Mackay's works have been numerous and various. Without presuming to be

perfectly accurate, we shall attempt a list of his several publications.

His first, as we have already stated, was a small volume of "Poems,"

published in 1836. This was followed by the "Hope of the World," a poem,

in heroic verse, published in 1839. Soon afterwards appeared "The Thames

and its Tributaries," a most suggestive, agreeable, and gossiping book.

In 1841 appeared his "Popular Delusions," a work of considerable merit;

and next came, in 1842, his romance of "Longbeard, Lord of London," so

well conceived and cleverly executed, that an archæologist of

considerable pretensions mistook it for a genuine historical record of

the place on which it was written. His next work, and up till that

period his noblest poem, "The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality,"

appeared in 1843. As there is no hesitation in his thought, there is no

vagueness in his language; it is terse, clear, and direct in every

utterance. An enemy to spasms in every form, he abhors the Spasmodic

School of Poets. If the true poet be the seer--the far seer into

futurity--he should see his way clear before him. He should write

because he has a thought to utter, and ought to utter it in the clearest

and the fittest language, and this is the principle which manifestly

governs the compositions of Charles Mackay. The "Salamandrine" lifted

his works high in the poetic scale, and permanently fixed him, not only

in the ranks, but marked him as a leader of the host of eminent British

poets. His residence in Scotland enabled him to visit many places famous

in Scottish history. The results were his "Legends of the Isles,"

published in 1845 and his "Voices from the Mountains" in 1846. A few

months before the publication of the last named volume, the University

of Glasgow conferred upon him the degree of LL.D.

When the London _Daily News_ was started, he contributed some stirring

lyrics, under the title of "Voices from the Crowd." They arrested the

attention of the public, and tended greatly to popularise and establish

the reputation of that journal. In 1847 appeared his "Town Lyrics," a

series of ballads which harrowed the soul by laying bare many of the

secret miseries of the town. In 1850 was published his exquisite poem of

"Egeria," probably the most refined and artistic of all his productions;

and in 1856 he gave to the world "The Lump of Gold," and "Under Green

Leaves," two volumes of charming poetry; the first tracing the evils

that flow from unrestrained cupidity; the second the delights of the

country, under every circumstance that can or does occur. Latterly he

has composed some popular airs, set to his own lyrics; thus giving to

the melody he has conceived the immortality of his verse. With the late

Sir Henry Bishop he was associated in re-arranging a hundred of the

choicest old English melodies. The music has been re-arranged; and many

a lovely air, inadmissible to cultivated society from its being

associated with vulgar or debasing words, has been re-admitted to the

social circle, and is fast floating into public favour in union with the

words composed by Mackay.

Here we stop. This is not the time, nor is it the place, to discuss,

with any great elaboration, the merits or peculiarities of Charles

Mackay as an author. We have to do with him as the most successful of

song-writers. Two of his songs, perhaps not among his best, have

obtained a world-wide popularity. His "Good Time Coming," and his

"Cheer, Boys, Cheer," have been ground to death by barrel-organs, but

only to experience a resurrection to immortality. On the wide sea, amid

the desert, across the prairies, in burning India, in far Australia, and

along the frozen steppes of Russia are floating those imperishable airs

suggested by the "Lyrics" whose names they bear. The soldier and the

sailor, conscious of impending danger, think of beloved ones at home;

unconsciously they hum a melody, and comfort is restored. The emigrant,

forced by various circumstances to leave his native land, where, instead

of inheriting food and raiment, he had experienced hunger, nakedness,

and cold, endeavours to express his feelings, and is discovered crooning

over the tune that correctly interprets his emotions, and thrills his

heart with gladness. The poet's song has become incorporated with the

poor man's nature. You may see that it fills his eyes with tears; but

they are not of sorrow. His cheek is flushed with hope, and a radiant

expectation, founded on experience, which seems to illuminate and gild

his future destiny. Marvellous, indeed, are the influences of a true

song; and while they are rare, they are by fashion rarely appreciated.

In it are embodied the best thoughts in the best language. By it the

best of every class in every clime are swayed. In it they find

expression for sensations, which, but for the poet, might have slumbered

unexpressed till the day of doom.

Whether we think of Charles Mackay as a journalist, as a novelist, as a

poet, or as a musician, he wins our admiration in all. Possessing, as he

does in a high degree, a fine imagination, allied to the kindliest

feelings springing from a sensitive and considerate heart, he is beloved

by his friends, and cares little for the vulgar admiration of the

crowd. The pomp, and circumstance, and self-exaltation, so current

now-a-days, he utterly despises. But the kindliness, the glowing

sympathies of a few kindred spirits gladden him and make him happy.

Though modest and retiring in his disposition, he has no shamefacedness.

His conversation is like his verse; there is neither tinsel nor glitter,

but genuine, solid stuff. Something that bears examination; something

you can take up and handle; something to brood over and reflect upon;

something that wins its way by its truthfulness, and compels you to

accept it as a principle; something that sticks close, and springs up in

the future a very fountain of pure and unadulterated joy; from all this

it will be inferred that no man can remain long in his company without

feeling that he is not only a wiser, but a better man for the privilege

enjoyed. He is still in the prime of life and the maturity of his

intellect. May we not, in concluding this slight notice of his life and

character, express a hope which we know to be a general one--that he may

yet live to write many more poems and many more songs, as good or better

than those which he has already given to the world?

