
"Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh,
Ye saw her late yestreen;
Ye'll find in her a lightsome love
Ye winna find in Jean."
"Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh
I carena to be seen;
Her lightsome love I'd freely gie
For half a blink frae Jean."
"Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds,
I ken for her ye green;
Wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd--
Ye 'll naething get wi' Jean."
"For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds
I dinna care a preen;
The purse o' gowd I weel could want,
If I could hae my Jean."
"Oh, yes! I 'll walk the wood wi' thee;
Oh, yes! I 'll walk the green;
But first ye 'll meet me at the kirk,
And mak' me aye your Jean."
FOOTNOTES:
[36] Portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments
of an older ditty.--_Note by the Author._
I MAUN GAE OVER THE SEA.
"Sweet summer now is by,
And cauld winter is nigh,
The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree;
The hills are white wi' snaw,
And the frosty winds blaw,
And I maun gie over the sea, Mary,
And I maun gie over the sea.
"But winter will gang by,
And summer come wi' joy,
And Nature again will be free;
And wooers you will find,
And mair ye 'll never mind
The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary,
The laddie that 's over the sea."
"Oh, Willie, since it 's sae,
My heart is very wae
To leave a' my friends and countrie;
But wi' thee I will gang,
Though the way it be lang,
And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea, Willie,
And wi' thee I 'll cross the saut sea."
"The way is vera far,
And terrible is war,
And great are the hardships to dree;
And if I should be slain,
Or a prisoner ta'en,
My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary?
My jewel, what would come o' thee?
"Sae at hame ye maun bide,
And should it sae betide
That a bride to another ye be,
For ane that lo'ed ye dear
Ye 'll whiles drap a tear;
I 'll aften do the same for thee, Mary,
I 'll aften do the same for thee."
The rowan tear down fell,
Her bosom wasna well,
For she sabbit most wofullie;
"Oure the yirth I wad gang,
And never count it lang,
But I fear ye carena for me, Willie,
But I fear ye carena for me."
Nae langer could he thole,
She tore his vera soul,
He dighted her bonnie blue e'e;
"Oh, what was it you said,
Oh my ain loving maid?
I 'll never love a woman but thee, Mary,
I 'll never love a woman but thee!"
The fae is forced to yield,
And freedom has the field;
"Away I will ne'er gang frae thee;
Only death shall us part,
Keep sic thoughts frae my heart,
But never shall part us the sea, Mary,
But never shall part us the sea."
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
EVAN MACLACHLAN.
One of the most learned of the modern Gaelic song-writers, Evan
Maclachlan, was born in 1775, in a small hut called Torracaltuin, in the
district of Lochaber. After struggling with many difficulties in
obtaining the means of education, he qualified himself for the duties of
an itinerating tutor. In this capacity it was his good fortune to live
in the families of the substantial tenantry of the district, two of
whom, the farmers at Clunes and Glen Pean, were led to evince an
especial interest in his welfare. The localities of those early patrons
he has celebrated in his poetry. Another patron, the Chief of Glengarry,
supplied funds to enable him to proceed to the university, and he was
fortunate in gaining, by competition, a bursary or exhibition at King's
College, Aberdeen. For a Greek ode, on the generation of light, he
gained the prize granted for competition to the King's College by the
celebrated Dr Claudius Buchanan. Having held, during a period of years,
the office of librarian in King's College, he was in 1819 elected
master of the grammar school of Old Aberdeen. His death took place on
the 29th March 1822. To the preparation of a Gaelic dictionary he
devoted the most important part of his life. Subsequent to his decease,
the work was published in two quarto volumes, by the Highland Society,
under the editorial care of Dr Mackay, formerly of Dunoon. The chief
amusement of Maclachlan's leisure hours was executing translations of
Homer into Gaelic. His translation of the third book of the Iliad has
been printed. Of his powers as a Gaelic poet, an estimate may be formed
from the following specimens in English verse.
A MELODY OF LOVE.
The first stanza of this song was the composition of a
lady. Maclachlan completed the composition in Gaelic,
and afterwards produced the following version of the
whole in English.
Not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore,
Can compare with the charms of the maid I adore:
Not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail,
Or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale.
As the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow,
The locks of my fair one redundantly flow;
Her cheeks have the tint that the roses display
When they glitter with dew on the morning of May.
As the planet of Venus that gleams o'er the grove,
Her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love:
Her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays,
Like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze.
The mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn,
Make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn:
But the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain,
When my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain.
When summer bespangles the landscape with flowers,
While the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers,
Through the wood-shaded windings with Bella I 'll rove,
And feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love.
THE MAVIS OF THE CLAN.
These verses are allegorical. In the character of a
song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his
nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his
own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving
the first place to the delights of melody. He proceeds
to give an account of his flight to a strange but
hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs
among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and
cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. This
piece is founded upon a common usage of the Gaelic
bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character
of the "Mavis" of their own clan. Thus we have the
Mavis of Clan-ranald by Mac-Vaistir-Allister--of
Macdonald (of Sleat) by Mac Codrum--of Macleod, and
many others.
Clan Lachlan's tuneful mavis, I sing on the branches early,
And such my love of song, I sleep but half the night-tide rarely;
No raven I, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak,
No bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek.
I love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have fared
For ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared:
Their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn,
And their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn;
Their song was the carol that defiance bade to care,
And their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air.
When first my morn of life was born, the Pean's[37] silver stream
Glanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam,
The flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd,
As in a cradle-bed I lay, and all my woes were still'd.
But changes will come over us, and now a stranger I
Among the glades of Cluaran[38] must imp my wings and fly;
Yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove,
Since welcome to my haunt I come, and there in freedom rove.
By every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day,
Now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray,
The comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure,
And I, can I refrain to swell their diapason's measure?
With its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd,
Each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd,
While nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir,
That in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire.
O happy tribe of choristers! no interruption mars
The concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jars
A string of all your harping, nor of your voices trill
Notes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill.
The sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad,
It seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd,
Now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads
(A dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads.
Nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather,
Whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither;
Dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the side
Of my own Highland mountains that I climb in love and pride.
Dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son--
I hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run,
I hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece,
Defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze.
The streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well,
Those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell!
The flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far,
As mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star!
I will not name each sister beam, but clustering there I see
The beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea.
Of every hue I mark them, the many-spotted kine,
The dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine;
And, 'mid the Highlands rude, I see the frequent furrows swell,
With the barley and the corn that Scotland loves so well.
* * * * *
And now I close my clannish lay with blessings on the shade
That bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd;
The shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather,
Are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together;
For the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken;
'T is time to loose the strings, I ween, and close my wild-wood strain.
FOOTNOTES:
[37] The stream that flows through Glen Pean.
[38] The Gaelic name of Clunes, where the bard was entertained for many
years of his tutor life.
THE THREE BARDS OF COWAL.[39]
JOHN BROWN.
One of the bards of Cowal is believed to have been born in the parish of
Inverchaolain about 1750; his family name was Brun or Broun, as
distinguished from the Lowland Brown, which he assumed. He first
appeared as a poet by the publication, at Perth, in 1786, of a small
volume of Gaelic poetry, dedicated to the Duke of Montrose. The
subsequent portion of his career seems to have been chiefly occupied in
genealogical researches. In 1792 he completed, in two large sheets, his
"Historical and Genealogical Tree of the Royal Family of Scotland;" of
which the second edition bears the date 1811. This was followed by
similar genealogical trees of the illustrious family of Graham, of the
noble house of Elphinstone, and other families. In these productions he
uniformly styles himself, "Genealogist to his R. H. the Prince of Wales,
for Scotland." Brown died at Edinburgh in the beginning of the year
1821. He had formed a respectable connexion by marriage, under
circumstances which he has commemorated in the annexed specimen of his
poetry, but his latter years were somewhat clouded by misfortune. He is
remembered as a solicitor for subscriptions to his genealogical
publications.
