I the happy hours will spend,
Urging on the subtle hook,
O'er the dark and chancy nook,
With a hand expert
Every motion swaying,
And on the alert
When the trout are playing;
Bring me rod and reel,
Flies of every feather,
Bring the osier creel,
Send me glorious weather!
LET ITHER ANGLERS.
Let ither anglers choose their ain,
An' ither waters tak' the lead;
O' Hieland streams we covet nane,
But gie to us the bonnie Tweed!
An' gie to us the cheerfu' burn
That steals into its valley fair--
The streamlets that at ilka turn,
Sae saftly meet an' mingle there.
The lanesome Tala and the Lyne,
An' Manor wi' its mountain rills,
An' Etterick, whose waters twine
Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills;
An' Gala, too, an' Teviot bright,
An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed;
Their kindred valleys a' unite
Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed.
There 's no a hole abune the Crook,
Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath,
Nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook,
That daunders through the flowrie heath,
But ye may fin' a subtle troot,
A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead,
An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot,
Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed.
Frae Holylee to Clovenford,
A chancier bit ye canna hae,
So gin ye tak' an' angler's word,
Ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae,
An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand
Yer birzy hackles black and reid;
The saft sough o' a slender wand
Is meetest music for the Tweed!
THE BRITISH OAK.
The oak is Britain's pride!
The lordliest of trees,
The glory of her forest side,
The guardian of her seas!
Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide,
To brave the wintry breeze.
Our hearts shall never quail
Below the servile yoke,
Long as our seamen trim the sail,
And wake the battle smoke--
Long as they stem the stormy gale,
On planks of British oak!
Then in its native mead,
The golden acorn lay;
And watch with care the bursting seed,
And guard the tender spray;
England will bless us for the deed,
In some far future day!
Oh! plant the acorn tree
Upon each Briton's grave;
So shall our island ever be,
The island of the brave--
The mother-nurse of liberty,
And empress o'er the wave!
PEACE IN WAR.
Peace be upon their banners!
When our war-ships leave the bay--
When the anchor is weigh'd,
And the gales
Fill the sails,
As they stray--
When the signals are made,
And the anchor is weigh'd,
And the shores of England fade
Fast away!
Peace be upon their banners,
As they cross the stormy main!
May they no aggressors prove,
But unite,
Britain's right
To maintain;
And, unconquer'd, as they move,
May they no aggressors prove;
But to guard the land we love,
Come again!
Long flourish England's commerce!
May her navies ever glide,
With concord in their lead,
Ranging free
Every sea,
Far and wide;
And at their country's need,
With thunders in their lead,
May the ocean eagles speed
To her side!
ALEXANDER MACLAGAN.[12]
Alexander Maclagan was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d of April 1811.
His father, Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning
this occupation, he settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in
business, he removed to Edinburgh, with a young family of three
children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. Catherine
Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of
Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the
period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his
fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where
three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable
to bestow upon his son Alexander the liberal education which his strong
natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of
knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of
ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he
remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to
undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the
son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with
whom he served six years. About this time he produced many excellent
drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the
Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation
precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. His
leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. So
early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library
as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry.
In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with the
_Edinburgh Literary Journal_, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a
contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick
Shepherd, Professor Wilson, William Tennant, and William Motherwell, who
severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he
worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his
eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. In 1831, he
commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound,
Edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to London
in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the
metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunningham, and was, through
his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well
known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately
interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much
disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as
manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued
two years. He afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational
pursuits.
In 1841, Maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which
immediately attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey. He invited
the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor.
On the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, "Sketches from
Nature, and other Poems," the critic wrote to the poet in these words,
"I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a
great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more
solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was
one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his
Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in
Lord Cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of
the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved, however, most
uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened
arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of
being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In
1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner
in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a
similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been
shewn him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Rev. Dr
Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he
had conferred on him by the Queen a small Civil List pension.
Mr Maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "Ragged and Industrial
School Rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation.
Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in
the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of
thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. In social
life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he
has told with singular simplicity and tenderness.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of
Mr Maclagan's personal history.
CURLING SONG.
Hurrah for Scotland's worth and fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game,
The pastime o' the free, boys.
While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang,
We 'll a' join in a patriot's sang,
And sing its praises loud and lang--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame,
A health to a' that love the name;
Hurrah for Scotland's darling game;
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
Gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours,
Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs;
Let wily fisher prove his powers
At the flinging o' the flee, boys.
But let us pledge ilk hardy chiel,
Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal,
Wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
In ancient days--fame tells the fact--
That Scotland's heroes werena slack
The heads o' stubborn foes to crack,
And mak' the feckless flee, boys.
Wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm,
They aften tried the curlin' charm
To cheer the heart and nerve the arm--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
May love and friendship crown our cheer
Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear;
We hae this nicht some heroes here,
We aye are blythe to see, boys.
A' brithers brave are they, I ween,
May fickle Fortune, slippery queen,
Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
May health an' strength their toils reward,
And should misfortune's gales blow hard,
Our task will be to plant a guard
Or guide them to the tee, boys.
Here 's three times three for curlin' scenes,
Here 's three times three for curlin' freen's,
Here 's three times three for beef an' greens--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
A' ye that love auld Scotland's name,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame,
A' ye that love auld Scotland's game,
A glorious sicht to see, boys--
Up, brothers, up, drive care awa';
Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw;
Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah--
The roarin' rink for me, boys.
THE AULD MEAL MILL.
The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still;
Like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
The stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown,
Like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down;
Tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill
That ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill.
When flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round,
The miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound;
The spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil,
Fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill.
The wild Hielan' heather grows thick on its thack,
The ivy and apple-tree creep up its back;
The lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' Nature's ain skill,
Builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill.
Keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for Cæsar kens weel
When the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal;
But he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will
The hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill.
There are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill--
They are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill--
But ance it was said that a het Hielan' still
Was aften at wark near the auld meal mill.
When the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld,
Sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld;
The herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill,
A' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill.
Then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows,
The men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows;
Their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill--
There 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill.
At blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane,
Sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein';
Sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until
The laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill.
I hae listen'd to music--ilk varying tone,
Frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone;
But nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill
As the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill.
Success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel!
Lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal!
Bless the miller--wha often, wi' heart and good-will,
Fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill.
The auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill,
Like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still;
Like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill,
Stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill.
THE THISTLE.
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me!
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight,
When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might;
'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows,
For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land--
On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand--
On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free,
May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be!
Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause;
Bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause;
How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer,
And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here?
Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle,
The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me!
A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers--
The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me!
THE SCOTCH BLUE BELL.
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell
For a' the flowers I see.
I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell,
I hail thee, floweret fair;
Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell,
Or wavest mid mountain air--
Blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks,
Or fountain's flowery brink:
Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks,
The deer descend to drink.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook
Beside love's trystin' tree;
I see thee bend to kiss the brook,
That kindly kisseth thee.
'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen,
Blithe noddin' o'er her brow,
Meet marrows to her lovely een
O' deep endearin' blue!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
When e'enin's gowden curtains hing
O'er moor and mountain gray,
Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring
A dirge to deein' day;
But when the licht o' mornin' wakes
The young dew-drooket flowers,
I hear amid their merry peals,
The mirth o' bridal hours!
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
How oft wi' rapture hae I stray'd,
The mountain's heather crest,
There aft wi' thee hae I array'd
My Mary's maiden breast;
Oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells,
Her bosom fa' and rise,
Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells,
'Neath summer's deep blue skies.
The Scotch blue-bell, &c.
Oh! weel ye guess when morning daws,
I seek the blue-bell grot;
An' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's
Sae sweet, I leave it not;
An' when upon my tremblin' breast,
Reclines my maiden fair,
Thou know'st full well that I am blest,
And free frae ilka care.
The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell,
The dear blue-bell for me!
Oh! I wadna gie the Scotch blue-bell,
For a' the flowers I see.
THE ROCKIN'.
The ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht,
The croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht,
An' happy hearts are here the nicht,
To haud a rantin' rockin'!
There 's laughin' Lizzie, free o' care;
There 's Mary, wi' the modest air;
An' Kitty, wi' the gowden hair,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
There 's Bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel;
There 's Jeanie Deans, wha sings sae weel;
An' Meg, sae daft about a reel,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
The ploughman, brave as Wallace wicht;
The weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht;
The vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
The shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e,
Kindly heart an' rattlin' glee;
The wonder-workin' dominie,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
The miller, wi' his mealy mou',
Wha kens sae weel the way to woo--
His faither's pipes frae Waterloo
He 'll bring to cheer our rockin'.
The souter, wi' his bristly chin,
Frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin;
The curly-headed whupper-in,
Will a' be at the rockin'.
There 's merry jokes to cheer the auld,
There 's love an' joy to warm the cauld,
There 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld;
Sae prove our merry rockin'.
The tales they tell, the sangs they sing,
Will gar the auld clay biggin' ring,
And some will dance the Highland fling,
Right blithely at the rockin'.
Wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire,
Fond friendship will each soul inspire,
An' mirth will get her heart's desire
O' rantin', at the rockin'.
When sair foredung wi' crabbit care,
When days come dark whilk promised fair,
To cheer the gloom, just come an' share
The pleasures o' our rockin'.
THE WIDOW.
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain,
Oh, there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain;
Though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain.
Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel,
Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel;
Though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store,
The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door;
Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw,
Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw;
Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer,
The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear;
The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes,
That auld Widow Miller has seen better days,
Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'--
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa,
Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa';
Though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair,
On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare;
When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain,
The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain.
The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen,
I' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean;
Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane,
Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod,
To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God,
What she utters to Him is no kent to ane,
But there 's naebody hears Widow Miller complain!
Ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours,
When your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers;
When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains,
To the heart-broken Widow wha never complains.
THE HIGHLAND PLAID.
What though ye hae nor kith nor kin',
An' few to tak' your part, love;
A happy hame ye'll ever fin'
Within my glowing heart, love.
So! while I breathe the breath o' life,
Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye;
My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee dearie!