FOOTNOTES:

[5] The present Memoir has been prepared, at our request, by Francis

Bennoch, Esq.

LOVE AWEARY OF THE WORLD.

Oh! my love is very lovely,

In her mind all beauties dwell;

She, robed in living splendour,

Grace and modesty attend her,

And I love her more than well.

But I 'm weary, weary, weary,

To despair my soul is hurl'd;

I am weary, weary, weary,

I am weary of the world!

She is kind to all about her,

For her heart is pity's throne;

She has smiles for all men's gladness,

She has tears for every sadness,

She is hard to me alone.

And I 'm weary, weary, weary,

From a love-lit summit hurl'd;

I am weary, weary, weary,

I am weary of the world!

When my words are words of wisdom

All her spirit I can move,

At my wit her eyes will glisten,

But she flies and will not listen

If I dare to speak of love.

Oh! I 'm weary, weary, weary,

By a storm of passions whirl'd;

I am weary, weary, weary,

I am weary of the world!

True, that there are others fairer--

Fairer?--No, that cannot be--

Yet some maids of equal beauty,

High in soul and firm in duty,

May have kinder hearts than she.

Why, by heart, so weary, weary,

To and fro by passion whirl'd?--

Why so weary, weary, weary,

Why so weary of the world?

Were my love but passing fancy,

To another I might turn;

But I 'm doom'd to love unduly

One who will not answer truly,

And who freezes when I burn.

And I 'm weary, weary, weary,

To despair my soul is hurl'd;

I am weary, weary, weary,

I am weary of the world!

THE LOVER'S SECOND THOUGHTS ON WORLD WEARINESS.

Heart! take courage! 'tis not worthy

For a woman's scorn to pine,

If her cold indifference wound thee,

There are remedies around thee

For such malady as thine.

Be no longer weary, weary,

From thy love-lit summits hurl'd;

Be no longer weary, weary,

Weary, weary of the world!

If thou must be loved by woman,

Seek again--the world is wide;

It is full of loving creatures,

Fair in form, and mind, and features--

Choose among them for thy bride.

Be no longer weary, weary,

To and fro by passion whirl'd;

Be no longer weary, weary,

Weary, weary of the world!

Or if Love should lose thy favour,

Try the paths of honest fame,

Climb Parnassus' summit hoary,

Carve thy way by deeds of glory,

Write on History's page thy name.

Be no longer weary, weary,

To the depth of sorrow hurl'd;

Be no longer weary, weary,

Weary, weary of the world!

Or if these shall fail to move thee,

Be the phantoms unpursued,

Try a charm that will not fail thee

When old age and grief assail thee--

Try the charm of doing good.

Be no longer weak and weary,

By the storms of passion whirl'd;

Be no longer weary, weary,

Weary, weary of the world!

Love is fleeting and uncertain,

And can bate where it adored,

Chase of glory wears the spirit,

Fame not always follows merit,

Goodness is its own reward.

Be no longer weary, weary,

From thine happy summit hurl'd;

Be no longer weary, weary,

Weary, weary of the world!

A CANDID WOOING.

I cannot give thee all my heart,

Lady, lady,

My faith and country claim a part,

My sweet lady;

But yet I 'll pledge thee word of mine

That all the rest is truly thine;--

The raving passion of a boy,

Warm though it be, will quickly cloy--

Confide thou rather in the man

Who vows to love thee all he can,

My sweet lady.

Affection, founded on respect,

Lady, lady,

Can never dwindle to neglect,

My sweet lady;

And, while thy gentle virtues live,

Such is the love that I will give.

The torrent leaves its channel dry,

The brook runs on incessantly;

The storm of passion lasts a day,

But deep, true love endures alway,

My sweet lady.

Accept then a divided heart,

Lady, lady,

_Faith_, _Friendship_, _Honour_, each have part,

My sweet lady.

While at one altar we adore,

_Faith_ shall but make us love the more;

And _Friendship_, true to all beside,

Will ne'er be fickle to a bride;

And _Honour_, based on manly truth,

Shall love in age as well as youth,

My sweet lady.

PROCRASTINATIONS.

If Fortune with a smiling face

Strew roses on our way,

When shall we stoop to pick them up?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But should she frown with face of care,

And talk of coming sorrow,

When shall we grieve--if grieve we must?

To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those who 've wrong'd us own their faults

And kindly pity pray,

When shall we listen and forgive?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But if stern Justice urge rebuke,

And warmth from memory borrow,

When shall we chide--if chide we dare?

To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If those to whom we owe a debt

Are harm'd unless we pay,

When shall we struggle to be just?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But if our debtor fail our hope,

And plead his ruin thorough,

When shall we weigh his breach of faith?

To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

If Love, estranged, should once again

His genial smile display,

When shall we kiss his proffer'd lips?

To-day, my love, to-day,

But, if he would indulge regret,

Or dwell with bygone sorrow,

When shall we weep--if weep we must?

To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

For virtuous acts and harmless joys

The minutes will not stay;

We 've always time to welcome them

To-day, my love, to-day.

But care, resentment, angry words,

And unavailing sorrow

Come far too soon, if they appear

To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

REMEMBRANCES OF NATURE.

I remember the time, thou roaring sea,

When thy voice was the voice of Infinity--

A joy, and a dread, and a mystery.