FOOTNOTES:
[39] Cowal is that portion of Argyllshire bordering the Frith of Clyde,
and extending inland to the margin of Lochfine.
THE SISTERS OF DUNOLLY.
The poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters,
but without the consent of her relatives, who
ultimately induced her to wed another. After a lapse of
time the bard transferred his affection to another
daughter of the same distinguished family, and being
successful, was compensated for his former trials.
The sundown had mantled Ben Nevis with night,
And the stars were attired in the glory of light,
And the hope of the lover was shining as day,
When Dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away.
Away she has gone at the touch of the helm,
And the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm--
But, would that his strength as his purpose was true,
At Dunolly, Culloden were battled anew!
Yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time,
The kindred of Cowal would meet at the prime,
And the _Brunach_[40] would joy, in the succour they gave,
To win him a bride, or to win him a grave.
My lost one! I'm not like the laggard thou'st found,
Whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound;
In the flush of my health and my penniless youth,
I could well have rewarded thine honour and truth.
Five years they have pass'd, and the Brunach has shaken
The burden of woe that his spirit was breaking;
A sister is salving a sister's annoy,
And the eyes of the Brunach are treasured with joy.
A bride worth the princesses England is rearing,
Comes forth from Dunolly, a star reappearing;
If my heart in Dunolly was garner'd before,
In Dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more.
The lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mild
That in friendship or charity never beguiled,
She is mine--to Dunduala[41] that traces her stem,
As for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them,
Though Donald[42] the gracious be head of her line,
And "our exiled and dear"[43] in her pedigree shine.
Then hearken, ye men of the country I love!
Despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love,
Ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly,
May ye find, like the Brunach, another Dunolly.
FOOTNOTES:
[40] Brunach--The Brown, viz., the poet himself.
[41] The Macdougalls of Dunolly claim descent from the Scoto-Irish kings
who reigned in Dunstaffnage.
[42] Supposed to be the first of our Christian kings.
[43] Prince Charles Edward.
CHARLES STEWART, D.D.
The Rev. Dr Stewart was born at Appin, Argyllshire, in 1751. His mother
was a daughter of Edmonstone of Cambuswallace, the representative of an
old and distinguished family in the counties of Perth and Stirling; and
his father was brother of Stewart of Invernachoil, who was actively
engaged in the cause of Prince Charles Edward, and has been
distinguished in the romance of Waverley as the Baron of Bradwardine.
This daring Argyllshire chief, whom Scott represents as being fed in the
cave by "Davie Gellatly," was actually tended in such a place of
concealment by his own daughter, a child about ten years old.
On receiving license, Dr Stewart soon attained popularity as a preacher.
In 1779, being in his twenty-eighth year, he was ordained to the
pastoral charge of the parish of Strachur, Argyllshire. He died in the
manse of Strachur on the 24th of May 1826, in the seventy-fifth year of
his age, and the forty-seventh of his ministry. A tombstone was erected
to his memory in the parochial burying-ground, by the members of the
kirk-session. Possessed of superior talents, a vast fund of humour, and
a delightful store of traditional information, he was much cherished by
a wide circle of admiring friends. Faithful in the discharge of the
public duties of his office, he was distinguished among his parishioners
for his private amenities and acts of benevolence. He was the author
only of one song, but this has attained much favour among the Gael.
LUINEAG--A LOVE CAROL.
No homeward scene near me,
No comrade to cheer me,
I cling to my dearie,
And sigh till I marry.
Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
Ra-ill O,
Sing ever O, and ra-ill O,
Was ever a May like my fairy?
My youth with the stranger,[44]
Next on mountains a ranger,
I pass'd--but no change, here,
Will sever from Mary.
What ringlets discover
Their gloss thy brows over--
Forget thee! thy lover,
Ah, first shall they bury.
Thy aspect of kindness,
Thy graces they bind us,
And, like Feili,[45] remind us
Of a heaven undreary.
Than the treasures of Spain
I would toil more to gain
Thy love--but my pain,
Ah, 'tis cruel, my Mary!
When the shell is o'erflowing,
And its dew-drops are glowing,
No, never, thy snow on
A slander shall tarry.
When viols are playing,
And dancers are Maying,
My eyes may be straying,
But my soul is with Mary.
That white hand of thine
Might I take into mine,
Could I ever repine,
Or from tenderness vary?
No, never! no, never!
My troth on 't for ever,
Lip to lip, I 'd deliver
My being to Mary.
FOOTNOTES:
[44] Invernahyle removed with his family to Edinburgh, and became very
intimate with the father of Sir Walter Scott. He seems to have made a
great impression on the future poet.
[45] Festivals, saint-days.
ANGUS FLETCHER.
Angus Fletcher was born at Coirinti, a wild and romantic spot on the
west bank of Loch Eck, in June 1776. His education was chiefly conducted
at the parish school of Kilmodan, Glendaruel. From Glendaruel he went to
Bute, in 1791, where he was variously employed till May 1804, when he
was elected schoolmaster of Dunoon, his native parish. His death took
place at Dunoon in 1852. The first of the two following songs was
contributed anonymously to the _Weekly Journal_ newspaper, whence it was
transferred by Turner into his Gaelic collection. It soon became popular
in the Highlands, and the authorship came to be assigned to different
individuals. Fletcher afterwards announced himself as the author, and
completely established his claim. He was the author of various metrical
compositions both in Gaelic and English.
THE CLACHAN OF GLENDARUEL.
Thy wily eyes, my darling,
Thy graces bright, my jewel,
Have grieved me since our parting
At the kirk of Glendaruel.
'Twas to the Kirkton wending
Bright eyes encounter'd duty,
And mavis' notes were blending
With the rosy cheeks of beauty.
Oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist,
Her arms, her instep queenly;
And her sweet parting lips are graced
With rows of ivory inly.
When busy tongues are railing,
Lown is her word unsaucy,
And with modest grace unfailing
She trips it o'er the causey.
Should royalty prefer me,
Preferment none I crave,
But to live a shepherd near thee,
On the howes of Corrichnaive.
Would fortune crown my wishes--
The shealing of the hill,
With my darling, and the rushes
To couch on, were my will.
I hear, but not instruction,
Though faithful lips are pleading--
I read thy eyes' perfection,
On their dew of mildness feeding.
My hand is swiftly scrolling,
In the courts of reverend men;[46]
But, ah! my restless soul in
Is triumphing my Jean.
I fear, I fear their frowning--
But though they chased me over
Where Holland's flats[47] are drowning,
I 'll live and die thy lover.
FOOTNOTES:
[46] The poet waxes professional. He was session-clerk and clerk-depute
of presbytery.
[47] The war was raging in Holland, under the command of the Duke of
York. The bard threatens to exchange the pen for the sword.
THE LASSIE OF THE GLEN.
Versified from the Gaelic Original by the Author.
Beneath a hill 'mang birken bushes,
By a burnie's dimplit linn,
I told my love with artless blushes
To the lassie o' the glen.
Oh! the birken bank sae grassy,
Hey! the burnie's dimplit linn;
Dear to me 's the bonnie lassie
Living in yon rashy glen!
Lanely Ruail! thy stream sae glassy
Shall be aye my fav'rite theme,
For on thy banks my Highland lassie
First confess'd a mutual flame.
What bliss to sit, and nane to fash us,
In some sweet wee bow'ry den!
Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
Wi' the lassie o' the glen!
And though I wander now unhappy,
Far frae scenes we haunted then,
I'll ne'er forget the bank sae grassy,
Nor the lassie o' the glen.
GLOSSARY.
_Aboon_, above.
_Aumry_, a store-place.
_Baum_, balm.
_Beuk_, book.
_Bicker_, a drinking vessel.
_Burnie_, a small stream.
_Caller_, cool.
_Cled_, clad.
_Clud_, cloud.
_Couthy_, frank.
_Daffin'_, merry-making.
_Dighted_, wiped.
_Doit_, a small coin.
_Doitet_, dotard.
_Douf_, sad.
_Dree_, endure.
_Dwine_, dwindle.
_Fauld_, fold.
_Fleechit_, cajoled.
_Fykes_, troubles, anxieties.
_Gaed_, went.
_Gar_, compel.
_Gate_, way.
_Glour_, look earnestly.
_Grannie_, grandmother.
_Grat_, wept.
_Grit_, great.
_Haill_, whole.
_Haud_, hold, keep.
_Heuk_, reaping-hook.
_Hie_, high.
_Hinny_, honey.
_Hizzie_, _Hussy_, a thoughtless girl.
_Ken_, know.
_Knows_, knolls, hillocks.
_Laith_, loth.
_Lift_, firmament.
_Lowin'_, burning.
_Minnie_, mother.
_Parochin'_, parish.
_Pu'_, pull.
_Roos'd_, praised.
_Sabbit_, sobbed.
_Scour_, search.
_Slee_, sly.
_Speerin'_, inquiring.
_Swiggit_, swallowed.
_Syne_, then.
_Thole_, endure.
_Toom_, empty.
_Troth_, truth, vow.
_Trow_, believe.
_Tyne_, lose.
_Unco_, uncommon.
_Wag_, shake.
_Waur_, worse.
_Ween_, guess.
_Yirth_, earth.
_Yowes_, ewes.
END OF VOL. IV.
BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. V.
Alexd^{r}. Maclagan.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: Ever faithfully yours,
F. Bennoch.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL V.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
MDCCCLVII.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
ALEXANDER BAILLIE COCHRANE,
ESQ. OF LAMINGTON.
SIR,
I inscribe to you the present volume of "THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL,"
not to express approval of your political sentiments, nor to court your
patronage as a man of rank. Political science has occupied only a
limited share of my attention, and I have hitherto conducted my peculiar
studies without the favour of the great. My dedication is prompted on
these twofold grounds:--Bearing in your veins the blood of Scotland's
Illustrious Defender, you were one of the first of your order to join in
the proposal of rearing a National Monument to his memory; and while
some doubted the expediency of the course, and others stood aside
fearing a failure, you did not hesitate boldly to come forward as a
public advocate of the enterprise. Yourself a man of letters, you were
among the foremost who took an interest in the establishment of the
Scottish Literary Institute, of which you are now the President--a
society having for its main object the relief, in circumstances of
virtuous indigence, of those men of genius and learning who have
contributed by the pen to perpetuate among our countrymen that spirit of
intelligence and love of freedom which, by his sword, Sir William
Wallace first taught Scotsmen how to vindicate and maintain.
I have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your very obedient, humble servant,
CHARLES ROGERS.
_STIRLING, June 1857._
SCOTTISH LYRICS AND SCOTTISH LIFE.
BY JAMES DODDS.
Judging from a comparison of extant remains, and other means of
information now available, it may be doubted whether any country has
equalled Scotland in the number of its lyrics. By the term _lyrics_, I
mean specifically poetical compositions, meant and suitable to be sung,
with the musical measures to which they have been wedded. I include
under the term, both the compositions themselves, and their music. The
Scottish ballads are numerous, the Scottish songs all but numberless,
and the Scottish tunes an inexhaustible fountain of melody.
"And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute."
Look at the vast collections of them which have been published, and the
additions which are ever making, either from some newly-discovered
manuscript, or from oral tradition in some out-of-the-way part of the
country. The numbers, too, which have been preserved, seem to be
exceeded by the numbers that have unfortunately been lost. Who has not
in his ears the hum of many lyrics heard by him in his childhood--from
mother, or nurse, or some old crooning dame at the fireside--which are
to be found in no collection, and which are now to himself but like a
distant, unformed sound? All our collectors, whilst smiling in triumph
over the pearls which they have brought up and borne to the shore,
lament the multitude of precious things irrecoverably buried in the
depths of oblivion. Where, for instance, amid the similar wreck which
has befallen so many others, are now the ancient words pouring forth the
dirge over the "Flowers of the Forest," or those describing the tragic
horrors on the "Braes of Yarrow," or those celebrating the wondrous
attractions of the "Braw Lads o' Gala Water"? We have but the two first
lines--the touching key-note of a lover's grief, in an old song, which
has been most tamely rendered in Ramsay's version--these two lines
being--
"Alas! that I came o'er the moor,
And left my love behind me."
Only one verse has floated down of an old song, which breathes the very
soul of a lover's restless longings:--
"Aye wakin', O!
Wakin' aye an' eerie;
Sleep I canna get
For thinkin' on my dearie;
Aye wakin', O!"
Does it not at once pique and disappoint the fancy, that these two
graceful verses are all that remain of a song, where, doubtless, they
were once but two fair blossoms in a large and variegated posy:--
"Within my garden gay
The rose and lily grew;
But the pride of my garden is wither'd away,
And it 's a' grown o'er wi' rue.
"Farewell, ye fading flowers!
And farewell, bonnie Jean!
But the flower that is now trodden under foot,
In time it may bloom again."
Nay--passing from the tender to the grotesque--would it not have been
agreeable to hear something more than two lines from the lips of a lover
so stout-hearted, yet so ardent, in his own rough, blunt way, as he who
has thus commenced his song:--
"I wish my love were in a mire,
That I might pull her out again;"
or to know something more of the details of that extraordinary parish,
of which one surviving verse draws the following sombre picture:--
"Oh! what a parish!--eh! what a parish!
Oh! what a parish is that o' Dunkel':
They 've hang'd the minister, droon'd the precentor;
They 've pu'd doon the steeple, and drunk the kirk-bell."
The Scottish lyrics, lying all about, thus countless and scattered--
"Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks
In Vallambrosa"--
are not like those which mark and adorn the literature of many other
countries, the euphonisms of a meretricious court, or the rhymed musings
of philosophers, or conceits from Pagan mythology, or the glancing
epigrams of men of wit and of the world, or mere hunting choruses and
Bacchanalian catches of a rude squirearchy. They are the ballads, songs,
and tunes of the people. In their own language, but that language
glittering from the hidden well of poesy--in ideas which they at once
recognise as their own, because photographed from nature--these lyrics
embody the loves and thoughts of the people, the themes on which they
delight to dwell, even their passions and prejudices; and vibrate in
their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the Old
Land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence
and occupation. It is the faithful popular memory, more than anything
else, which has been the ark to save the ancient lyrics of Scotland. Not
only so, but there is reason to believe that our national lyrics have,
generally speaking, been creations of the men, and sometimes of the
women, of the people. They are the people's, by the title of origin, no
less than by the feeling of sympathy.