The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud,
May speak o' ghaists an' witches,
An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts
Through bogs an' droonin' ditches;
There's no ae imp in a' the host
This nicht will daur come near ye;
My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee dearie!
Why do you heave sic heavy sighs,
Why do ye sab sae sair, love?
Altho' beneath my rustic plaid
An earl's star I wear love,
I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth,
And as a queen revere thee;
My Highland plaid is warm an' wide--
Creep closer, my wee deerie!
THE FLOWER O' GLENCOE.
Oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains,
An' the echoes that burst from their caverns below,
The wild woods that darken the face of their fountains--
The haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe;
But dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes
That flowers the green bank where the Tay gladly gushes,
For there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes,
I won the young heart o' the Flower o' Glencoe.
Contented I lived in my canty auld biggin',
'Till Britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe;
Then I drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin',
My forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago.
An' though Mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger,
Yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger
O' famine and death in the land o' the stranger,
Drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the Flower o' Glencoe.
But success crown'd our toils--ye hae a' heard the story,
How we beat the proud French, an' their eagles laid low--
I've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory,
An' the love o' auld Scotland wherever I go.
Come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure;
Toast the maid of your heart, an' I'll pledge you with pleasure;
Then a bumper I claim to my heart's dearest treasure--
The fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted Flower o' Glencoe.
MRS JANE C. SIMPSON.
Jane Cross Bell, better known by her assumed name of "Gertrude," is the
daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and was born in
Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in
the _Greenock Advertiser_, while her father for a short time resided in
that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the
_Edinburgh Literary Journal_ she afterwards contributed numerous
poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and
verse to the _Scottish Christian Herald_, then under the able editorship
of the Rev. Dr Gardner. In 1836, "Gertrude" published a small volume of
tales and sketches, entitled, "The Piety of Daily Life;" and, in 1838, a
duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "April Hours." Her latest work,
"Woman's History," appeared in 1848.
In July 1837, Miss Bell was married to her cousin, Mr J. B. Simpson, and
has since resided chiefly in Glasgow. Amidst numerous domestic
avocations in which she has latterly been involved, Mrs Simpson
continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary
pursuits. She is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more
ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public.
GENTLENESS.
Oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me,
'Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee;
The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue,
In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through!
What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire,
And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire;
'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love,
And falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above!
Ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet I remember well,
Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell;
A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and wayward mood--
Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good!
No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now,
Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow,
And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face,
And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace.
An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand,
And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand--
Ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men,
Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then!
I long'd to weep--I strove to speak--no words came from my tongue,
Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung;
The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind;
I could have borne to meet thy wrath--'twas death to see thee kind!
'Tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return,
A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn;
But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past,
The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last!
O Gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me!
It will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee;
I bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine,
But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine!
HE LOVED HER FOR HER MERRY EYE.
He loved her for her merry eye,
That, like the vesper star,
In evening's blue and deepening sky,
Shed light and joy afar!
He loved her for her golden hair,
That o'er her shoulders hung;
He loved her for her happy voice,
The music of her tongue.
He loved her for her airy form
Of animated grace;
He loved her for the light of soul,
That brighten'd in her face.
He loved her for her simple heart,
A shrine of gentle things;
He loved her for her sunny hopes,
Her gay imaginings.
But not for him that bosom beat,
Or glanced that merry eye,
Beneath whose diamond light he felt
It would be heaven to die.
He never told her of his love,
He breathed no prayer--no vow;
But sat in silence by her side,
And gazed upon her brow.
And when, at length, she pass'd away,
Another's smiling bride,
He made his home 'mid ocean's waves--
He died upon its tide.
LIFE AND DEATH.
To live in cities--and to join
The loud and busy throng,
Who press with mad and giddy haste,
In pleasure's chase along;
To yield the soul to fashion's rules,
Ambition's varied strife;
Borne like a leaf upon the stream--
Oh! no--this is not life!
To pass the calm and pleasant hours,
By wild wood, hill, and grove,
And find a heaven in solitude,
With one we deeply love;
To know the wealth of happiness,
That each to each can give,
And feel no power can sever us--
Ah! this it is to live!
It is not death, when on the couch
Of sickness we are laid,
With all our spirit wasted,
And the bloom of youth decay'd;
To feel the shadow dim our eyes,
And pant for failing breath;
Then break at length life's feeble hain--
Oh, no! this is not death!
To part from one beneath whose smiles
We long were used to dwell,
To hear the lips we love pronounce
A passionate farewell;
To catch the last _too_ tender glance
Of an adoring eye,
And weep in solitude of heart--
Ah! this it is to die!
GOOD NIGHT.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
On evening's placid brow;
We have been long together, love--
We must part now.
Good night! I never can forget
This long bright summer day,
We pass'd among the woods and streams,
Far, far away!
Good night! we have had happy smiles,
Fond dreams, and wishes true,
And holier thoughts and communings,
And weeping too.
Good night! perchance I ne'er may spend
Again so sweet a time,
Alone with Nature and with thee,
In my life's prime!
Good night! yet e'er we sever, love,
Take thou this faded flower,
And lay it next thy heart, against
Our meeting hour.
Good night! the silver stars are clear,
Thy homeward way to light;
Remember this long summer day--
Good night! good night!
ANDREW PARK.
The author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was born at Renfrew,
on the 7th March 1811. After an ordinary education at the parish school,
he attended during two sessions the University of Glasgow. In his
fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while
resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "Vision of
Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a
hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own
account. At this period he published several additional volumes of
poems. His business falling off in consequence of a visitation of
cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London,
to follow the career of a man of letters. After some years' residence in
the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the
stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a
bookseller in Ingram Street. The speculation proved unfortunate, and he
finally retired from the concerns of business. He has since lived
principally in Glasgow, but occasionally in London. In 1856 he visited
Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a
narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Egypt and the
East."
Of the twelve volumes of poems which Mr Park has given to the public,
that entitled "Silent Love" has been the most popular. It has appeared
in a handsome form, with illustrations by J. Noel Paton, R.S.A. In one
of his poems, entitled "Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a
narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Of his
numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. The whole of
his poetical works were published in 1854, by Bogue of London, in a
handsome volume, royal octavo.
HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS.
Hurrah for the Highlands! the stern Scottish Highlands,
The home of the clansmen, the brave and the free;
Where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast
Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea.
'Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze,
As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light;
And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas,
In his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night.
'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower,
Where the hurricane revels in madness on high;
For there it has might that can war with its power,
In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky.
I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms;
I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea;
But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms--
Her heather is blooming, her eagles are free!
OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE!
Old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas,
Wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze;
Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high,
Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
O name not the land where the olive-tree grows,
Nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose;
But shew me the thistle that waves its proud head,
O'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed.
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold,
Who wielded their brands in the battles of old,
Who conquer'd and died for their loved native land,
With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand!
For, old Scotland, I love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me
Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea;
Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar,
Yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war!
FLOWERS OF SUMMER.
Flowers of summer, sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are fondly singing
In their gay and jocund mirth:
Streams are pouring from their fountains,
Echoing through each rugged dell;
Heather bells adorn the mountains,
Bid the city, love! farewell.
See the boughs are rich in blossom,
Through each sunlit, silent grove;
Cast all sorrow from thy bosom--
Freedom is the soul of love!
Let us o'er the valleys wander,
Nor a frown within us dwell,
And in joy see Nature's grandeur--
Bid the city, love! farewell.
Morning's sun shall then invite us
By the ever sparkling streams;
Evening's fall again delight us
With its crimson-coloured beams.
Flowers of summer sweetly springing,
Deck the dewy lap of earth;
Birds of love are loudly singing,
In their gay and jocund mirth.
HOME OF MY FATHERS.
Home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur,
In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee;
In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander,
And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me!
I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping,
Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below;
The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping,
Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow.
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly;
Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay!
Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly,
Surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray!
Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory,
And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves,
Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story,
Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather,
The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen,
The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither,
But dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men!
Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee,
And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea--
Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee,
Home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee!
Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow--
Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee!
WHAT AILS MY HEART?
What ails my heart--what dims my e'e?
What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie?
Ye werena aye sae cauld to me;
Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie.
I 'm wae to see you, like a flower
Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie,
Droop farer down frae hour to hour,
An' waste sae fast awa, Jamie.
I 'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true,
She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie;
She ne'er has gien thee cause to rue;
If sae--ye still are free, Jamie.
I winna tak your hand and heart,
If there is ane mair dear, Jamie;
I 'd sooner far for ever part
With thee--though wi' a tear, Jamie.
Then tell me your doubts and your fears,
Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie;
Are ye afraid o' coming years,
O' darker days to me, Jamie?
I 'll share your grief, I 'll share your joy,
They 'll come alike to me, Jamie;
Misfortune's hand may all destroy,
Except my love for thee, Jamie.
AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS.
Away to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning,
Though England's proud structures enrapture the view;
Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning,
Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue.
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory,
His foot in the sea and his head in the sky;
His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary,
And round him, and round him the elements fly.
The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing,
The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by;
When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring
'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh!
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!
I 'M AWAY.
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream,
To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam.
I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind
All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind;
The music of birds and the murmur of rills,
Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth!
No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth!
Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high,
Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky!
Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod,
Which minstrels of yore often made their abode--
Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales,
That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.
There is a bonnie, blushing flower--
But ah! I darena breathe the name;
I fain would steal it frae its bower,
Though a' should think me sair to blame.
It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,
Like brightest star where ither's shine;
Fain would I place it in my breast,
And make this bonnie blossom mine.
At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er
I see this fair, this fav'rite flower,
My heart beats high with wish sincere,
To wile it frae its bonnie bower!
But oh! I fear to own its charms,
Or tear it frae its parent stem;
For should it wither in mine arms,
What would revive my bonnie gem?
Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'--
That flower can never fade with me,
That frae the wintry winds that blaw
Round each neglected bud is free!
No, it shall only bloom more fair,
When cherished and adored by me;
And a' my joy, and a' my care,
This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!
THE MAID OF GLENCOE.
TUNE--_"Come under my plaidie."_
Once more in the Highlands I wander alone,
Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown;
By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen,
Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again.
Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur,
Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know;
But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander--
Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!
Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay,
I felt she had stole my affections away;
The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree,
But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.
The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain,
The hours glided by without languor or woe,
As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains--
My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!
The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime,
Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time!
And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart,
Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art.
And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood,
Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow,
A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood--
'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.
MARION PAUL AIRD.
The accomplished and amiable author of "Heart Histories" and other
poems, Marion Paul Aird, is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors
were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother,
a niece of Hamilton Paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a
race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth,
Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in
Kilmarnock. She early studied the British poets, and herself wrote
verses. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics,
entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in
1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "Heart
Histories." She has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. Her
poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] See vol. ii., p. 120.
THE FA' O' THE LEAF.
'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin',
The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae;
The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in',
Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.
Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters,
No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea;
Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters
The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.
The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie,
When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray;
But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie
Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."
How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather,
Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';"
An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither,
Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:
But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely,
Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast;
The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by,"
An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."
The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted,
An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn;
An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted,
An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:
But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin',
An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night!
When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin',
Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.
The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie,
Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa',
An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie,
May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.
Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer,"
Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath;
But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer
Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?
How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en,
When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa';
When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'--
But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!
THE AULD KIRK-YARD.
Calm sleep the village dead
In the auld kirk-yard;
But softly, slowly tread
In the auld kirk-yard;
For the weary, weary rest,
Wi' the green turf on their breast,
And the ashes o' the blest
Flower the auld kirk-yard.
Oh! many a tale it hath,
The auld kirk-yard,
Of life's crooked thorny path
To the auld kirk-yard.
But mortality's thick gloom
Clouds the sunny world's bloom,
Veils the mystery of doom,
In the auld kirk-yard.
A thousand memories spring
In the auld kirk-yard,
Though time's death-brooding wing
Shade the auld kirk-yard.
The light of many a hearth,
Its music and its mirth,
Sleep in the deep dark earth
Of the auld kirk-yard.
Nae dreams disturb their sleep
In the auld kirk-yard;
They hear nae kindred weep
In the auld kirk-yard.
The sire, with silver hair,
The mother's heart of care,
The young, the gay, the fair,
Crowd the auld kirk-yard.
So live that ye may lie
In the auld kirk-yard,
Wi' a passport to the sky
Frae the auld kirk-yard;
That when thy sand is run,
And life's weary warfare done,
Ye may sing o' victory won
Where there 's nae kirk-yard.
FAR, FAR AWAY.
TUNE--_"Long, long ago."_
Had I the wings of a dove, I would fly
Far, far away; far, far away;
Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky,
Far, far away; far, far away;
Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow,
Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow,
Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow,
Far, far away; far away.
There never trembles a sigh of regret,
Far, far away; far, far away;
Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set,
Far, far away; far, far away;
There I from sorrow for ever would rest,
Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast;
Tears never fall in the homes of the blest,
Far, far away; far away.
Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part,
Far, far away; far, far away;
One is their temple, their home, and their heart,
Far, far away; far, far away;
The river of crystal, the city of gold,
The portals of pearl, such glory unfold,
Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told,
Far, far away; far away.
List! what yon harpers on golden harps play;
Come, come away; come, come away;
Falling and frail is your cottage of clay;
Come, come away; come, come away:
Come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you,
Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true;
Sing ye the song, ever old, ever new;
Come, come away; come away.
WILLIAM SINCLAIR.
A pleasing lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811.
His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he
became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick
Street. A large circulating library connected with the establishment
enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into
contact with persons of strong literary tastes. Quitting the business of
bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He
afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His
official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had
the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder.
Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while the bookseller's
apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular
periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in
_Blackwood's Magazine_. The poet Robert Nicoll submitted the first
edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo
volume of poems and songs, with the title "Poems of the Fancy and the
Affections." To Major de Renzy's "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington," published in 1852, he was a
conspicuous contributor. Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr
Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling, where he holds the situation
of reporter to one of the local journals.
THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK.
Thy queenly hand, Victoria,
By the mountain and the rock,
Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills
A Royal British Oak;
Oh, thou guardian of the free!
Oh, thou mistress of the sea!
Trebly dear shall be the ties
That shall bind us to thy name,
Ere this Royal Oak shall rise
To thy fame, to thy fame!
The oak hath scatter'd terror
O'er our foemen from our ships,
They have given the voice of England's fame
In thunders from their lips;
'Twill be mirror'd in the rills!
It shall wave among the hills!
And the rallying cry shall wake
Nigh the planted of thy hand,
That the loud acclaim may break
O'er the land, o'er the land!
While it waves unto the tempest,
It shall call thy name to mind,
And the "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be
Like the rushing of the wind!
Arise! ye Gaels, arise!
Let the echoes ring your cries,
By our mountain's rocky throne,
By Victoria's name adored--
We shall reap her enemies down
With the sword, with the sword!
Oh, dear among the mountains
Shall thy kindly blessing be;
Though rough may be our mien we bear
A loyal heart to thee!
'Neath its widely spreading shade
Shall the gentle Highland maid
Teach the youths, who stand around,
Like brave slips from Freedom's tree,
That thrice sacred is the ground
Unto thee, unto thee!
In the bosom of the Highlands
Thou hast left a glorious pledge,
To the honour of our native land,
In every coming age:
By thy royal voice that spoke
On the soil where springs the oak--
By the freedom of the land
That can never bear a slave--
The Breadalbane Oak shall stand
With the brave, with the brave!
EVENING.
Oh, how I love the evening hour,
Its calm and tranquil sky,
When the parting sun from a sea of gold
Is passing silently;
And the western clouds--bright robes of heaven--
Rest gently on the breast of even!
How calm, how gorgeous, and how pure,
How peaceful and serene!
There is a promise and a hope
Enthroned o'er all the scene;
While, blushing, with resplendent pride,
The bright sun lingers on the tide.
The zephyrs on the waveless sea
Are wrapt in silent sleep,
And there is not a breath to wake
The slumbers of the deep--
Peace sits on her imperial throne,
And sounds of sadness there are none!
Methinks I hear in distance harps
By heavenly seraphs strung,
And in the concave of the sky
The holy vespers sung!
Oh, thou great Source of light and power,
We bless thee for the evening hour!
MARY.
If there 's a word that whispers love
In gentlest tones to hearts of woe,
If there 's a name more prized above,
And loved with deeper love below,
'Tis Mary.
If there 's a healing sound beneath
To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour,
If there 's a name that angels breathe
In silence with a deeper power,
'Tis Mary.
It softly hangs on many a tongue
In ladies' bower and sacred fane,
The sweetest name by poets sung--
The high and consecrated strain--
Is Mary.
And Scotia's Bard--life's holiest dream
Was his, the silent heavens above,
When on the Bible o'er the stream
He vowed his early vows of love
To Mary.
Oh, with the sweet repose of even,
By forest lone, by fragrant lea,
And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven,
How dear shall the remembrance be
Of Mary!
Scotland and Mary are entwined
With blooming wreath of fadeless green,
And printed on the undying mind;
For, oh! her fair, though fated Queen,
Was Mary.
By the lone forest and the lea,
When smiles the thoughtful evening star,
Though other names may dearer be,
The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far,
Is Mary.
ABSENCE.
The fields, the streams, the skies are fair,
There 's freshness in the balmy air,
A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods,
And pleasure fills thy solitudes,
And sweets are strewn where'er we rove--
But thou art not the land we love.
How glorious, from the eastern heaven,
The fulness of the dawn is given!
How fair on ocean's glowing breast
Sleeps the soft twilight of the west!
All radiant are thy stars above--
But thou art not the land we love.
Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam,
Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream;
From morn to noon, from noon to even,
Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven,
From field and forest, vale and grove--
But thou art not the land we love.
To high and free imaginings
Thy master minstrels swept the strings,
The brave thy sons to triumph led,
Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead,
And Liberty thy chaplet wove--
But thou art not the land we love.
From the far bosom of the sea
A flood of brightness rests on thee,
And stately to the bending skies
Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise:
Thy heavens--how fair they smile above!
But thou art not the land we love.
Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand,
The mountains of our native land!
Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free,
And their rejoicing minstrelsy!
The heath below, the blue above,
The altars of the land we love!
IS NOT THE EARTH.
Is not the earth a burial place
Where countless millions sleep,
The entrance to the abode of death,
Where waiting mourners weep,
And myriads at his silent gates
A constant vigil keep?
The sculptor lifts his chisel, and
The final stroke is come,
But, dull as the marble lip he hews,
His stiffened lip is dumb;
Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work,
He hath called to a holier home!
The soldier bends his gleaming steel,
He counts his laurels o'er,
And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win
On many a foreign shore;
But his Master declares with a sterner voice,
He shall break a lance no more!
The mariner braved the deluge long,
He bow'd to the sweeping blast,
And smiled when the frowning heavens above
Were the deepest overcast;
He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky--
He hath laid him down at last.
Far in the sea's mysterious depths
The lowly dead are laid,
Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice
Their burial service said?
Have not the quiring tempests rung
The dirges of the dead?
The vales of our native land are strewn
With a thousand pleasant things;
The uplands rejoicing in the light
Of the morning's flashing wings;
Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns--
The resting-place of kings!
And man outpours his heart to heaven,
And "chants his holiest hymn,"
But anon his frame is still and cold,
And his sparkling eyes are dim--
And who can tell but the home of death
Is a happier home to him?
OH, LOVE THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER DEAR![14]
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
He fell on Balaklava's plain,
Yet ere he found a soldier's bier
He blest his beauteous child again;
Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain,
War's deadly lightning swiftly fell,
On--on the squadron charged amain
Amidst that storm of shot and shell!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
A jewel in his heart was she,
Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear--
Even like a knight of old romance,
Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear,
Heard but the bugle sound--advance!
And paler droops the flower of France,
And brighter glows proud England's rose,
As charge they on with sabre-glance,
And thunders thickening as they close!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
And be thy grateful kindness shewn;
And still her father's name revere,
For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own;
And tell his deeds in battle done,
And how he fearless faced the foe,
And urged the snorting war-horse on
With death above, around, below!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine;
Her father's glorious deeds appear,
And laurels round her brow entwine;
In that full eye, that seems divine,
Her sire's commanding ardour glows;
His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine,
Within his daughter's bosom flows!
Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear,
A jewel in his heart was she,
Whose noble form disdain'd the storm,
And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!
FOOTNOTES:
[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair
to the present work.
THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.
To Scotland's ancient realm
Proud Edward's armies came,
To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm
Our martial force in shame:
"It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried;
"It shall not be!" his chiefs replied;
"By the name our fathers gave her,
Our steel shall drink the crimson stream,
We 'll all her dearest rights redeem--
Our own broadswords shall save her!"
With hopes of triumph flush'd,
The squadrons hurried o'er
Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd
Like wild waves to the shore:
"They come--they come!" was the gallant cry;
"They come--they come!" was the loud reply;
"O strength, thou gracious Giver!
By Love and Freedom's stainless faith,
We 'll dare the darkest night of death--
We 'll drive them back for ever!"
All o'er the waving broom,
In chivalry and grace,
Shone England's radiant spear and plume,
By Stirling's rocky base:
And, stretching far beneath the view,
Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew,
When, like a torrent rushing,
O God! from right and left the flame
Of Scottish swords like lightning came,
Great Edward's legions crushing!
High praise, ye gallant band,
Who, in the face of day,
With a daring heart and a fearless hand,
Have cast your chains away!
The foemen fell on every side--
In crimson hues the Forth was dyed--
Bedew'd with blood the heather,
While cries triumphal shook the air--
"Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare,
Wherever Scotsmen gather!"
Though years like shadows fleet
O'er the dial-stone of Time,
Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat
With the throb of manhood's prime!
Still shall the valour, love, and truth,
That shone on Scotland's early youth,
From Scotland ne'er dissever;
The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern
Shall wave around her Wallace cairn,
And bless the brave for ever!
WILLIAM MILLER.
The writer of Nursery Songs in "Whistle Binkie," William Miller, was
born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the
profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "Ye cowe a'," which
we subjoin, amply entitles him to a place among the minstrels of his
country.
YE COWE A'.
AIR--_"Comin' through the rye."_
I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade
And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said;
But nae reply my lassie gied--I blamed the waterfa';
Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'!
Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'!
I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!"
I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove,
Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love;
Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa';
Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!
Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"
To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!"
I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell,
Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well;
Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma',
And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!"
"I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried,
And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride."
Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;"
"The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'!
Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!
But wilfu' folk maun hae their way--oh, ye cowe a'!"
ALEXANDER HUME.
Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. He is
employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. As a musical
composer he has attained considerable eminence. The following popular
songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition.
MY AIN DEAR NELL.
Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee;
Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me;
Though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell,
I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell.
Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days,
When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes;
When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell,
To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell!
How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea,
Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree;
Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell--
Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell!
And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear,
We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear;
We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell,
For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!
They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair
Is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair,
Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell,
For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell!
Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee,
Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me,
As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell--
Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!
THE PAIRTIN'.
Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,
Hame, and frien's, and country dear;
Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee,
Happier days may soon be here.
See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,
Soon shall bear me o'er the sea,
Hark! the trumpet loudly sounding
Calls me far frae love and thee.
Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;
Streams run backward frae the sea;
Cauld in death maun be this bosom,
Ere it cease to throb for thee.
Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',
Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';
Ae last time thy loved form pressin'--
Think o' me when far awa'.
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS
FROM
The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.
JOHN MACDONALD, D.D.
The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic
preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic
Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish
of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of
remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or
visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his
professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved
thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume
of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred
lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the
Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.
THE MISSIONARY OF ST KILDA.
The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald
on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "_The
Hirt_" or "_Hirta_," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was
blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.
I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire,
And the missionary spirit within me is on fire;
But needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea,
Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me;
The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare,
Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair.
And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near,
Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear?
It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the main
Were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain!
But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim,
Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim.
Oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say,
'Twere better than that brow to face that I were leagues away.
But no, not so! what fears should daunt,--for what welcomes e'er outran
The welcome that I bring with me, my call from God and man?
Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering,
And, by His power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing,
And scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spake
Their welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take.
And he, believe me, has his best protection by his side
Who bears the call of God and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide;
And, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd,
When I told the men of Hirt the news I brought them from their God!
DUNCAN KENNEDY.
Duncan Kennedy was born about the year 1758. His father was gardener to
Mr M'Lachlan of Kilanahanach, in the parish of Glassary, Argyleshire. In
his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which
was then conducted by an able classical scholar. At an early age he was
qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his
native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming
acquainted with "Iain Bàn Maor" the Gaelic poet, and enjoyed the
privilege of listening to the eminent Daniel Campbell and other pious
ministers in the surrounding parishes. He was promoted to the parish
school of Kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published
his collection of "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." During his summer
vacations he travelled over the districts of Kintyre, Argyle, and Lorn,
in search of legends concerning the Fingalians, and was successful in
collecting a mass of information, which in Gaelic verse he styled "Sean
dana." The MS. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a
neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a
circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical
order. From Kilmelford parish school, Kennedy in 1790 removed to
Glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in
mercantile pursuits. At one period he realised about £10,000, but he was
latterly unfortunate and indigent. During his old age he was allowed a
small pension from "The Glasgow Merchants' Home." Several years
subsequent to 1830 he resided at Ardrisaig in Argyleshire. His death
took place at Glasgow in 1836. He has left a MS. ready for publication,
entitled "The Ark of Ancient Knowledge." His volume of hymns has passed
into a second edition.
THE RETURN OF PEACE.
With a breezy burst of singing
Blow we out the flames of rage!
Europe's peace, through Europe ringing,
Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge.
Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
Faldar, aldar, aldar, e';
Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,
Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.
Every musket to the guard-house,
And its lead to furlough send--
To the tilling of the meadows
Every gallant bayonet bend.
See, a lusty fleet is steering
Homewards, to the shore of peace;
And brave hearts, a host, are nearing
To the expectant dear's embrace.
See the kilted Highlander
As from Egypt's battles come--
Westlander and Norlander,
Eager for the sight of home.
Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,
Shelterless and sad no more,
Quite a little army gathers,
Shouting welcomes from the shore.
All the echoes are in motion,
All the sheilings ring with glee,
Since, of peace, the paths of ocean
Give the news a passage free.
The birds the dash of oars was scaring--
Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,
To their wonted branch repairing,
Sweetest numbers on the sprays.
Seem the woods to dance a measure,
Nodding as the notes inspire--
And their branches, as with pleasure,
Add their music to the choir.
Of the streamlet, every murmur
Sweetly swells the song of peace,
Chanting, with each vocal charmer,
Joys that bloom and wars that cease.
ALLAN M'DOUGALL.
Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of
Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had
the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his
subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to
Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the
vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to
his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he
was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the
vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel
Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate.
His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished
his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is
popular in the Highlands.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.
THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see.
If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',
The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',
A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',
She 's a shame and sorrow to me.
If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,
Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,
Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,
And the talk of the clachan are we.
She 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small,
If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;
Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,
Are ready to greet my return.
Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,
I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,
I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever--
Short while would suffice me to mourn.
It was not her face, or dress, or riches,
It was not a heart pierced through with stitches--
'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches
That brought me a bargain like Janet.
O when, in the spring I return from the plough,
And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,
Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,
Or a kick, if her foot is within it.
No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,
No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;
Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing
The core of my heart with her bother.
For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,
As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,
And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,
For a hag can you shew such another?
No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,
At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,
The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,
And leave the reception for me.
O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see!
KENNETH MACKENZIE.
Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness.
By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well
educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman
in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief
to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he
quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers
to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of
Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an
officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted
the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of
his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced
age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings
of hospitality.
THE SONG OF THE KILT.
My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.
The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]
Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free,
When it sends me bounding on the lea,
Or up the brae so merrily,
There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.
Give me the plaid, and on the hill
I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
And not a shiver from the chill
Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.
And for the tartan's lively flame,
In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
Alike it pleases lass and dame--
Unmatched its glories ever yet.
Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
With weapon trim the glens to tread,
And rise a stag of foremost head,
Then let him tent my culiver.
And when I marshal to the feast,
With deer-skin belt around my waist,
And in its fold a dirk embraced,
Then Roland match shall Oliver.
FOOTNOTES:
[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.
[17] Highland garb.
JOHN CAMPBELL.
John Campbell (Ian Bàn), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire,
was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same
county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any
knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with
the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages
in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred
lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan
Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much
popularity among the Gael.
THE STORM BLAST.
Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives
The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives
The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls
Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.
It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,
And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.
Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,
And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?
That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?
The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.
Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain;
A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!
Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all
The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.
JAMES M'GREGOR, D.D.
The Rev. James Macgregor, D.D., Presbyterian minister at Nova Scotia,
was born in 1762, in the vicinity of Comrie, Perthshire. He entered on
ministerial duty in Nova Scotia shortly after becoming a probationer,
and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close
of his life. He died at Pictou on the 1st of March 1830, in his 68th
year. Dr Macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in Gaelic. His
general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his
receiving the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the University of
Glasgow.
LIGHT IN THE HIGHLANDS.[18]
Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael,
Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil,
Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray;
But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.
Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,
Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;
Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,
To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.
Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scale
Will mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.
* * * * *
Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,
As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;
Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,
And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home.
No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud--
No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.
O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,
When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old,
In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear;
Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,
That sympathy or fondness ask,--and the sad world is fain
To welcome its return to love and innocence again.
FOOTNOTES:
[18] Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful
expedition to the Highlands, for the purpose of establishing the General
Assembly's Schools.
END OF VOL. V.
EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.
[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. VI.
PAISLEY
Birth Place of Tannahill, Alexander Wilson, John Wilson, &c.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration: [Handwritten: Ever yours truly,
Chas. Mackay.]]