I remember the time, ye young May flowers,

When your odours and hues in the fields and bowers

Fell on my soul as on grass the showers.

I remember the time, thou blustering wind,

When thy voice in the woods, to my youthful mind,

Seem'd the sigh of the earth for human kind.

I remember the time, ye suns and stars,

When ye raised my soul from its mortal bars

And bore it through heaven on your golden cars.

And has it then vanish'd, that happy time?

Are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime

Deaf to thy soul in its manly prime?

Ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain,

When the world and its facts oppress my brain,

In the world of spirit I rove--I reign.

I feel a deep and a pure delight

In the luxuries of sound and sight--

In the opening day, in the closing night.

The voices of youth go with me still,

Through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill,

In the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill.

Every flower is a lover of mine,

Every star is a friend divine:

For me they blossom, for me they shine.

To give me joy the oceans roll,

They breathe their secrets to my soul,

With me they sing, with me condole.

Man cannot harm me if he would,

I have such friends for my every mood

In the overflowing solitude.

Fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir

To put disunion or hate of her

'Twixt Nature and her worshipper.

Sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies!

Ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes!

Whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries!

Sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod!

Speak to me ever, thou flowery sod!

Ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of God.

BELIEVE IF YOU CAN.

_Music by the Author._

Hope cannot cheat us,

Or Fancy betray;

Tempests ne'er scatter

The blossoms of May;

The wild winds are constant,

By method and plan;

Oh! believe me, believe me,

Believe if you can!

Young Love, who shews us

His midsummer light,

Spreads the same halo

O'er Winter's dark night;

And Fame never dazzles

To lure and trepan;

Oh! believe me, believe me,

Believe if you can!

Friends of the sunshine

Endure in the storm;

Never they promise

And fail to perform.

And the night ever ends

As the morning began;

Oh! believe me, believe me,

Believe if you can!

Words softly spoken

No guile ever bore;

Peaches ne'er harbour

A worm at the core;

And the ground never slipp'd

Under high-reaching man;

Oh! believe me, believe me,

Believe if you can!

Seas undeceitful,

Calm smiling at morn,

Wreck not ere midnight

The sailor forlorn.

And gold makes a bridge

Every evil to span;

Oh! believe me, believe me,

Believe if you can.

OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED!

_Air by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Oh, the happy time departed!

In its smile the world was fair;

We believed in all men's goodness;

Joy and hope were gems to wear;

Angel visitants were with us,

There was music in the air.

Oh, the happy time departed!

Change came o'er it all too soon;

In a cold and drear November

Died the leafy wealth of June;

Winter kill'd our summer roses;

Discord marr'd a heavenly tune.

Let them pass--the days departed--

What befell may ne'er befall;

Why should we with vain lamenting

Seek a shadow to recall?

Great the sorrows we have suffer'd--

Hope is greater than them all.

COME BACK! COME BACK!

Come back! come back! thou youthful Time,

When joy and innocence were ours,

When life was in its vernal prime,

And redolent of sweets and flowers.

Come back--and let us roam once more,

Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways,

And gather garlands as of yore--

Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then

To cherish faith in love and truth,

For nothing in dispraise of men

Had sour'd the temper of our youth.

Come back--and let us still believe

The gorgeous dream romance displays,

Nor trust the tale that men deceive--

Come back--come back--ye happy days!

Come back!--oh, freshness of the past,

When every face seem'd fair and kind,

When sunward every eye was cast,

And all the shadows fell behind.

Come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn

Their own Decembers into Mays;

The secret be it ours to learn--

Come back--come back--ye happy days!

TEARS.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

O ye tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,

Ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow;

I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring,

And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;

Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun;

The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,

And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,

I was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak.

Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free,

And know that I am human by the light of sympathy.

O ye tears! O ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain;

The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again;

Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand,

It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart,

And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart.

Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago--

O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow.

CHEER, BOYS! CHEER!

Cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow;

Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way!

Hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow--

Let us forget the darkness of to-day!

So farewell, England! much as we may love thee,

We 'll dry the tears that we have shed before;

Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune?

So farewell, England! farewell evermore!

Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!

Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand;

Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour,

Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

Cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing,

To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast;

The world shall follow in the track we 're going,

The star of empire glitters in the west.

Here we had toil and little to reward it,

But there shall plenty smile upon our pain;

And ours shall be the mountain and the forest,

And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain.

Cheer, boys! cheer! for England, mother England!

Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand!

Cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour,

Cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land!

MOURN FOR THE MIGHTY DEAD.

_Music by Sir H. R. Bishop._

Mourn for the mighty dead,

Mourn for the spirit fled,

Mourn for the lofty head--

Low in the grave.

Tears such as nations weep

Hallow the hero's sleep;

Calm be his rest, and deep--

Arthur the brave!

Nobly his work was done;

England's most glorious son,

True-hearted Wellington,

Shield of our laws.

Ever in peril's night

Heaven send such arm of might--

Guardian of truth and right--

Raised in their cause!

Dried be the tears that fall;

Love bears the warrior's pall,

Fame shall his deeds recall--

Britain's right hand!

Bright shall his memory be!

Star of supremacy!

Banner of victory!

Pride of our land.

A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY.