This, of course, is clear, as regards the great masters of the lyre who
have appeared within the period of known authorship--Ramsay, Burns,
Tannahill, Hogg, and Cunningham. The authors of the older lyrics--I mean
both compositions and tunes--are, with few exceptions, absolutely
unknown; but were there room here for discussion, it might be shewn that
all the probabilities lead up, principally, to the ancient order of
Minstrels, who from very early times were nearly as much organised and
privileged and honoured in Scotland, as ever were the troubadours in
Provence and Italy. Ellis, in the Introduction to his "Specimens of
Early English Metrical Romances," alluding to Scott's publication of
"Sir Tristrem," remarks--"He has shewn, by a reference to ancient
charters, that the Scottish minstrels of this early period enjoyed all
the privileges and distinctions possessed by the Norman trouveurs, whom
they nearly rivalled in the arts of narration, and over whom they
possessed one manifest advantage, in their familiar acquaintance with
the usual scenes of chivalry." These minstrels, like the majority of
poetic singers, were no doubt sons of the people--bold, aspiring, and
genius-lit--bursting strong from their mother earth, with all her sap
and force and fruitfulness about them. Amongst the last of the professed
minstrels was one Burn, who wonned on the Borders as late as the
commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant,
chirping ditty of "Leader Haughs and Yarrow," takes to himself this very
title of _Minstrel_.
"But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage
His grief while life endureth,
To see the changes of this age,
That fleeting time procureth.
For many a place stands in hard case,
Where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow,
With Homes that dwelt on Leader-side,
And Scotts that dwelt on Yarrow."
Of this minstrel Burn there is a quaint little personal reminiscence. An
aged person at Earlstoun many years ago related, that there used to be a
portrait of the minstrel in Thirlestane Castle, near Lauder,
"representing him as a douce old man, _leading a cow by a straw-rope_."
The master of the "gay science" gradually slipping down from the clouds,
and settling quietly and doucely on the plain hard ground of ordinary
life and business! Let all pale-faced and sharp-chinned youths, who are
spasmodic poets, or who are in danger of becoming such, keep steadily
before them the picture of minstrel Burn, "leading a cow by a
straw-rope"--and go and do likewise.
But as trees and flowers can only grow and come to perfection in soils
by nature appropriate to them, so it is manifest that all this rich and
fertile growth of lyrics, of minstrelsy and music, could only spring up
amongst a people most impressionable and joyous. I speak of the Lowland
population, and especially of the Borderers, with whose habits, manners
and customs, alone I am personally acquainted; and the lingering traces
of whose old forms of life--so gay, kindly, and suggestive--I saw some
thirty years ago, just before they sank under the mammonism,
commonplace, critical apery, and cold material self-seeking, which have
hitherto been the plague of the present generation. We have become more
practical and knowing than our forefathers, but not so wise. We are now
a "fast people;" but we miss the true goal of life--that is, _sober
happiness_. Fast to smattering; fast to outward, isolated show; fast to
bankruptcy; fast to suicide; fast to some finalé of enormous and
dreadful infamy. Bah! rather the plain, honest, homely life of our
grandfathers--
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
Or rather (for every age has its own type, and old forms of life cannot
be stereotyped and reproduced), let us have a philosophic and Christian
combination of modern adventure and "gold-digging" with old-fashioned
balance of mind, and neighbourliness, and open-heartedness, and thankful
enjoyment.
Our Scottish race have been--yes, and notwithstanding modern changes,
still are--a joyous people--a people full of what I shall term _a lyric
joyousness_. I say they still are--as may be found any day up the
Ettricks, and Yarrows, and Galas--up any of our Border glens and dales.
The Borderers continue to merit the tribute paid to them in the odd but
expressive lines of Wordsworth:--
"The _pleasant men of Tiviotdale_,
Fast by the river Tweed."
From time immemorial they have been enthusiastic lovers of song and
music, and have been thoroughly imbued with their influences. Bishop
Leslie, a contemporary of the state of manners which he describes, has
recorded of them, upwards of two centuries ago--"That they take extreme
delight in their music, and in their ballads, which are composed amongst
themselves, celebrating the deeds of their ancestors, or the valour and
success of their predatory expeditions;" which latter, it must be
remembered, were esteemed, in those days, not only not criminal, but
just, honourable, and heroic. What a gush of mirth overflows in king
James' poem of "Peebles to the Play," descriptive of the Beltane or
May-day festival, four hundred years ago! at Peebles, a charming
pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the Tweed:--
"At Beltane, when ilk body bouns
To Peebles to the play,
To hear the singin' and the soun's,
The solace, sooth to say.
By firth and forest forth they wound,
They graithit them full gay:
God wot what they would do that stound,
For it was their feast-day,
They said,
Of Peebles to the play!
* * * * *
"Hop, Calye, and Cardronow
Gatherit out thick-fald,
With, _Hey and How and Rumbelow!_
The young folk were full bald.
The bagpipe blew, and they out threw
Out of the towns untald:
Lord! sic ane shout was them amang,
When they were owre the wald,
There west
Of Peebles to the play!"
Thirty years ago, the same joyousness prevailed in a thousand forms--in
hospitality, in festivity, in merry customs, in an exquisite social
sense, in the culture of the humorous and the imaginative, in
impressibility to every touch of noble and useful enthusiasm. It would
be easy to dilate upon the causes which seem to have produced this
choice joyous spirit in so unexpected a region as the far, bleak North:
but that would be a lengthened subject; and we must content ourselves at
present with the fact. And, instead of branching out into general vague
illustrations of what I mean by this lyric joyousness, I shall
_localise_ it, and embody the meaning in a sketch, light and imperfect
it must be, of a real place and a real life--such as mine own eyes
witnessed when a boy--and in the fond resuscitation of which, amidst the
usual struggles and anxieties allotted to middle age, memory and feeling
now find one of their most soothing exercises.
Let me transport the reader in imagination to the Vale of the Tweed,
that classic region--the Arcadia of Scotland, the haunt of the Muses,
the theme of so many a song, the scene of so many a romantic legend. And
there, where that most crystalline of rivers has attained the fulness of
its beauty and splendour--just before it meets and mingles in gentle
union with its scarce less beauteous sister, "sweet Teviot"--on one of
those finely swelling eminences which everywhere crown its banks, rise
the battlements of Fleurs Castle, which has long been the seat of the
Roxburghe family. It is a peerless situation; the great princely
mansion, ever gleaming on the eye of the traveller, at whatever point he
may be, in the wide surrounding landscape. It comes boldly out from the
very heart of an almost endless wood--old, wild, and luxuriant; having
no forester but nature--spreading right, left, and behind, away and
away, till lost in the far horizon. Down a short space in front, a green
undulating haugh between, roll the waters of the Tweed, with a bright
clear radiance to which the brightest burnished silver is but as dimness
and dross. On its opposite bank is a green huge mound--all that now
remains of the mighty old Roxburgh Castle, aforetime the military key of
Scotland, and within whose once towering precincts oft assembled the
royalty, and chivalry, and beauty of both kingdoms. At a little distance
to the east of Fleurs, the neat quaint abbey-town of Kelso, with its
magnificent bridge, nestles amid greenery, close to the river. And afar
to the south, the eye, tired at last with so vast a prospect, and with
such richness and variety of scenery, rests itself on the cloud-capt
range of the Cheviots, in amplitude and grandeur not unmeet to sentinel
the two ancient and famous lands.
Upwards of thirty years ago, the ducal coronet of Roxburghe was worn by
a nobleman who was then known, and is still remembered on Tweedside, as
the "Good Duke James." The history of his life, were there any one now
to tell it correctly, would be replete with interest. I cannot pretend
to authentic knowledge of it; but I know the outline as I heard it when
a child--as it used to be recited, like a minstrel's tale, by the
gray-haired cottager sitting at his door of a summer evening, or by some
faithful old servant of the castle, on a winter's night, over his flagon
of ale, at the rousing hall-fire. And from all I have ever learned
since, I judge that these country stories in the main were accurate.