* * * * *
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 VI.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
MDCCCLVII.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
CHARLES BAILLIE, ESQ.,
SHERIFF OF STIRLINGSHIRE,
CONVENER OF THE ACTING COMMITTEE FOR REARING
A NATIONAL MONUMENT
TO THE
ILLUSTRIOUS DEFENDER OF SCOTTISH INDEPENDENCE,
THIS SIXTH VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SENTIMENTS OF THE HIGHEST RESPECT AND ESTEEM,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION, xi
OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG. BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, xx
CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D., 1
Love aweary of the world, 8
The lover's second thoughts on world weariness, 9
A candid wooing, 11
Procrastinations, 12
Remembrances of nature, 13
Believe, if you can, 15
Oh, the happy time departed, 17
Come back! come back! 17
Tears, 18
Cheer, boys, cheer, 20
Mourn for the mighty dead, 21
A plain man's philosophy, 22
The secrets of the hawthorn, 24
A cry from the deep waters, 25
The return home, 26
The men of the North, 28
The lover's dream of the wind, 29
ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD, 31
Bonnie Mary Hay, 33
Scotland, I have no home but thee, 33
GEORGE DONALD, 35
The spring time o' life, 36
The scarlet rose-bush, 37
HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, 39
My life is one long thought of thee, 40
Why is my spirit sad? 41
Geordie Young, 42
My fairy Ellen, 44
A bachelor's complaint, 45
WILLIAM BENNET, 47
Blest be the hour of night, 48
The rose of beauty, 49
I 'll think on thee, love, 50
There 's music in a mother's voice, 51
The brig of Allan, 52
GEORGE OUTRAM, 54
Charge on a bond of annuity, 55
HENRY INGLIS, 59
Weep away, 59
JAMES MANSON, 61
Ocean, 61
The hunter's daughter, 63
An invitation, 63
Cupid and the rose-bud, 64
Robin Goodheart's carol, 65
JAMES HEDDERWICK, 67
My bark at sea, 68
Sorrow and song, 69
The land for me, 70
The emigrants, 72
First grief, 73
The linnet, 76
WILLIAM BROCKIE, 78
Ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair, 78
ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN, 80
The lang winter e'en, 80
THOMAS YOUNG, 81
Antoinette; or, The Falls, 81
ROBERT WILSON, 84
Away, away, my gallant bark, 84
Love, 85
EDWARD POLIN, 87
A good old song, 88
ALEXANDER BUCHANAN, 89
I wander'd alane, 89
Katie Blair, 91
DAVID TAYLOR, 92
My ain gudeman, 92
ROBERT CATHCART, 94
Mary, 94
WILLIAM JAMIE, 96
Auld Scotia's sangs, 96
JOHN CRAWFORD, 98
My auld wifie Jean, 102
The land o' the bonnet and plaid, 103
Sing on, fairy Devon, 104
Ann o' Cornylee, 105
My Mary dear, 106
The waes o' eild, 107
JOHN STUART BLACKIE, 109
Song of Ben Cruachan, 115
The braes of Mar, 117
My loves, 118
Liking and loving, 120
WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P., 121
Ruth, 122
Shallum, 126
THOMAS C. LATTO, 127
The kiss ahint the door, 128
The widow's ae bit lassie, 129
The yellow hair'd laddie, 130
Tell me, dear, 131
WILLIAM CADENHEAD, 133
Do you know what the birds are singing, 134
An hour with an old love, 135
ALLAN GIBSON, 137
The lane auld man, 138
The wanderer's return, 139
THOMAS ELLIOTT, 141
Up with the dawn, 142
Clyde boat song, 143
Dimples and a', 144
Bubbles on the blast, 145
A serenade, 146
A song of little things, 147
My ain mountain land, 148
When I come hame at e'en, 149
WILLIAM LOGAN, 151
Jeanie Gow, 151
JAMES LITTLE, 153
Our native hills again, 154
Here 's a health to Scotia's shore, 155
The days when we were young, 156
Lizzy Frew, 158
COLIN RAE BROWN, 159
Charlie 's comin', 160
The widow's daughter, 161
ROBERT LEIGHTON, 163
My muckle meal-pock, 163
JAMES HENDERSON, 165
The wanderer's deathbed, 165
The song of Time, 167
The Highland hills, 168
My native land, 169
JAMES MACLARDY, 171
The sunny days are come, my love, 172
Oh, my love was fair, 173
ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON, 176
Day dream, 177
Fair as a star of light, 179
Nature musical, 180
ISABELLA CRAIG, 182
Our Helen, 182
Going out and coming in, 184
My Mary an' me, 185
A song of summer, 186
ROBERT DUTHIE, 187
Song of the old rover, 187
Boatman's song, 189
Lisette, 190
ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON, 192
Things must mend, 193
The wee blink that shines in a tear, 194
Flowers of my own loved clime, 195
JAMES MACFARLAN, 196
Isabelle, 197
Household gods, 198
Poor companions, 199
WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL, 201
Lament of Wallace, 202
Oh! what is in this flaunting town, 203
MARGARET CRAWFORD, 205
My native land, 206
The emigrant's farewell, 207
The stream of life, 207
Day-dreams of other years, 209
Affection's faith, 211
GEORGE DONALD, JUN., 212
Our ain green shaw, 212
Eliza, 213
JOHN JEFFREY, 215
War-cry of the Roman insurrectionists, 216
PATRICK SCOTT, 218
The exile, 218
JOHN BATHURST DICKSON, 220
The American flag, 221
EVAN M'COLL, 222
The hills of the heather, 223
JAMES D. BURNS, 224
Rise, little star, 224
Though long the wanderer may depart, 225
GEORGE HENDERSON, 227
I canna leave my native land, 228
HORATIUS BONAR, D.D., 229
The meeting-place, 230
Trust not these seas again, 233
JOHN HALLIDAY, 234
The auld kirk bell, 234
The auld aik-tree, 236
JAMES DODDS, 238
Trial and death of Robert Baillie of Jervieswoode, 239
METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE MODERN GAELIC MINSTRELSY.
DUNCAN MACFARLAN, 249
The beauty of the shieling, 250
JOHN MUNRO, 251
The Highland welcome, 252
JOHN MACDONALD, JUN., 254
Mary, the fair of Glensmole, 254
EVAN M'COLL, 256
The child of promise, 256
INDEX, 257
INTRODUCTION.
As if pointing to a condition of primeval happiness, Poetry has been the
first language of nations. The Lyric Muse has especially chosen the land
of natural sublimity, of mountain and of flood; and such scenes she has
only abandoned when the inhabitants have sacrificed their national
liberties. Edward I., who massacred the Minstrels of Wales, might have
spared the butchery, as their strains were likely to fall unheeded on
the ears of their subjugated countrymen. The martial music of Ireland is
a matter of tradition; on the first step of the invader the genius of
chivalric song and melody departed from Erin. Scotland retains her
independence, and those strains which are known in northern Europe as
the most inspiriting and delightful, are recognised as the native
minstrelsy of Caledonia. The origin of Scottish song and melody is as
difficult of settlement as is the era or the genuineness of Ossian.
There probably were songs and music in Scotland in ages long prior to
the period of written history. Preserved and transmitted through many
generations of men, stern and defiant as the mountains amidst which it
was produced, the Minstrelsy of the North has, in the course of
centuries, continued steadily to increase alike in aspiration of
sentiment and harmony of numbers.
The spirit of the national lyre seems to have been aroused during the
war of independence,[1] and the ardour of the strain has not since
diminished. The metrical chronicler, Wyntoun, has preserved a stanza,
lamenting the calamitous death of Alexander III., an event which proved
the commencement of the national struggle.
"Quhen Alysandyr oure kyng wes dede,
That Scotland led in luve and le,
Away wes sons of ale and brede,
Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle:
Oure gold wes changyd into lede.
Cryst, borne in-to virgynyté
Succour Scotland and remede,
That stad is in perplexyté."
The antiquity of these lines has been questioned, and it must be
admitted that the strain is somewhat too dolorous for the times. Stung
as they were by the perfidious dealings of their own nobility, and the
ruthless oppression of a neighbouring monarch, the Minstrels sought
every opportunity of astirring the patriotic feelings of their
countrymen, while they despised the efforts of the enemy, and
anticipated in enraptured pæans their defeat. At the siege of Berwick in
1296, when Edward I. began his first expedition against Scotland, the
Scottish Minstrels ridiculed the attempt of the English monarch to
capture the place in some lines which have been preserved. The ballad of
"Gude Wallace" has been ascribed to this age; and if scarcely bearing
the impress of such antiquity, it may have had its prototype in another
of similar strain. Many songs, according to the elder Scottish
historians, were composed and sung among the common people both in
celebration of Wallace and King Robert Bruce.
The battle of Bannockburn was an event peculiarly adapted for the
strains of the native lyre. The following Bardic numbers commemorating
the victory have been preserved by Fabyan, the English chronicler:--
"Maydens of Englande,
Sore may ye morne,
For your lemmans, ye
Haue lost at Bannockysburne.
With heue-a-lowe,
What weneth the king of England,
So soon to have won Scotland?
Wyth rumbylowe."
Rhymes in similar pasquinade against the south were composed on the
occasion of the nuptials of the young Prince, David Bruce, with the
daughter of Edward II., which were entered into as a mean of cementing
the alliance between the two kingdoms.
After the oblivion of a century, the Scottish Muse experienced a revival
on the return, in 1424, of James I. from his English captivity to occupy
the throne. Of strong native genius, and possessed of all the learning
which could be obtained at the period, this chivalric sovereign was
especially distinguished for his skill in music and poetry. By Tassoni,
the Italian writer, he has been designated a composer of sacred music,
and the inventor of a new kind of music of a plaintive character. His
poetical works which are extant--"The King's Quair," and "Peblis to the
Play"--abound not only in traits of lively humour, but in singular
gracefulness. To his pen "Christ's Kirk on the Green" may also be
ascribed. The native minstrelsy was fostered and promoted by many of his
royal successors. James III., a lover of the arts and sciences,
delighted in the society of Roger, a musician; James IV. gave frequent
grants to Henry the Minstrel, cherished the poet Dunbar, and himself
wrote verses; James V. composed "The Gaberlunzie Man" and "The Jollie
Beggar," ballads which are still sung; Queen Mary loved music, and wrote
verses in French; and James VI., the last occupant of the Scottish
throne, sought reputation as a writer both of Latin and English poetry.