_Music by the Author._

I 've a guinea I can spend,

I 've a wife, and I 've a friend,

And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;

I 've a cottage of my own,

With the ivy overgrown,

And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;

I can sit at my door

By my shady sycamore,

Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;

So come and drain a glass

In my arbour as you pass,

And I 'll tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown.

I love the song of birds,

And the children's early words,

And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown;

And I hate a false pretence,

And the want of common sense,

And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown;

I love the meadow flowers,

And the brier in the bowers,

And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;

And I hate a selfish knave,

And a proud, contented slave,

And a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, John Brown.

I love a simple song

That awakes emotions strong,

And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown;

And I hate the constant whine

Of the foolish who repine,

And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;

But ever when I hate,

If I seek my garden gate,

And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown,

The hatred flies my mind,

And I sigh for human kind,

And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.

So, if you like my ways,

And the comfort of my days,

I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown;

I never scorn my health,

Nor sell my soul for wealth,

Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown;

I 've parted with my pride,

And I take the sunny side,

For I 've found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;

I keep a conscience clear,

I 've a hundred pounds a-year,

And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.

THE SECRETS OF THE HAWTHORN.

_Music by the Author._

No one knows what silent secrets

Quiver from thy tender leaves;

No one knows what thoughts between us

Pass in dewy moonlight eves.

Roving memories and fancies,

Travellers upon Thought's deep sea,

Haunt the gay time of our May-time,

O thou snow-white hawthorn-tree!

Lovely was she, bright as sunlight,

Pure and kind, and good and fair,

When she laugh'd the ringing music

Rippled through the summer air.

"If you love me--shake the blossoms!"

Thus I said, too bold and free;

Down they came in showers of beauty,

Thou beloved hawthorn-tree!

Sitting on the grass, the maiden

Vow'd the vow to love me well;

Vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly,

No one but myself can tell.

Widely spreads the smiling woodland,

Elm and beech are fair to see;

But thy charms they cannot equal,

O thou happy hawthorn-tree!

A CRY FROM THE DEEP WATERS.

From the deep and troubled waters

Comes the cry;

Wild are the waves around me--

Dark the sky:

There is no hand to pluck me

From the sad death I die.

To one small plank, that fails me,

Clinging low,

I am dash'd by angry billows

To and fro;

I hear death-anthems ringing

In all the winds that blow.

A cry of suffering gushes

From my lips

As I behold the distant

White-sail'd ships

O'er the white waters gleaming

Where the horizon dips.

They pass; they are too lofty

And remote,

They cannot see the spaces

Where I float.

The last hope dies within me,

With the gasping in my throat.

Through dim cloud-vistas looking,

I can see

The new moon's crescent sailing

Pallidly:

And one star coldly shining

Upon my misery.

There are no sounds in nature

But my moan,

The shriek of the wild petrel

All alone,

And roar of waves exulting

To make my flesh their own.

Billow with billow rages,

Tempest trod;

Strength fails me; coldness gathers

On this clod;

From the deep and troubled waters

I cry to _Thee_, my God!

THE RETURN HOME.

The favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds,

And our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds;

The land is in sight, on the verge of the sky,

And the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,--

And faintly stealing,

Booming, pealing,

Chime from the city the echoing bells;

And louder, clearer,

Softer, nearer,

Ringing sweet welcome the melody swells;

And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--

We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

How oft with a pleasure akin to a pain,

In fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again,

Through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn,

And heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn;

And 'mid the wild wood,

Dear to childhood,

Gather'd the berries that grew by the way;

But all our gladness

Died in sadness,

Fading like dreams in the dawning of day;--

But we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past--

We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

We loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now

With a deeper emotion than words can avow;

Wherever in absence our feet might delay,

We had never a joy like the joy of to-day;

And home returning,

Fondly yearning,

Faces of welcome seem crowding the shore--

England! England!

Beautiful England!

Peace be around thee, and joy evermore!

And it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past--

We are home in the land of our fathers at last.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.

Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud

Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud;

Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West

May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast;

The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,

In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm:

Fair though they be,

There 's an isle in the sea,

The home of the brave and the boast of the free!

Hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth--

The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,

There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes;

Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do--

Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!"

Winter and storm only nerve us the more,

And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door:

Strong shall we be

In our isle of the sea,

The home of the brave and the boast of the free!

Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth,

We 'll stand in our courage--the Men of the North!

Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,

In the face of the slave and the coward may shine;

Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,

And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.

Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,

Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil:

Proud let us be

Of our isle of the sea,

The home of the brave and the boast of the free!

Men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth--

Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North!

THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIND.

I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp

Untouch'd by mortal hand,

And I the voiceless, sweet west wind,

A roamer through the land.

I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings,

And lo! my common air,

Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee,

And turn'd to music rare.

I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom,

And I the gale of spring,

That sought the odours of thy breath,

And bore them on my wing.

No poorer thou, but richer I--

So rich, that far at sea,

The grateful mariners were glad,

And bless'd both thee and me.

I dream'd thou wert the evening star,

And I a lake at rest,

That saw thine image all the night

Reflected on my breast.

Too far!--too far!--come dwell on Earth!

Be Harp and Rose of May;--

I need thy music in my heart,

Thy fragrance on my way.

ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD.

Archibald Crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit,

was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was

placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With no

greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given

to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of

literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the

works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best

translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned

to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of

Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In

honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness

during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "Bonnie Mary

Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become

extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of

Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period

he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the

Honourable East India Company, which, however, he respectfully declined.