He was not by birth a _Ker_--the family name of the house of
Roxburghe--descended of the awful "Habbie Ker" in Queen Mary's troublous
time, the Taille-Bois of the Borders, the Ogre-Baron of tradition, whose
name is still whispered by the peasant with a kind of _eeriness_, as if
he might start from his old den at Cessford, and pounce upon the rash
speaker. Duke James was an Innes of the "north countrie;" Banff or
Cromarty. He was some eight years of age in the dismal '45. Though his
father was Hanoverian, the "Butcher" Cumberland shewed him but little
favour in the course of his merciless ravages after Culloden. A troop of
dragoons lived at free quarters on his estate; and one of them, in mere
wanton cruelty, fired at the boy when standing at his father's door, and
the ball grazed his face. Seventy years afterwards, when he was duke,
the Ettrick Shepherd happened to dine at Fleurs. He was then collecting
his "Jacobite Relics," and the Duke asked him what was his latest
ballad? The Shepherd answered, it was a version of "Highland Laddie." He
sang it. On coming to the verse,
"Ken ye the news I hae to tell,
Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie,
Cumberland's awa' to hell,
Bonnie Laddie, Highland Laddie!"
the Duke burst into one of his ringing laughs--the fine, deep _Ho, ho!_
that would drown all our effeminate modern gigglings, the sound of which
lingers amongst the memories of my boyhood. "He well deserves it--he
well deserves it--the wretch! Ho, ho!"--and he shouted with laughter,
and threw himself into all the rough unceremonious humour of the ballad,
finishing off by relating his own dire experience of the doings of
Cumberland and his dragoons in the north. It seems he entered into the
army, and served in the American war. After retiring, I believe he took
up his residence in England--Devonshire, I think; his name at this time
was Sir James Norcliffe Innes. During the once-belauded "good old
times" of George III. he distinguished himself by holding and manfully
avowing opinions which were then branded as Jacobinism; and he was an
intimate friend, and I have heard an active supporter of the virtuous
and patriotic Major Cartwright. About the beginning of the present
century, the direct line of the Roxburghe Kers having failed, a
competition arose amongst a host of claimants, for the estate and
honours of that ancient House. After a most protracted and severe
litigation, which forms one of the _Causés Celebrés_ in the law-books of
Scotland, Sir James Norcliffe Innes was preferred. When approaching
fourscore, he was installed Duke of Roxburghe, and put on a coronet at
an age, long before which most part of mankind have put on their
shrouds. He put it on--ay, and for many years wore it stout and
stark--nobly, loftily, sweetly--with a dignity, simplicity,
large-heartedness, and munificence, the remembrance of which somehow
always brings to my mind that majestic line of Shakspeare, containing,
after all, only a name and title, yet sounding as the embodiment of
whatever is great and heroic in human character--
"Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster!"
I see him before me, as he lives in the recollections of childhood--as
he lives and seems to speak in Raeburn's inimitable portrait at Fleurs.
What a perfect mould of man! scarce one mark of old age in that face--no
sign of weakness or decay in that frame, which has weathered eighty
winters. He was over the middle size; straight, firm, strong built, and
compact, with the air of native lordliness and command. His countenance
was peculiarly beautiful, full and rounded as if young; fresh-coloured;
and beaming with health, spirit, and vivacity. Its almost womanly
sweetness was chastened and redeemed by the massiveness of the head, the
deep penetrating eye, and an aspect of uncommon elevation and nobleness.
Till the last, he was the very personification of the old _Dux_--the
Duke of Chivalry--the foremost leader and commander of the people. But
instead of chained mail and helmet, he was to be seen every day walking
about amongst his people in hoddin-gray coat, nankeen breeches, white
vest, and rumpled white hat--plain, easy, manly, and unaffected in all
things.
Beyond the honour of an occasional pinch of the ears, or that kind,
homely greeting which in passing he bestowed on all of us, young and
old, I did not and could not know him personally. But, from those who
did, I have always heard the highest estimate of his character,
intellectually and morally. He possessed extensive information; but
rather that of a man who had moved much about, and observed much, than
from book-lore. His understanding was of the most masculine order--in
all his views and judgments, distinguished by clearness, decision, and
energy. But his great mental characteristic seems to have been
_wisdom_--that fine, just inward sense of things, which, like poetry, is
born in a man, not acquired--the result, generally, as in his case, of
an innate power, combined with large, varied, and calming experience.
Like most men of this stamp, he had both a keen sense of the humorous,
and a racy talent for it; abounded in sententious, remarkable sayings;
and had a dash of playfulness and eccentricity which gave a zest to his
many solid excellences. The physician who attended his deathbed, often
expressed regret that he had not kept a memorandum of his many striking
observations during the short period of his illness. His character,
morally, may be summed up in its two polar qualities--justice the most
austere, generosity the most tender and boundless. Interwoven through
his whole dispositions and actions was a strong, vehement temperament,
which infused into all he said and did a vivid intensity, which would
sometimes degenerate into sallies of passion, but which, upon the whole,
raised and exalted his character to the true heroic dimensions. His
factor, a respectable Edinburgh burgess, a gunsmith by trade, whom he
had selected for no aptitude but from the freak of the name (Innes),
could not always appreciate his schemes of improvement on the estate,
which really were not based on economic considerations, but were meant
to afford large means of employment to the people. In consequence, the
duke, though he respected him greatly, would sometimes be ruffled, and
blurt out a harsh thing at his expense. Walking with him one day in the
fields, he was explaining with the most animated eloquence, where he
intended to make some drains. "But," interrupted the burgess-factor,
only thinking of the balance-sheet, "you will spend a great deal of
money." "Yes," retorted the old nobleman, with ineffable contempt; "you
have guessed my object: I _will_ spend a great deal of money." Then,
turning quick on his heel, "You know more about the barrel of an old gun
than about drains." After one of those sallies, the factor, who resided
a few miles from Fleurs, and had swallowed and forgotten the bitter
dose, was preparing, about twelve o'clock at night, to go to bed, when
there was a sharp, sudden ring at the door-bell. It was a messenger from
the duke, with a letter, in which he stated, that, in reflecting on the
incidents of the day before retiring to rest, he felt remorse for the
taunt which he had uttered; that it was the ebullition of the moment,
but cruel and unkind; and that he could not sleep until he had received
forgiveness. It may be conceived in what ardent terms the factor
replied, and with what redoubled attachment he regarded and served such
a master! This was no exceptional blink of goodness. It was only a
specimen of his habit of justice, even against himself--of his
magnanimity and generous candour--changeless as the sun.
During the just, benignant sway of the "good Duke James," perhaps Fleurs
was the happiest place of all Scotland to live in;--not a happier could
be in the wide world. To have been born and brought up there, and in
one's childhood to have had such a taste of the "golden age," I have
always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. No one can become
utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was
nurtured on the milk and honey of Fleurs, under "good Duke James."
Poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. This is no
illusion from the fancies of boyhood. Ask the old peasant of
Tweedside--a mature, hardy man then--and he will tell, with a glow on
his cheek, and a tear, due to remembrance, in his eye, "Ah! the Fleurs
was a braw place under auld Duke Jemmy!" Nature, industry, peace, mirth,
love, a kindred soul between duke and people, seemed to breathe in every
gale there, and sing in the matins and vespers of every bird. There the
_lyric joyousness_, characteristic of the Scottish people when allowed
freely to develop, expanded itself to the utmost of its power and
fervour. Fleurs was like the "Ida Vale" of Spenser:--
"In Ida vale, (who knows not Ida vale?)
When harmless Troy yet felt not Grecian spite,
An hundred shepherds wonn'd; and in the dale,
While their fair flocks the three-leaved pastures bite,
The shepherd boys, with hundred sportings light,
Gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste."