Under the patronage of the Royal House of Stewart, epic and lyric poetry
flourished in Scotland. The poetical chroniclers Barbour, Henry the
Minstrel, and Wyntoun, are familiar names, as are likewise the poets
Henryson, Dunbar, Gavin Douglas, and Sir David Lyndsay. But the authors
of the songs of the people have been forgotten. In a droll poem entitled
"Cockelby's Sow," ascribed to the reign of James I., is enumerated a
considerable catalogue of contemporary lyrics. In the prologue to Gavin
Douglas' translation of the Æneid of Virgil, written not later than
1513, and in the celebrated "Complaynt of Scotland," published in 1549,
further catalogues of the popular songs have been preserved.
The poetic gift had an influence upon the Reformation both of a
favourable and an unfavourable character. By exposing the vices of the
Popish clergy, Sir David Lyndsay and the Earl of Glencairn essentially
tended to promote the interests of the new faith; while, on the event of
the Reformation being accomplished, the degraded condition of the Muse
was calculated to undo the beneficial results of the ecclesiastical
change. The Church early attempted to remedy the evil by sanctioning the
replacement of profane ditties with words of religious import. Of this
nature the most conspicuous effort was Wedderburne's "Book of Godly and
Spiritual Ballads," a work more calculated to provoke merriment than to
excite any other feeling.
On the union of the Crowns a new era arose in the history of the
Scottish Muse. The national spirit abated, and the poets rejoiced to
write in the language of their southern neighbours. In the time of
Barbour, the Scottish and English languages were almost the same; they
were now widely dissimilar, and the Scottish poets, by writing English
verse, required to translate their sentiments into a new tongue. Their
poetry thus became more the expression of the head than the utterance of
the heart. The national bards of this period, the Earl of Stirling, Sir
Robert Aytoun, and Drummond of Hawthornden, have, amidst much elegant
versification, left no impression on the popular mind. Other poets of
that and the succeeding age imitated Buchanan, by writing in Latin
verse. Though a considerable portion of our elder popular songs may be
fairly ascribed to the seventeenth century, the names of only a few of
the writers have been preserved. The more conspicuous song writers of
this century are Francis Semple, Lord Yester, Lady Grizzel Baillie, and
Lady Wardlaw.
The taste for national song was much on the wane, when it was restored
by the successful efforts of Allan Ramsay. He revived the elder ballads
in his "Evergreen," and introduced contemporary poets in his "Tea Table
Miscellany." The latter obtained a place on the tea table of every lady
of quality, and soon became eminently popular. Among the more
conspicuous promoters of Scottish song, about the middle of last
century, were Mrs Alison Cockburn, Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, Sir
Gilbert Elliot, Sir John Clerk of Pennycuik, Dr Austin, Dr Alexander
Geddes, Alexander Ross, James Tytler, and the Rev. Dr Blacklock. The
poet Robert Fergusson, though peculiarly fond of music, did not write
songs. Scottish song reached its climax on the appearance of Robert
Burns, whose genius burst forth meteor-like amidst circumstances the
most untoward. He so struck the chord of the Scottish lyre, that its
vibrations were felt in every bosom. The songs of Caledonia, under the
influence of his matchless power, became celebrated throughout the
world. He purified the elder minstrelsy, and by a few gentle, but
effective touches, completely renovated its fading aspects. "He could
glide like dew," writes Allan Cunningham, "into the fading bloom of
departing song, and refresh it into beauty and fragrance." Contemporary
with Burns, being only seven years his junior, though upwards of half a
century later in becoming known, Carolina Oliphant, afterwards Baroness
Nairn, proved a noble coadjutor and successor to the rustic bard in
renovating the national minstrelsy. Possessing a fine musical ear, she
adapted her lyrics with singular success to the precise sentiments of
the older airs, and in this happy manner was enabled rapidly to
supersede many ribald and vulgar ditties, which, associated with
stirring and inspiring music, had long maintained a noxious popularity
among the peasantry. Of Burns' immediate contemporaries, the more
conspicuous were, John Skinner, Hector Macneill, John Mayne, and Richard
Gall. Grave as a pastor, Skinner revelled in drollery as a versifier;
Macneill loved sweetness and simplicity; Mayne, with a perception of the
ludicrous, was plaintive and sentimental; Gall was patriotic and
graceful.
Sir Walter Scott, the great poet of the past half century, if his
literary qualifications had not been so varied, had obtained renown as a
writer of Scottish songs; he was thoroughly imbued with the martial
spirit of the old times, and keenly alive to those touches of nature
which give point and force to the productions of the national lyre.
Joanna Baillie sung effectively the joys of rustic social life, and
gained admission to the cottage hearth. Lady Anne Barnard aroused the
nation to admiration by one plaintive lay. Allan Cunningham wrote the
Scottish ballad in the peculiar rhythm and with the power of the older
minstrels. Alike in mirth and tenderness, Sir Alexander Boswell was
exquisitely happy. Tannahill gave forth strains of bewitching sweetness;
Hogg, whose ballads abound with supernatural imagery, evinced in song
the utmost pastoral simplicity; Motherwell was a master of the
plaintive; Robert Nicoll rejoiced in rural loves. Among living
song-writers, Charles Mackay holds the first place in general
estimation--his songs glow with patriotic sentiment, and are redolent in
beauties; in pastoral scenes, Henry Scott Riddell is without a
competitor; James Ballantine and Francis Bennoch have wedded to
heart-stirring strains those maxims which conduce to virtue. The
Scottish Harp vibrates to sentiments of chivalric nationality in the
hands of Alexander Maclagan, Andrew Park, Robert White, and William
Sinclair. Eminent lyrical simplicity is depicted in the strains of
Alexander Laing, James Home, Archibald Mackay, John Crawford, and Thomas
C. Latto. The best ballad writers introduced in the present work are
Robert Chambers, John S. Blackie, William Stirling, M.P., Mrs Ogilvy,
and James Dodds.[2] Amply sustained is the national reputation in female
lyric poets, by the compositions of Mrs Simpson, Marion Paul Aird,
Isabella Craig, and Margaret Crawford. The national sports are
celebrated with stirring effect by Thomas T. Stoddart, William A.
Foster, and John Finlay. Sacred poetry is admirably represented by such
lyrical writers as Horatius Bonar, D.D., and James D. Burns. Many
thrilling verses, suitable for music, though not strictly claiming the
character of lyrics, have been produced by Thomas Aird, so distinguished
in the higher walks of Poetry, Henry Glassford Bell, James Hedderwick,
Andrew J. Symington, and James Macfarlan.
Of the collections of the elder Scottish Minstrelsy, the best catalogue
is supplied by Mr David Laing in the latest edition of Johnson's Musical
Museum. Of the modern collections we would honourably mention, "The Harp
of Caledonia," edited by John Struthers (3 vols. 12mo); "The Songs of
Scotland, Ancient and Modern" (4 vols. 8vo), edited by Allan Cunningham;
"The Scottish Songs" (2 vols. 12mo), edited by Robert Chambers; and,
"The Book of Scottish Song," edited by Alexander Whitelaw. Most of these
works contain original songs, but the amplest collections of these are
M'Leod's "Original National Melodies," and the several small volumes of
"Whistle Binkie."[3] The more esteemed modern collections with music are
"The Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith[4] (6 vols. 8vo); "The
Songs of Scotland, adapted to their appropriate Melodies arranged with
Pianoforte Accompaniments," edited by G. F. Graham, Edinburgh: 1848 (3
vols. royal 8vo); "The Select Songs of Scotland, with Melodies, &c."
Glasgow: W. Hamilton, 1855 (1 vol. 4to); "The Lyric Gems of Scotland, a
Collection of Scottish Songs, Original and Selected, with Music,"
Glasgow: 1856 (12mo). Of district collections of Minstrelsy, "The Harp
of Renfrewshire," published in 1820, under the editorship of Motherwell,
and "The Contemporaries of Burns," containing interesting biographical
sketches and specimens of the Ayrshire bards, claim special
commendation.
The present collection proceeds on the plan not hitherto attempted in
this country, of presenting memoirs of the song writers in connexion
with their compositions, thus making the reader acquainted with the
condition of every writer, and with the circumstances in which his
minstrelsy was given forth. In this manner, too, many popular songs, of
which the origin was generally unknown, have been permanently connected
with the names of their authors. In the preparation of the work,
especially in procuring materials for the memoirs and biographical
notices, the editor has been much occupied during a period of four
years. The translations from the Gaelic Minstrelsy have been supplied,
with scarcely an exception, by a gentleman, a native of the Highlands,
who is well qualified to excel in various departments of literature.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as the Rhymer, lived in the reign
of Alexander III. No lyric of his composition has been preserved.
[2] The ballads of Professor Aytoun, it is hardly necessary to remark,
would have been an ornament to any age.
[3] The publisher of this meritorious little work, Mr David Robertson of
Glasgow, was a native of Port of Menteith, Perthshire; he died at
Glasgow on the 6th of October 1854. Mr Robertson maintained an extensive
correspondence with the humbler bards, and succeeded in recovering many
interesting lyrics, which would otherwise have perished. He was also
reputed as the publisher of the facetious collection of anecdotes which
appeared under the title of the "Laird of Logan."
[4] Robert Archibald Smith, so justly celebrated in connexion with the
modern history of Scottish Music, was born at Reading, Berkshire, on the
16th November 1780. In his twentieth year he settled in Paisley, where
he formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, whose best songs he
subsequently set to music. In 1823, he became precentor in St George's
Church, Edinburgh, on the recommendation of its celebrated pastor, the
late Dr Andrew Thomson. His numerous musical works continue to be held
in high estimation. His death took place at Edinburgh on the 3d January
1829.
OBSERVATIONS ON SCOTTISH SONG:
WITH
REMARKS ON THE GENIUS
OF
LADY NAIRN, THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD, AND ROBERT TANNAHILL.
BY HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.