In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with

less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of

the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this

business for that of auctioneer and general merchant.

The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up,

and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every

opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite

studies. With the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however

seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled

"St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This

composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in

vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was

attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the

printer. To the columns of the _Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier_ he now

began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the

West of Scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with

the title, "Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by

subscription. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were

published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable and Co.; but the

subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the

profits of the sale. Crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next

started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled _The Correspondent_, but the

publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar

periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under

his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly

contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a

weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on

the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty,

social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as

a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong

intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second

son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.

BONNIE MARY HAY.

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet,

For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet;

The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek;

O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.

Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me,

When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree;

To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den,

And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?

Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me,

When thou art couthie, kind, and free;

There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky,

My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.

Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay,

But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae;

But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true,

How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.

SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!

Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains,

Are famous in story--the birth-place of song;

Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest,

Well may thy pilgrims long for their home.

Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,

The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!

Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;

Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes

To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave;

Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime,

For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave.

Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,

The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!

Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;

Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

GEORGE DONALD.

George Donald was born at Glasgow on the 19th January 1800. His parents

being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory

so early as his eighth year. A limited attendance at school he

supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. He

began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth

year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "Lays of the

Covenanters," which appeared in one of the Glasgow newspapers. Of

extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of

satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading

dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most

unfortunate career. Habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to

engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of

young children without any means of support, he became a reckless

wanderer. He afterwards emigrated to the United States, but at the

expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in Glasgow. He now became steady;

and joining the Total Abstinence Society, advocated the cause of

sobriety in a number of temperance songs. Renouncing his pledge, he soon

returned to his former habits. He proceeded to Ireland, where he

supported himself as a public reciter of popular Scottish ballads. He

contributed to the _Banner of Ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in

America; and published at Belfast, in a separate volume, his "Lays of

the Covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently

printed and circulated in Glasgow. Returning to his native city, he was

fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of Dr John Smith of the

_Examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor.

After a period of illness, his death took place at the village of

Thornliebank, near Glasgow, on the 7th December 1851. In "The Songs for

the Nursery," an interesting little work published by Mr David Robertson

of Glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. A poem which he

composed in his latter years entitled "The Progress of Society, in five

books," is still in MS. Amidst all his failings Donald maintained a

sense of religion. Evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life,

he died in Christian hope.

THE SPRING TIME O' LIFE.

AIR--_"O wat ye wha I met yestreen?"_

The summer comes wi' rosy wreaths,

And spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers,

While furthy autumn plenty breathes,

And blessings in abundance showers.

E'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw,

Brings meikle still the heart to cheer,

But there's a season worth them a',

And that's the spring-time o' the year.

In spring the farmer ploughs the field

That yet will wave wi' yellow corn,

In spring the birdie bigs its bield

In foggy bank or budding thorn;

The burn and brae, the hill and dell,

A song of hope are heard to sing,

And summer, autumn, winter, tell,

Wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring.

Now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life,

When seed is sown wi' care and toil,

And hopes are high, and fears are rife,

Lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil.

I 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear,

By precept and example baith,

And may the hand that guides us here

Preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith!

But soon the time may come when you

Shall miss a mother's tender care,

A sinfu' world to wander through,

Wi' a' its stormy strife to share;

Then mind my words, whare'er ye gang,

Let fortune smile or thrawart be,

Ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang--

If sae ye live, ye'll happy dee.

THE SCARLET ROSE-BUSH.

AIR--_"There grows a bonnie brier bush."_

Come see my scarlet rose-bush

My father gied to me,

That's growing in our window-sill

Sae fresh and bonnilie;

I wadna gie my rose-bush

For a' the flowers I see,

Nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd,

Sae dear it is to me.

I set it in the best o' mould

Ta'en frae the moudie's hill,

And covered a' the yird wi' moss

I gather'd on the hill;

I saw the blue-bell blooming,

And the gowan wat wi' dew,

But my heart was on my rose-bush set,

I left them where they grew.

I water 't ilka morning

Wi' meikle pride and care,

And no a wither'd leaf I leave

Upon its branches fair;

Twa sprouts are rising frae the root,

And four are on the stem,

Three rosebuds and six roses blawn--

'Tis just a perfect gem!

Come, see my bonnie, blooming bush

My father gied to me,

Wi' roses to the very top,

And branches like a tree.

It grows upon our window-sill,

I watch it tentilie;

O! I wadna gie my dear rose-bush

For a' the flowers I see.

HENRY GLASSFORD BELL.

Henry Glassford Bell is the son of James Bell, Esq., advocate. His

mother was the daughter of the Rev. John Hamilton, minister of Cathcart.

He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in

Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied

at the University of Edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to his

commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary

pursuits. In 1828 he published, in "Constable's Miscellany," a "Life of

Mary, Queen of Scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions

have since appeared. About the same time he established the _Edinburgh

Literary Journal_, which he conducted for several years with much

acceptance to the public. His other publications are, "My Old

Portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "Summer and

Winter Hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. Both these works are

out of print. Mr Bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and

associated with the leading literary men of his time. Since 1839 he has

resided in Glasgow, holding the appointment of a Sheriff-substitute of

Lanarkshire.

MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE.

Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone,

Remember days of bliss gone by?

Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone,

E'er for our distant streamlets sigh?

Beneath thy own glad sun and sky,

Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me?

She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply,

"My life is one long thought of thee."

Sweet girl! I would not have it so;

My destiny must not be thine,

For wildly as the wild waves flow,

Will pass this fleeting life of mine.

"And let thy fate be weal or woe,

My thoughts," she smiling said, "are free;

And well the watchful angels know

My life is one long thought of thee."

Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers

Be with me in my hour of need,

When round me throng the cold world's cares,

And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed!

"Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed?

For full of joy thy years shall be;

And mine shall share the blissful meed,

For life is one long thought of thee."

WHY IS MY SPIRIT SAD?

Why is my spirit sad?

Because 'tis parting, each succeeding year,

With something that it used to hold more dear

Than aught that now remains;

Because the past, like a receding sail,

Flits into dimness, and the lonely gale

O'er vacant waters reigns!

Why is my spirit sad?

Because no more within my soul there dwell

Thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell

With innocent delight;

Because I am aweary of the strife

That with hot fever taints the springs of life,

Making the day seem night!

Why is my spirit sad?

Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,

Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread--

The paths of young romance;

Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,

Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes--

The Eden of their glance.

Why is my spirit sad?

Have not the beautiful been ta'en away--

Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay--

Wither'd in root and stem?

I see that others, in whose looks are lit

The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,

But not--but not like them!

I would not be less sad;

My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow

The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;

The present is around me;

Would that the future were both come and gone,

And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,

Crush'd feelings could not wound me!

GEORDIE YOUNG.

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,

I 'll no walk by the manse;

I aye meet wi' the minister,

Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?--

A douce and sober lad;

I trow it is na every day

That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,

Nor yet his pawkie face;

I dinna like a preacher, mother,

But in a preaching place.

Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee--

Ye needna look sae scared--

For wha kens but at Holylee

Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

I canna bide the Laird, mother,

He says sic things to me;

Ae half he says wi' wily words,

And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!

It 's a' that Geordie Young;

The Laird has no an e'e like him,

Nor the minister a tongue!

He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,

For nane but him ye care;

But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,

That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,

Put trust in ane above,

And how can folks gang bare, mother,

Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,

And walk ye slow and sly;

My certie! weel ye ken the gate

That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother,

And lang afore the spring

I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,

And wear the gowden ring.

MY FAIRY ELLEN.

Beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where

Thou lovest most to be softly gleaming?

Is it on some rich bank of flowers

Where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming?

Or is it on yonder silver lake

Where the fish in green and gold are sparkling?

Or is it among those ancient trees

Where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling?

Oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile,

The best of my beams are for ever dwelling

In the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue,

And the eloquent glance of the fairy Ellen.

Gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how

Thou lovest to spend a serene May morning,

When dew-drops are twinkling on every bough,

And violets wild each glade adorning?

Is it in kissing the glittering stream,

O'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling?

Is it in sipping the nectar that lies

In the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling?

Oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd,

His voice with a musical melody swelling,

All the mornings of May 'mong the ringlets I play

That dance on the brow of the fairy Ellen.

White little lily! pray tell me when

Thy happiest moments the fates allow thee?

Thou seemest a favourite with bees and men,

And all the boys and butterflies know thee;

Is it at dawn or at sunset hour

That pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing?

One would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks,

Or at least a pale-faced man of feeling?

Oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd,

My highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling,

To live in the sight, and to die on the breast

Of the fairest of beings, the fairy Ellen.

Oh! would that I were the moon myself,

Or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing;

Or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem

Slily around that dear neck wreathing!

Worlds would I give to bask in those eyes,

Stars, if I had them, for one of those tresses,

My heart and my soul, and my body to boot,

For merely the smallest of all her kisses!

And if she would love me, oh heaven and earth!

I would not be Jove, the cloud-compelling,

Though he offer'd me Juno and Venus both

In exchange for one smile of my fairy Ellen!

A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT.

They 're stepping off, the friends I knew,

They 're going one by one;

They 're taking wives to tame their lives,

Their jovial days are done;

I can't get one old crony now

To join me in a spree;

They've all grown grave, domestic men,

They look askance on me.

I hate to see them sober'd down,

The merry boys and true,

I hate to hear them sneering now

At pictures fancy drew;

I care not for their married cheer,

Their puddings and their soups,

And middle-aged relations round,

In formidable groups.

And though their wife perchance may have

A comely sort of face,

And at the table's upper end

Conduct herself with grace,

I hate the prim reserve that reigns,

The caution and the state,

I hate to see my friend grow vain

Of furniture and plate.

Oh, give me back the days again,

When we have wander'd free,

And stole the dew from every flower,

The fruit from every tree;

The friends I loved they will not come,

They've all deserted me;

They sit at home and toast their toes,

Look stupid and sip tea.

Alas! alas! for years gone by,

And for the friends I've lost;

When no warm feeling of the heart

Was chill'd by early frost.

If these be Hymen's vaunted joys,

I'd have him shun my door,

Unless he quench his torch, and live

Henceforth a bachelor.

WILLIAM BENNET.