In our old, picturesque Saxon form of speech, the husband was the
"_bread-winner_." Duke James was emphatically the "_bread-giver_." To
furnish employment, to diffuse comfort and happiness amongst the
employed, was the all-absorbing object of his life. Anything that would
have ministered to his own luxury and glorification was but little
heeded. There might be pleasure-grounds more ornamental than his, walks
more trim, conservatories more gaudily replenished with exotics,
chambers more resplendent with costly furniture and pictures by the
great masters, equipage more gay and dashing--in all that belonged to
the _personnel_, he was plain and moderate; but where was there ever
such planting of forests, or cutting of timber, or building of this and
the other structure--all kinds of heavy works, employing hundreds of
hands? On many of the high labour-festivals which signalised the
calendar at Fleurs, upwards of _three hundred people_, all earning their
livelihood under his patriarchal sway, would dine together in the court,
and dance together on the velvet lawn in front of his castle. At six
o'clock on a mild summer evening, what a spectacle, to see Fleurs gate
thrown wide open, and troop after troop of labourers _debouche_!--not
worn-out, fagged, and sullen, but marching with alacrity and
cheerfulness--the younger lilting a merry song, the older and more
careful carrying home fagots of wood, gathered at their resting hours,
to supply the fire for their cheap evening meal. And all had some story
to tell of the _Duke_!--some little trait of kindness, or some of those
drolleries in which he would occasionally indulge, but ever without loss
of dignity. He used to walk for hours together beside my grandfather
whilst holding the plough--a wise and holy man, an Abraham amongst the
people--and converse with him as brother with brother, especially on the
incidents of his own life, and on matters of religion. On his coming
forward, my grandfather would take off his hat; but the duke would stop
him, and say, "Keep on your hat, James. It 's all very well to teach the
young fellows manners, but there 's no ceremony between you and me; we
are equals--two plain old men." His servants, of whatever degree, dined
together in the common hall; but some of the more aspiring "ambitioned"
(as the Yankees say) a separate table. One of them, who was supposed to
be rather a favourite, was deputed to break the project to the duke, and
obtain his consent at some propitious moment. Thinking he had him one
day in a most accommodating temper, he cautiously hinted the scheme, and
gradually waxed bolder, and disclosed all particulars, as the duke
seemed to listen with tacit approval. "Well, well," answered the duke,
carelessly, "all my servants are alike to me. You may dine at one table,
or at twenty, if you can so arrange it. But whatever the number"--here
his voice rose ominously, and his eye flashed with anger--"you, sirrah,
shall dine at the lowest!" The great question of the "tables" was
crushed. Sometimes--after the fashion of Haroun al Raschid, though not
in disguise--he would steal down quietly and unperceived, through the
out-of-the-way holes and corners of the immense castle, to see with his
own eyes what the inhabitants of the remoter regions were about. Some
dry joke, or some act of benevolence, according to circumstances, was
sure to be the result. As he was one day poking through the passages, he
suddenly encountered an enormously big, fat servant-woman, engaged in
cleaning a stair. She was steaming with perspiration. Eyeing her
curiously for a moment, "Ho, ho!" he cried (his usual introductory
exclamation), "do _you_ bake the bread?" The woman, staring in
astonishment, and, fortunately for her own self-complacency, not
understanding the point of the strange question, replied, "No, your
grace, that is not my department; I am in the laundry, and my business
is"--"Oh, never mind," said the duke, with the look of one greatly
relieved, "I am perfectly satisfied so you don't bake the bread." A
decayed gentleman, who had found harbourage at Fleurs, was staying
rather longer than convenient. It was in the depth of winter, and the
ground was covered with snow. The duke, who was an early riser in all
seasons, had been out for his morning walk; and on his return proceeded
to the gentleman's room, who was still in bed. "You lazy lie-a-bed!"
exclaimed the duke, "there 's a snow-ball for you--and there 's
another--and there 's another," and suiting the action to the word, he
discharged into the bed upon him a shower of white-looking balls; but
they happened to be, not snow-balls, but pound-notes squeezed into the
shape--report said, twenty in number. The gentleman took the practical
but benevolent hint, and departed, carrying with him the snow-balls, not
melted. In his more serious mood, he, one Sabbath, met a girl returning
from church, and inquired what church she had been attending. He then
walked with her a long time, discoursing upon the slight shades of
difference amongst the various religious denominations, and concluded,
"I shall not see it, but I believe that, in course of time, there will
be only one sheepfold under the one Shepherd."
Labour at Fleurs was a twin to mirth. We were always having festivities.
The duke was ingenious in devising reasons for them. Because he was
Scotch by origin, he celebrated all the peculiar Scottish festivals;
because he was English by residence, he celebrated all the peculiar
English festivals; because in his youth the "Old Style" of computing the
year was still used, he first of all held Old Year's Day, and New Year's
Day, and Twelfth Night, according to the new style, and then repeated
the observance all over again, according to the old style. And there was
a constant succession, the whole year through, of birth-days, and the
commemoration of public holidays and rejoicings.
"It was a merry place in days of yore."
Suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one
of its highest festivals at Fleurs. All work ceases at noon; and by two,
the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and
march in a body to the castle, preceded by Tam Anderson, the duke's
piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black
velvet breeches--a fossil specimen he of what the Border minstrel once
was, when his art was in its prime. As Tam drones away on his bagpipe
"Lumps o' Puddin'," and "Brose and Butter," they take their places at
three long tables, covering a large court. Three hundred workpeople and
their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own
people to be present. It is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery
never extended beyond the Edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and
Prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast--the
mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts,
the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale--the very fragments
of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a
twelvemonth's siege. After having "satiated themselves with eating and
drinking," like the large-stomached heroes of the antique world, they
had an hour's interval for sauntering, that healthy digestion might have
time to arrange and stow away the immense load which the vessel had just
taken in. Again, however, they marshalled to the piper's warning note,
playing, "Fy, let us a' to the bridal!" and this time marched to the
spacious, smooth, and beautiful lawn in front of the castle, where
_Givan's Band_ awaited their arrival, and the dance speedily began. The
merriment now swelled to ecstacy; lads and lasses leaped through and
through, as on the wings of zephyrs; a hundred couples bounding at once
on the green sward; the old folks chiming in the chorus of universal
laughter, and snapping their fingers to the dances in which they had no
longer the strength and nimbleness to join; the youngsters getting up
mimic reels in sly corners; and the music seeming to stir into delight
the branches of the great elms which festooned this ball-room of nature.
But was there not something awanting to complete the unity of the scene?
Where was the presiding divinity?
" ... _Deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit,
Namque erit ille mihi semper deus."