Songs are the household literature of the Scottish people; they are
especially so as regards the rural portion of the population. Till of
late years, when collections of song have become numerous, and can be
procured at a limited price, a considerable trade was carried on by
itinerant venders of halfpenny ballads. Children who were distant from
school, learned to read on these; and the aged experienced satisfaction
in listening to words and sentiments familiar to them from boyhood. That
the Scots, a thoughtful and earnest people, should have evinced such a
deep interest in minstrelsy, is explained in the observation of Mr
Carlyle, that "serious nations--all nations that can still listen to the
mandates of Nature--have prized song and music as the highest." Deep
feeling, like powerful thought, seeks and finds relief in expression;
the wisdom of Divine benevolence has so arranged, that what brings
relief to one, generally affords peace or pleasure to another. And,
further, where there is a susceptibility, a capacity of enjoyment, there
will be efforts made in order to its gratification. The human heart
loves the things of romance, and in the exercise of its native
privilege, delights to feel. Scottish song has been written in harmony
with nature, scenery, and circumstances; and fledged in its own
melodies, which seem no less the outpouring of native sensibility, has
borne itself onward from generation to generation.
Respecting these airs or melodies, a few remarks may be offered. The
genius of our mountain land, as if prompted alike by thought and
feeling, has in these wrought a spell of matchless power--a fascination,
which, reaching the hearts both of old and young, maintains an
imperishable sway over them. One has said,--
"'Tis not alone the scenes of glen and hill,
And haunts and homes beside the murmuring rill;
Nor all the varied beauties of the year,
That so can Scotland to our hearts endear--
The merry both and melancholy strain,
Their power assert, and o'er the spirit reign;
Indebted more to nature than to art,
They reach the ear to fascinate the heart;
And waken hope that, animating, cheers,
Or bathe our being in the flow of tears."
Native, as well as foreign writers, assert that King James the First was
the inventor of a new kind of music, which they further characterise as
being sweet and plaintive. These terms certainly indicate the leading
features of Scottish music. There is something not only of wild
sweetness, but touches of pathos even in its merriest measures. Though
termed a new kind of music, however, it was not new. The king took up
the key-note of the human heart--the primitive scale, or what has been
defined the scale of nature, and produced some of those wild and
plaintive strains which we now call Scottish melodies. His poetry was
descriptive of, and adapted to the feelings, customs, and manners of his
countrymen; and he followed, doubtless, the same course in the music
which he composed. By his skill and education, he rendered his
compositions more regular and palpable, than those songs and their airs
which had been framed and sung by the sad-hearted swain on the hill, or
the love-lorn maiden in the green wood.
Not in music only, but in the words of song, some of the Scottish kings
had such a share as to stamp the art and practice of song-writing with
royal sanction. Thus encouraged, the native minstrelsy was fostered by
the whole community, receiving accessions from succeeding generations. A
people who, along with their heroic leader, possessed sufficient courage
to face, with such appalling odds, the foe at Bannockburn--who, at an
after date, fought at Flodden against both their better wit and will,
rather than gainsay their king--and who, in more recent times, protected
him whom they regarded as their rightful prince, at the risk of life and
fortune, were not likely to fail in advancing what royalty had loved,
especially when it was deemed so essential to their happiness. The
poetic spirit entered in and arose out of the heart of the people. The
song and air produced in the court, represented the sentiment of the
cottage. It is still the same. Rights and privileges have been lost,
manners and customs have changed, but song, the forthgiving of the
heart, does not on the heart quit its claim.
Within the modern period, the harp of Caledonia gives forth similar
utterances in the hands of Lady Nairn, the Ettrick Shepherd, and Robert
Tannahill. Different in station and occupations--even in motives to
composition--these three great lyrists were each deeply influenced by
that peculiar acquaintance with Scottish feeling which, brilliantly
illustrated by their genius, has deeply impressed their names on the
national heart.
Lady Nairn, highly born and educated, delighted to sympathise with the
people. If among these she found the forthgivings of human nature less
sophisticated, the principles upon which she proceeded impelled her to
write for the humbler classes of society, and the result has been that
she has written for all. In every class human nature is essentially the
same; and though hearts may have wandered far from the primitive truths
which belong to the life and character of mankind in common, they may
yet be brought back by that which tells winningly upon them--by that
which awakens native feeling and early associations. There is much of
this kind of efficiency in song, when song is what it ought to be. If,
when the true standard is adhered to by those who exercise their powers
in producing it, and who have been born and bred in circumstances of
life so different, it can establish a unity of sentiment--it must
necessarily effect, in a greater or less degree, the same thing among
those who learn and sing the lays which they produce. And, indeed, it
would seem a truth that, by the congenial influences of song, the hearts
of a nation are more united--more willing to be subdued into
acquiescence and equality, than by any other merely human
instrumentality.
If, in Scotland till of late years, writing for fortune was rather than
otherwise regarded as disreputable, writing for fame was never so
accounted. But even than for fame Lady Nairn had a higher motive. She
knew that the minstrels of ruder times had composed, and, through the
aid of the national melodies, transmitted to posterity strains ill
fitted to promote the interests of sound morality, yet that the love of
these sweet and wild airs made the people tenacious of the words to
which they were wedded. Her principal, if not her sole object, was to
disjoin these, and to supplant the impurer strains. Doubtless that
capacity of genius, which enabled her to write as she has done, might,
as an inherent stimulus, urge her to seek gratification in the exercise
of it; but, even in this case, the virtue of her main motive underwent
no diminution. She was well aware how deeply the Scottish heart imbibed
the sentiments of song, so that these became a portion of its nature, or
of the principles upon which the individuals acted, however
unconsciously, amid the intercourse of life. Lessons could thus be
taught, which could not, perhaps, be communicated with the same effect
by any other means. This pleasing agency of education in the school of
moral refinement Lady Nairn has exercised with genial tact and great
beauty; and, liberally as she bestowed benefactions on her fellow-kind
in many other respects, it may be said no gifts conferred could bear in
their beneficial effects a comparison to the songs which she has
written. Her strains thrilled along the chords of a common nature,
beguiling ruder thought into a more tender and generous tone, and
lifting up the lower towards the loftier feeling. If feeling constitutes
the nursery of much that is desirable in national character, it is no
less true that well assorted and confirmed nationality will always prove
the most trustworthy and lasting safeguard of freedom. It is the
combination of heart--the universal unity of sentiment--which renders a
people powerful in the preservation of right and privilege, home and
hearth; and few things of merely human origin will serve more thoroughly
to promote such unity, than the songs of a song-loving people. The
continual tendency of these is to imbue all with the same sentiment, and
to awaken, and keep awake, those sympathies which lead mankind to a
knowledge of themselves individually, and of one another in general,
thus preventing the different grades of society from diverging into
undue extremes of distinction. Nor ought the observation to be omitted,
that if a lady of high standing in society, of genius, refined taste and
feeling, and withal of singular purity of heart, could write songs that
the inhabitants of her native land could so warmly appreciate as by
their singing to render them popular, it would evince no inconsiderable
worth in that people that she could so sympathise and so identify
herself with them.
From the position and circumstances of Lady Nairn, those of the Ettrick
Shepherd were entirely different. Hogg was one of the people. To write
songs calculated to be popular, he needed only to embody forth in poetic
shape what he felt and understood from the actual experiences of life
amid the scenes and circumstances in which he had been born and bred;
his compeers, forming that class of society in which it has been thought
the nature of man wears least disguise, were his first patrons. He
required, therefore, less than Lady Nairn the exercise of that sympathy
by which we place ourselves in the circumstances of others, and know how
in these, others think and feel. His poetic effusions were homely and
graphic, both in their sprightful humour and more tender sentiment. They
were sung by the shepherd on the hill, and the maiden at the hay-field,
or when the _kye cam' hame_ at "the farmer's ingle," and in the _bien_
cottage of the _but_ and _ben_, where at eventide the rustics delighted
to meet. As experience gave him increased command over the hill harp,
his ambition to produce strains of greater beauty and refinement also
increased. By and by his minstrel numbers manifested a vigour and
perfection which rendered them the admiration of persons of higher rank,
and more competent powers of judgment.
If, with the very simple and seemingly insignificant weapon of Scottish
song, the Baroness Nairn "stooped," the Shepherd stood up "to conquer."
Both adhered to the dictates of nature, and in both cases the result was
the same; nor could the most marked inconveniences which circumstances
imposed hinder that result. A time comes when false things shew their
futility, and things depending upon truth assert their supremacy. The
difference between the authoress and the author lay in those external
circumstances of station and position which could not long, much less
always, be of avail. Their minds were directed by a power of nature to
do essentially the same thing; the difference only being that each did
it in her and his own way. We may suppose that while Lady Nairn in her
baronial hall wrote--
"Bonnie Charlie 's now awa',
Safely ower the friendly main,
Mony a heart will break in twa
Should he ne'er come back again;"
the Ettrick Shepherd seated on "a moss-gray stane," or a heather-bush,
and substituting his knee for his writing desk, might be furnishing
forth for the world's entertainment the lament, commencing--
"Far over yon hills of the heather sae green,
And down by the corrie that sings to the sea,
The bonnie young Flora sat sighing alane,
Wi' the dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e."
Or when the lady was producing "The land o' the leal," a lay which has
reached and sunk so deeply into all hearts, the Shepherd might be
singing among the wild mountains the affecting and popular ditty, the
truth of which touched his own heart so powerfully, of "The moon was a'
waning," or saying to the skylark--
"Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea;
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place,
Oh! to abide in the desert with thee!"