Oh, for an hour past he has been watching the rustic carnival from
yonder portico, with his gracious duchess (much his junior), his true
help-meet in everything good, courteous, and benevolent! At length he
descends into the circle, with a smile to all, a word of recognition to
this one, a light airy jest at the expense of that one, and a responsive
_hooch_ to the wild, whirling dancers. As he advances, all the pretty
girls draw themselves up to catch his eye, and to have the honour of his
hand in the dance. He strolls about, peering gently, until, in some
obscure corner, he espies a young, shy, modest damsel, the lowliest
there, whom no one is noticing, a lowly worker in the back kitchen, or
even in the fields. Her he selects--blushing with surprise and a tumult
of nameless emotions--to be Queen of the festival; he pats her on the
shoulders, whispers paternal-gallant things in her ear, and calling
lustily for "Tullochgorum" from the fiddlers, leads her gracefully
through the dance, himself--though upwards of eighty--throwing some
steps of the Highland Fling, snapping his fingers, and _hooching_ in
unison with the impassioned throng of youths around him--those young
stately plants who have grown up under the dew and shelter of his benign
protection. When the dance is finished, kissing her on the cheek, he
leads his little simple partner back to her seat, and leaves her in a
delicious vision of the good old duke, who had distinguished her,
sitting solitary and unnoticed, above all her companions, and placed the
coronal upon her brow, queen of the festival. As he returns slowly to
the castle, there is an involuntary pause in the merry-making. The
musicians lay down their bows, the youths stop short in the mazes of the
Bacchic dance, the spectators stand up uncovered, the subtle electric
chain of love and loyalty passes between duke and people, and a grand
universal "hurrah!" rings through the welkin--the outburst of gratitude,
reverence, and joy. It is touching, solemn, sublime, this pause and
outburst of feeling in the midst of the wild festal scene. Not a maiden
there but loves him as she would a father; not a stalwart hind but, if
need were, would die in defence of his old chief. "When the ear hears
him, then it blesses him; and when the eye sees him, it gives witness to
him; because he delivers the poor that cry, and the fatherless, and him
that has none to help him. The blessing of him that is ready to perish
comes upon him; and he causes the widow's heart to sing for joy. He puts
on righteousness, and it clothes him; his judgment is as a robe and a
diadem."
But eighty-six years are a heavy load on the shoulders even of a giant.
The grasshopper at length becomes a burden to the strongest and most
cheerful. News came from the Castle that our old duke was unwell, was
confined to his room, then to his bed. One morning--I remember it as if
yesterday--as I was walking through the court-yard with one of the
farm-servants, the butler looked from a window above, shook his head
mournfully, folded his arms across his breast, and bent his eyes towards
the ground. We read his meaning at a glance,--"The good Duke James was
dead!" For days and days the people gave way to a deep, even a
passionate grief, as if each had lost a beloved father, and was left to
all the loneliness and privation of an orphan's lot. The body, or rather
the coffin which enclosed it, was laid out in state; and they were
allowed to take a last farewell of their chief. His valet, a favourite
servant, stood at the head, with his handkerchief almost constantly over
his eyes, scarcely able to hide his tears. The chamber was dimly
lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no
mimicry. All walked round, slowly and solemnly--the ancients of the
hamlet, the stalwart peasantry, and the women leading the children by
the hand--all gazing intently on the spot where the dead lay, as if even
yet to catch a glimpse of that piercing eye and benignant smile. The
silence was profound, awful, but for a throbbing under-hum as of stifled
breath, broken ever and anon by a sharp sob--the "hysterica passio," the
"climbing sorrow," which even reverence and self-restraint could no
longer keep down. The day of the funeral arrived. His remains were to
be borne about twelve miles off, to Bowden, under the shadow of the
three-peaked Eildons, for there the ancient vault is where lie "the race
of the house of Roxburghe." The long, long line of mourning carriages I
well remember; but these only spoke the general respect and commonplace
regret of the neighbourhood, which are incident to such an occasion. His
_people_ in their hundreds--these were his mourners! The younger and
stronger of them, in one way or other, accompanied the death procession
to the last resting-place. The women of the place, leading the children,
went down, all weeping as they went, to a bend in the Tweed, where there
would be a last view of the funeral train. There it was!--darkly
marching on the opposite bank, winding round the mouldering hillock
which was once Roxburgh Castle, and finally disappearing--disappearing
for ever!--behind that pine-covered height! As the last of the train
floated and melted away from the horizon, we all sunk to the ground at
once, as if struck by some instantaneous current; and such a wail rose
that day as Tweed never heard; whilst an echoing voice seemed to cry
along his banks, and into the depth of his forests--"The last of the
Patriarch-Dukes has departed!"
One instance is worth a thousand dissertations. And the above thin
water-colour sketch of a _real popular life_, though presenting only one
or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more
distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of
what I mean by the lyric joyousness of the Scottish people; and is,
besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a
true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if
the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be
eternised in the memory of mankind.
It is from this soil--this sensitive and fervid national temperament--that
there has sprung up such a harvest of ballads, and songs, and
heart-moving, soul-breathing melodies. Hence the hearty old habits and
curious suggestive customs of the people: the hospitality, exuberant as
Abraham's, who sat in the tent-door bidding welcome even to the passing
traveller; the merry-meetings and "rockings" in the evening, where each
had to contribute his or her song or tale, and at the same time ply some
piece of work; the delight in their native dances, furious and whirling
as those of the Bacchantes; the "Guisarding" of the boys at Christmas,
relic of old-world plays, when the bloody melodrama finished off into
the pious benediction--
"God bless the master of the house,
The mistress also,
And all the pretty babies
That round the table go;"
the "first foot," on New Year's morning, when none must enter a house
empty-handed; the "Hogmanay," or first Monday of the new year, when the
whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the
peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence--
"Get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers,
Dinna think that we are beggars;
We are bairns come out to play,
Rise up and gie 's our Hogmanay!"--
the "Halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by
Burns; and the "Kirn," or Harvest Home, the wind-up of the season, the
epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. Hence it is that
under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they
all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling, or dream: they are all
inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns
the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. Every one of us, calling
up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and
schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national
characteristic. And hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and
buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances,
cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction
or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every
clime--there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to
gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their
old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the
burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones
beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. Scott
went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made
his "Last Minstrel" sing--
"By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my wither'd cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone!"
Times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short
space which has elapsed since the death of the Good Duke James of
Roxburghe. Or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an
age, of ideas, of a state of manners--lovely, but transitional--which
had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one
glistening spot. It was the transition from Mediæval Clanship to Modern
Individualism--from that form of society where thousands clustered
devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the
present fashion, where it is, "Every man for himself, and God for us
all!" Yet the period of transition was a golden age. It was a golden
age--I know it, for I lived in it. There was the old patriarchy--the
feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of
life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal,
overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended
the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man--the humblest
man--as an individual. Thrown, as we all now are, into the modern
anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old
governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings,
like Mr Prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and
courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a
quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent
primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked
in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose?
Yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." Past,
present, and future--all are divine--all are parts of a celestial
scheme--none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. But the past
is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has
its foot upon the green sward. In a higher sense than the epicure's, it
is "_our own_." Let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. There are
good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth
earthy, and of self selfish. If man has become more isolated, more
rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial
haloes--he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal,
fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. Our hard material age shews
the buddings of a poetry of its own. Streams shall gush from the rock.
If there were, in the days of loyal Clanhood, joyousness, and generous
susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness;
why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common
Brotherhood? "Charity never faileth!" Everything dies but charity and
joy. Even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from
earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven--"a pure river of water of
life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God."
CONTENTS.