Tannahill has likewise written a number of songs which have been
deservedly admired, loved, and sung. Allan Cunningham used to say, that
if he could only succeed in writing two songs which the inhabitants of
his native land would continue to sing, he would account it sufficient
fame. Tannahill has accomplished this, and much more. In temperament, as
well as circumstances, he differed widely both from Lady Nairn and the
Ettrick Shepherd. Amiable and good in all her ways, Lady Nairn's career
appears to have been lovely and alluring as the serene summer eve; the
Shepherd was rich as autumn, in the enjoyment of life itself, and all
that life could bring; but Tannahill's nature was cloudy, sensitive, and
uncertain as the April day. Lady Nairn, ambitious of doing good and
promoting happiness, dwelt, in heart at least, "among her own people,"
giving and receiving alike those charms of unbroken delight which spring
from the kindness of the kind, and fearing nothing so much as public
notoriety. Hogg loved fame, yet took no pains to secure it. Fame,
nevertheless, reached him; but when found, it was with him a possession
much resembling the child's toy. His heart to the last appeared too
deeply imbued with the unsuspicious simplicity and carelessness of the
boy to have much concern about it. On this point Tannahill was morbidly
sensitive; his was an unfortunate cast of temperament, which, deepening
more and more, surrounded him with imaginary evils, and rendered life
insupportable. Lady Nairn was too modest not to be distrustful of the
extent of her genius, and presumed only to exercise it in composing
words to favourite melodies. The genius of Tannahill was more
circumscribed, and he was consequently more timid and painstaking. Hogg,
ambitious of originality, was bold and reckless. He had the power of
assuming many distinct varieties of style, his mind, taking the tone of
the subject entered upon, as easily as the musician passes from one note
to another. In education, Tannahill had the advantage over the Shepherd,
but in nothing else. The Shepherd's occupation was much more calculated
to inspire him with the feelings, and more fitted in everything to urge
to the cultivation of poetry, than the employment at which Tannahill was
doomed to labour. The beauty and grandeur of nature, solemn and sublime,
surround the path of him who tends the flocks. Though occasionally
called upon to face the blast, and wrestle with the storm, he still
experiences a charm. But when the broad earth is green below, and the
wide bending sky blue above, the voice of nature in the sounding of
streams, the song of birds, and the bleating of sheep differ widely from
what the susceptible and poetic mind is destined to experience amidst
the clanking din of shuttles in the dingy, narrow workshop of the
handloom weaver. Here the breath of the light hill breeze cannot come;
the form is bowed down, and the cheek is pale. Life, however buoyant and
aspiring at first, necessarily ere long becomes saddened and subdued. To
poor Tannahill it became a burden--more than he could bear. Yet it was
among these circumstances that he contrived to compose those chaste and
beautiful songs which have delighted, and still continue to delight, the
hearts of so many. Though not marked with much that can be termed
strikingly original, this, instead of militating against them, may have
told in their favour. Wayward conceits, fanciful thoughts and
expressions in songs, are like the hectic hue on the cheek of the
unhealthy; it may appear to give a surpassing beauty, but it is a beauty
which forebodes decay. "Oh, are ye sleeping, Maggie?" may be regarded as
the most original of Tannahill's songs. It is more ardent in tone, and
in every respect more poetic, than his other lyrics. The imagery is not
only striking, but true to nature, though in maintaining the simple and
tender, it does more than approach the sublime. His style is uniformly
distinguished by a chaste simplicity, and well sustained power.
In these observations, we have pointed to that affinity of mind which
unites in sentiment those possessing it, in spite of worldly
distinctions. And song, too, we have found, is a prevalent and
far-pervading agency, which become the mean of binding together a
nation's population on the ground of that which is true to nature. It,
therefore, does so in a manner more congenial and pleasurable than most
other ties which bind; those of interest and necessity may be stronger,
indeed, but these ties being much more selfish, are also, in most
instances, much less harmonious. Song-writing is the highest attribute
of poetic genius. The epic poet has to do with the exercise of energies,
which produce deeds that are decided, together with the operation of
passions and feelings which are borne into excess. These are more easily
depicted than the gentler sentiments and feelings, together with the
lights and shades of national character which constitute the materials
of song. Nor will strains which set forth the actions of mankind as
operating in excess, ever be so popular as simple song. Though
communities are liable to periods of excitement, this is not their
natural condition. Songs founded upon such, may be popular while the
excitement lasts, but not much longer. Philosophers and inquiring
individuals may revert to and dwell upon them, but the generality of the
people will renounce them. Those who linger over them, will do so
through a disposition to ascertain the causes which gave them birth, and
how far these were natural in the circumstances. He who sings, feels
that the same ardour cannot be re-awakened; and the sentiments which the
poet has expressed become as things that are false and foolish.
Nearly all the poems of Burns proceed on the same principles upon which
popular song proceeds. He approved himself considerably original and
singularly interesting, by taking up and saying, in the language best
suited for the purpose, what his countrymen had either already, to one
extent or other, thought and felt, or were, at his suggestion, fully
prepared to think and feel. It is thus that song becomes the truest
history of a people; they, properly speaking, have rarely any other
historian than the poet. History, in its stateliness, does not deign to
dwell upon their habits, their customs and manners, and, therefore,
cannot unfold their usual modes of thinking and feeling; it only notices
those more anomalous emergencies when the ebullitions of high passion
and excitement prevail; and such not being the natural condition of any
people, a true representation of their real character is not given. If
song equally tends to strengthen the bonds of nationality, it is also
that from which the true cast of a land's inhabitants can be gathered.
From habits and training, together with the native shades of peculiar
character, there is in human nature great variety; so, consequently, is
there also in song, for perhaps it might be difficult to fix upon one of
these peculiarities, whether of outward manner or inward disposition,
which song has not taken up and illustrated in its own way. Every song,
of course, has an aim or leading sentiment pervading it. It either tells
a tale calculated to interest human nature and revive feeling, or sets
forth a sentiment which human nature entertains, so that it shall be
turned to better account. This involves the field which song has it in
its power to cultivate and improve. But neither the pure moralist, nor
the accomplished critic, must expect a very great deal to be done on
this field at once. The song-writer has difficulties to contend with,
both in regard to those by whom he would have his songs sung, and the
airs to which he writes them. If in the latter case he would willingly
substitute classical and sounding language for monosyllables and
contracted words, the measures which the air require will not allow him;
and should he suddenly lift up and bear high the standard of moral
refinement, those who should attend may fail to appreciate the movement,
and refuse to follow him. If he can contrive, therefore, to interest and
entertain with what is at least harmless, it is much, considering how
wide a field even one popular song occupies, and how many of an
undesirable kind it may meanwhile displace and eventually supersede. The
tide of evil communications cannot be barred back at once, and song
remedy the evil which song in its impurer state has done. Nor is the
critic, who weighs these disadvantages, likely to pronounce a very
decided judgment upon the superiority and inferiority of songs, whether
in general or individually.
Few of the different classes of society may view them in the same light,
and estimate them on the same grounds that he does. If he _thinks_, the
people _feel_; and they overturn his decisions by the songs which they
adopt and render popular. It is by no means so much the correct beauty
of the composition, as the suitableness of the sentiment, which insures
their patronage. Few of the songs of Burns are so correctly and
elegantly composed as "The lass of Ballochmyle;" yet few of his songs
have been more rarely sung.
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL.
CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D.[5]
Our first volume contained the portrait of Sir Walter Scott; our sixth
and concluding volume is adorned by the portrait of Charles Mackay. In
these distinguished men there is not only a strong mental similarity,
but also a striking physical resemblance. Those who are curious in such
matters will do well to compare the two portraits. The one was the most
prolific and popular writer at the commencement of the century; the
other is the most prolific and popular song-writer of the present day.
Wherever the English language is heard and patriotic songs are sung,
Charles Mackay will be present in his verse. He rejoices in his English
songs; but Scotland claims him as a son.
Charles Mackay is of ancient and honourable extraction. His paternal
ancestors were the Mackays of Strathnaver, in Sutherlandshire; while, on
the mother's side, he is descended from the Roses of Kilravock, near
Inverness, for many centuries the proprietors of one of the most
interesting feudal strongholds in the Highlands. The Mrs Rose of
Kilravock, whose name appears in the "Correspondence" of Burns, was
Charles Mackay's maternal grandmother.
He was born at Perth in 1814; but his early years were spent in London,
his parents having removed to the metropolis during his infancy. There
he received the rudiments of an education which was completed in the
schools of Belgium and Germany. His relation, General Mackay, intended
that he should adopt the military profession; but family arrangements
and other circumstances prevented the fulfilment of that intention.
The poetical faculty cannot be acquired; it must be born with a man,
growing with his growth, and strengthening with his strength, until
developed by the first great impulse that agitates his being, and
generally that is love. There are versifiers innumerable who are not
poets, but there are no poets whose hearts remain unstirred by the
exciting passion of irrepressible love, when song becomes the written
testimony of the inner life. Whether it was so with Charles Mackay we
have not ascertained, nor have we cared to inquire. His love-songs,
however, are exquisitely touching, and among the purest compositions in
the language. Certain it is that the poetical power was early
manifested; for we find that, in 1836, he gave his first poems to the
public. The unpretending volume attracted the attention of John Black,
who was then the distinguished editor of the _Morning Chronicle_. Ever
ready to recognise genius wherever it could be found, and always
prepared to lend a hand to lift into light the unobtrusive author who
laboured in the shade, he offered young Mackay a place on the paper,
which was accepted, and filled with such ability that he was rapidly
promoted to the responsible position of sub-editor. He soon became one
of the marked men of the time in connexion with the press; and, in 1844,
he undertook the editorship of the _Glasgow Argus_, a journal devoted to
the advocacy of advanced liberal opinions.
This paper he conducted for three years, and returned to London, where
he received the appointment of editor of the _Illustrated London News_,
a situation which, considering the peculiar character of the paper, he
fills with consummate tact. Some of the great organs of public opinion
may thunder forth embittered denunciations, others, in the silkiest
tone, will admonish so gently that they half approve the misconduct of
people in power if their birth happens to have been sufficiently
elevated. The distinguishing characteristics of the political articles
written by Charles Mackay are their manly and thoroughly independent
spirit, avoiding alike fulsome adulation and indiscriminate abuse. His
censure and his praise are always governed by strictest impartiality.
Whether he condemns or whether he applauds he secures the respect even
of those from whom he differs the most. It is no small merit to possess
such a power in the conflict and strife of politics. We happen to know a
circumstance which speaks volumes on this subject. The peculiarities of
the press of England were being discussed in the presence of a foreign
nobleman, of high rank and political influence, who expressed himself to
this effect:--"Some of your newspapers are _feared_, some simply
tolerated, some detested, and some merit our contempt, but the
_Illustrated London News_ is respected. It is admitted everywhere, it is
read everywhere; and, although it is sometimes severe, its very severity
is appreciated, because it is the expression of earnest conviction and
sterling good sense; the result is, that it has, on the Continent, a
wider influence than any paper published in England."