PAGE
FRANCIS BENNOCH, 1
Truth and honour, 7
Our ship, 8
Auld Peter Macgowan, 10
The flower of Keir, 11
Constancy, 12
My bonnie wee wifie, 13
The bonnie bird, 14
Come when the dawn, 15
Good-morrow, 16
Oh, wae's my life, 17
Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, 18
Bessie, 20
Courtship, 21
Together, 22
Florence Nightingale, 23
JOSEPH MACGREGOR, 25
Laddie, oh! leave me, 25
How blythely the pipe, 26
WILLIAM DUNBAR, D.D., 28
The maid of Islay, 29
WILLIAM JERDAN, 30
The wee bird's song, 32
What makes this hour? 33
ALEXANDER BALD, 34
The lily of the vale, 35
How sweet are the blushes of morn, 35
GEORGE WILSON, 37
Mild as the morning, 37
The beacons blazed, 38
The rendezvous, 40
JOHN YOUNGER, 42
Ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew, 43
The month of June, 44
JOHN BURTT, 46
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs, 47
O! lassie I lo'e dearest, 47
CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON, 49
The bard strikes his harp, 50
Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, 51
Oh, my love 's bonnie, 52
WILLIAM DOBIE, 54
The dreary reign of winter's past, 55
ROBERT HENDRY, M.D., 57
Oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie, 58
HEW AINSLIE, 60
The hameward sang, 61
Dowie in the hint o' hairst, 62
On wi' the tartan, 63
The rover o' Lochryan, 64
The last look o' hame, 65
The lads an' the land far awa', 66
My bonnie wee Bell, 67
WILLIAM THOMSON, 68
The maiden to her reaping-hook, 68
ALEXANDER SMART, 71
When the bee has left the blossom, 73
Oh, leave me not, 74
Never despair, 75
JOHN DUNLOP, 77
The year that 's awa', 78
Oh, dinna ask me, 78
Love flies the haunts of pomp and power, 79
War, 80
WILLIAM BLAIR, 82
The Highland maid, 82
The Neapolitan war-song, 84
ARCHIBALD MACKAY, 85
Our auld Scots sangs, 85
My laddie lies low, 87
Jouk and let the jaw gae by, 88
Victorious be again, boys, 89
WILLIAM AIR FOSTER, 91
Fareweel to Scotia, 91
The falcon's flight, 92
The salmon run, 94
CHARLES MARSHALL, 97
The blessing on the wark, 98
Jewel of a lad, 99
Twilight joys, 100
WILLIAM WILSON, 102
Oh, blessing on her starlike een, 102
Oh! blessing on thee, land, 104
The faithless, 105
My soul is ever with thee, 106
Auld Johnny Graham, 107
Jean Linn, 108
Bonnie Mary, 109
MRS MARY MACARTHUR, 111
The missionary, 111
JOHN RAMSAY, 114
Farewell to Craufurdland, 114
JAMES PARKER, 116
The mariner's song, 116
Her lip is o' the rose's hue, 117
JOHN HUNTER, 119
The bower o' Clyde, 119
Mary, 122
In distant years, 123
ROBERT CHAMBERS, 124
Young Randal, 126
The ladye that I love, 127
Thou gentle and kind one, 128
Lament for the old Highland warriors, 129
THOMAS AIRD, 131
The swallow, 132
Genius, 133
ROBERT WHITE, 136
My native land, 137
A shepherd's life, 138
Her I love best, 140
The knight's return, 141
The bonnie Redesdale lassie, 143
The mountaineer's death, 144
WILLIAM CAMERON, 146
Sweet Jessie o' the dell, 146
Meet me on the gowan lea, 147
Morag's fairy glen, 148
Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie, 150
ALEXANDER TAIT, 151
E'ening's dewy hour, 151
CHARLES FLEMING, 153
Watty M'Neil, 153
WILLIAM FERGUSON, 155
I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, 155
Wooing song, 156
I'm wandering wide, 158
THOMAS DICK, 160
How early I woo'd thee, 160
HUGH MILLER, 161
Sister Jeanie, haste, we 'll go, 166
Oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze, 167
ALEXANDER MACANSH, 171
The mother and child, 172
Change, 173
The tomb of the Bruce, 174
JAMES PRINGLE, 176
The ploughman, 176
WILLIAM ANDERSON, 178
Woodland song, 180
The wells o' Weary, 181
I'm naebody noo, 182
I canna sleep, 183
WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D., 185
'Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray, 186
Oh, sweet is the blossom, 187
THOMAS WATSON, 189
The squire o' low degree, 189
JAMES MACDONALD, 192
Bonnie Aggie Lang, 193
The pride o' the glen, 194
Mary, 196
JAMES BALLANTINE, 198
Naebody's bairn, 200
Castles in the air, 201
Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew, 202
Wifie, come hame, 203
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest, 204
Creep afore ye gang, 205
Ae guid turn deserves anither, 205
The nameless lassie, 206
Bonnie Bonaly, 207
Saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, 208
The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win, 209
The widow, 209
MISS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY, 211
Craig Elachie, 212
JOHN FINLAY, 215
The noble Scottish game, 216
The merry bowling-green, 218
THOMAS TOD STODDART, 220
Angling song, 221
Let ither anglers, 222
The British oak, 223
Peace in war, 224
ALEXANDER MACLAGAN, 226
Curling song, 229
The auld meal mill, 230
The thistle, 232
The Scotch blue bell, 233
The rockin', 235
The widow, 237
The Highland plaid, 238
The flower o' Glencoe, 239
MRS JANE C. SIMPSON, 241
Gentleness, 242
He loved her for her merry eye, 244
Life and death, 245
Good-night, 246
ANDREW PARK, 248
Hurrah for the Highlands, 249
Old Scotland, I love thee! 250
Flowers of summer, 251
Home of my fathers, 252
What ails my heart? 253
Away to the Highlands, 254
I'm away, 255
There is a bonnie, blushing flower, 256
The maid of Glencoe, 257
MARION PAUL AIRD, 258
The fa' o' the leaf, 258
The auld kirkyard, 260
Far, far away, 261
WILLIAM SINCLAIR, 263
The royal Breadalbane oak, 264
Evening, 265
Mary, 266
Absence, 267
Is not the earth, 269
Oh! love the soldier's daughter dear! 270
The battle of Stirling, 272
WILLIAM MILLER, 274
Ye cowe a', 274
ALEXANDER HUME, 276
My ain dear Nell, 276
The pairtin', 278
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
PAGE
JOHN MACDONALD, D.D., 281
The missionary of St Kilda, 282
DUNCAN KENNEDY, 284
The return of peace, 285
ALLAN M'DOUGALL, 287
The song of the carline, 288
KENNETH MACKENZIE, 290
The song of the kilt, 290
JOHN CAMPBELL, 292
The storm blast, 293
JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D., 294
Light in the Highlands, 295
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
FRANCIS BENNOCH.[1]
Francis Bennoch, the son of a farmer on the property of the Duke of
Buccleuch, and of a mother whose family have been tenants on the same
estate for nearly two hundred years, was born at Drumcrool, in the
parish of Durrisdeer, and county of Dumfries, on the 25th June 1812. At
the age of sixteen, in February 1828, he arrived in London, and entered
a house of business in the city. During the nine ensuing years, he
assiduously pursued his avocation, and strove to make himself master of
the elements and practice of trade. In 1837 he commenced on his own
responsibility, and every succeeding year has advanced him in mercantile
prosperity and position. Now, at the head of the firm of Bennoch,
Twentyman, & Rigg, wholesale traders and manufacturers, there is no name
in the city more universally respected.
In the corporate body of the city of London Mr Bennoch for some years
took a prominent part as a citizen, a common councilman, and lastly as
the deputy of a ward. An independent man and a reformer of abuses, he
has so managed his opposition to measures, and even to men, as to win
the warm approval of his own friends, and the respect of the leaders of
all parties. His plans for bridging the Thames may be referred to in
proof of his patriotic devotedness to improvement.
Influenced in his youth by the genius of the locality in which he was
born, to which the Ayrshire Ploughman had left a legacy of immortal
song, succeeded by Allan Cunningham, and a number of distinguished
followers, it was not, however, till he had been two years a denizen of
the metropolis that Mr Bennoch's Scottish feeling sought to vent itself
in verse. The love of country is as inherent and vehement in the
children of the North as in the Swiss mountaineers; wheresoever they
wander from it, their hearts yearn towards the fatherland--
"Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of their sires"--