William Bennet was born on the 29th September, 1802, in the parish of

Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while

apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth

year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and

led to his connexion with the newspaper press. He became a regular

contributor to the _Dumfries Courier_, edited by the ingenious John

M'Diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _Dumfries

Magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In

December 1826, he became editor of the _Glasgow Free Press_, which

supported the liberal cause during the whole of the Reform Bill

struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from

the Whig party, and established the _Glasgow Constitutional_, the

editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a

periodical, entitled, "Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write

verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title,

"Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish

Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man;"

and "The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of

Highland manners and mythology in the middle ages.

Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in

Ireland, and London. He afterwards lived several years in Galloway, and

has latterly fixed his abode at Greenmount, near Burntisland. He is

understood to be engaged in a new translation of the Scriptures.

BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT.

Blest be the hour of night,

When, his toils over,

The swain, with a heart so light,

Meets with his lover!

Sweet the moon gilds their path,

Arm in arm straying;

Clouds never rise in wrath,

Chiding their staying.

Gently they whisper low:

Unseen beside them,

Good angels watch, that no

Ill may betide them.

Silence is everywhere,

Save when the sighing

Is heard, of the breeze's fall,

Fitfully dying.

How the maid's bosom glows,

While her swain 's telling

The love, that 's been long, she knows,

In his heart swelling!

How, when his arms are thrown

Tenderly round her,

Fears she, in words to own

What he hath found her!

When the first peep of dawn

Warns them of parting,

And from each dewy lawn

Blythe birds are starting,

Fondly she hears her swain

Vow, though they sever,

Soon they shall meet again,

Mated for ever.

THE ROSE OF BEAUTY.

Amang the breezy heights and howes

Where winds the Milk[6] sae clearly,

A Rose o' beauty sweetly grows,

A Rose I lo'e most dearly.

Wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun

How blooms my Rose divinely!

And lang ere blaws the winter wun',

This breast shall nurse it kin'ly.

May heaven's dew aye freshly weet

My Rose at ilka gloamin',

And oh, may nae unhallow'd feet

Be near it ever roamin'!

I soon shall buy a snug wee cot,

And hae my Rose brought thither;

And then, in that lowne sunny spot,

We'll bloom and fade thegither.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] A beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the Annan,

between Ecclefechan and Lockerbie.

I 'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE.

I 'll think on thee, Love, when thy bark

Hath borne thee far across the deep;

And, as the sky is bright or dark,

'Twill be my fate to smile or weep;

For oh, when winds and waters keep

In trust so dear a charge as thee,

My anxious fears can never sleep

Till thou again art safe with me!

I 'll think on thee, Love, when each hour

Of twilight comes, with pensive mood,

And silence, like a spell of power,

Rests, in its depth, on field and wood;

And as the mingling shadows brood

Still closer o'er the lonely sea,

Here, on the beach where first we woo'd,

I 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee.

Then haply on the breeze's wing,

That to me steals across the wave,

Some angel's voice may answer bring

That list'ning heaven consents to save.

And oh, the further boon I crave

Perchance may also granted be,

That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave

The wanderer's perils on the sea!

THERE 'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE.

There 's music in a mother's voice,

More sweet than breezes sighing;

There 's kindness in a mother's glance,

Too pure for ever dying.

There 's love within a mother's breast,

So deep, 'tis still o'erflowing,

And for her own a tender care,

That 's ever, ever growing.

And when a mother kneels to heaven,

And for her child is praying,

Oh, who shall half the fervour tell

That burns in all she 's saying!

A mother, when she, like a star,

Sets into heaven before us,

From that bright home of love, all pure,

Still minds and watches o'er us.

THE BRIG OF ALLAN.

Come, memory, paint, though far away,

The wimpling stream, the broomy brae,

The upland wood, the hill-top gray,

Whereon the sky seems fallin';

Paint me each cheery, glist'ning row

Of shelter'd cots, the woods below,

Where Airthrie's healing waters flow

By bonny Brig of Allan.

Paint yonder Grampian heights sublime,

The Roman eagles could not climb,

And Stirling, crown'd in after time

With Royalty's proud dwallin';

These, with the Ochils, sentry keep,

Where Forth, that fain in view would sleep,

Tries, from his Links, oft back to peep

At bonny Brig of Allan.

Oh, lovely, when the rising sun

Greets Stirling towers, so steep and dun,

And silver Forth's calm breast upon

The golden beams are fallin'!

Then, trotting down to join his flood,

Through rocky steeps, besprent with wood,

How bright, in morning's joyous mood,

Appears the stream of Allan!

Upon its banks how sweet to stray,

With rod and line, the livelong day,

Or trace each rural charm, away

From cark of every callin'!

There dove-like, o'er my path would brood

The spirit pure of solitude;

For native each rapt, genial mood

Is to the beauteous Allan.

Oh, witching as its scenes, and bright

As is its cloudless summer light,

Be still its maids, the soul's delight

Of every truthful callan'!

Be health around it ever spread,

To light the eye, to lift the head,

And joy on every heart be shed

That beats by Brig of Allan!

GEORGE OUTRAM.

The author of "Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed

for private circulation, George Outram, was born in the vicinity of

Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and

manager in the Clyde Iron Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish

bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an

orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber

counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _Glasgow Herald_,

and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of

his death. He died at Rosemore, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the

16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred

in Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh.

Of most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a

limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth

and interesting conversation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was

especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which

are likely to be published by his executors. His cousin-german, General

Sir James Outram, is well known for his military services in India.

CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY.[7]

AIR--_"Duncan Davidson."_

I gaed to spend a week in Fife,

An unco week it proved to be,

For there I met a waesome wife,

Lamenting her viduity.

Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell,

I thought her heart wad burst the shell;

And, I was sae left to mysel,

I sell't her an annuity.

The bargain lookit fair eneugh,

She just was turned o' saxty-three;

I couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh

By human ingenuity.

But years have come, and years have gane,

And there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane;

The auld wife 's growing young again

Since she got her annuity.

She 's crined awa to bane an' skin,

But that it seems is nought to me;

She 's like to live, although she 's in

The last stage o' tenuity.

She munches wi' her wizen'd gums,

An' stumps about on legs o' thrums,

But comes--as sure as Christmas comes--

To ca' for her annuity.

She jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack,

As spunkie as a growin' flea;

An' there she sits upon my back

A livin' perpetuity.

She hurkles by her ingle side,

An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide;

Lord kens how lang she yet may bide

To ca' for her annuity.

I read the tables drawn wi' care

For an Insurance Company;

Her chance o' life was stated there

Wi' perfect perspicuity.

But tables here, or tables there,

She 's lived ten years beyond her share;

An 's like to live a dozen mair

To ca' for her annuity.

I gat the loon that drew the deed,

We spell'd it ower richt carefully;

In vain he yerk'd his souple head

To find an ambiguity.

It 's dated, tested, a' complete;

The proper stamp, nae word delete;

And diligence, as on decreet,

May pass for her annuity.

* * * * *

I thought that grief might gar her quit,

Her only son was lost at sea;

But aff her wits behuved to flit

An' leave her in fatuity.

She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet

For a' the tellin' she can get;

But catch the doited wife forget

To ca' for her annuity.

If there 's a sough o' cholera

Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she!

She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a',

In siccan superfluity!

She doesna need--she's fever proof--

The pest walked o'er her very roof;

She tauld me sae, and then her loof

Held out for her annuity.

Ae day she fell, her arm she brak,

A compound fracture as could be;

Nae leech the cure wad undertak,

Whate'er was the gratuity.

It 's cured! she handles 't like a flail,

It does as weel in bits as hale;

But I 'm a broken man mysel'

Wi' her and her annuity.

Her broozled flesh and broken banes

Are weel as flesh and banes can be,

She beats the taeds that live in stanes

An' fatten in vacuity!

They die when they 're exposed to air,

They canna thole the atmosphere;

But her! expose her onywhere,

She lives for her annuity.

* * * * *

The water-drap wears out the rock

As this eternal jade wears me;

I could withstand the single shock,

But not the continuity.

It 's pay me here, an' pay me there,

An' pay me, pay me evermair;

I 'll gang demented wi' despair;

I 'm _charged_ for her annuity.

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This facetious composition, in the original form, extends to

considerably greater length.

HENRY INGLIS.

Henry Inglis is the son of William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, W.S., and

was born in Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were

spent at Middleton, his father's residence in Linlithgowshire.

Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the

High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the

close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal

pursuits, and became a writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published

"Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work,

entitled "The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. Mr

Inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of

the Covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public.

The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr

Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell on

the field of Preston in 1745.

WEEP AWAY.

Weep away, heart, weep away!

Let no muleteer

Be afraid

To weep; for a brave heart may

Lament for a dear,

Fickle maid.

The lofty sky weeps in cloud,

The earth weeps in dews

From its core;

The diamond brooks weep aloud,

The flowers change the hues

Which they wore.

The grass mourns in the sunbeam,

In gums weep the trees

And in dye;

And if mourn meadow and stream--

Inanimate these--

May not I?

The wood-pigeon mourns his mate,

The caged birds bewail

Freedom gone;

Shall not man mourn over fate?

Dumb sorrow assail

Him alone?

Then weep on, heart, weep away!

Let no muleteer

Be afraid

To weep; for a brave heart may

Lament for a dear,

Fickle maid.

JAMES MANSON.

James Manson, one of the conductors of the _Glasgow Herald_, has

composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. Mr

Manson was born in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year

1812. He was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he

wrought industriously during a course of years.

OCEAN.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

ON SHORE--CALM.

Summer Ocean,

Placid Ocean,

Soft and sweet thy lullaby;

Shadows lightly,

Sunbeams brightly,

Flicker o'er thee noiselessly.

Resting gently on thy bosom,

Snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings,

While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom,

Float around the strain the skylark sings.

Love's emotion,

Summer Ocean,

Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies,

Glances brightly,

Dances lightly

Till the fond illusion flies.

AT SEA--STORM.

Winter Ocean,

Furious Ocean,

Fierce and loud thy choral lay:

Storm-clouds soaring,

Whirlwinds roaring

O'er thy breast in madness play.

Homeless petrels shriek their omen

Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar;

Fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen

Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore.

War's commotion,

Winter Ocean,

Like thyself, when tempest driven,

By passion hurl'd,

Would wreck the world,

And mock the wrath-scowling heaven.

THE HUNTER'S DAUGHTER.

_Set to Music by Herr Kücken._

When loud the horn is sounding

Along the distant hills,

Then would I rove, ne'er weary,

The Hunter's Daughter near me,

By flowery margin'd rills.

'Mid stately pines embosom'd

There stands the Hunter's cot,

From which this maiden daily

At morning peeps so gaily,

Contented with her lot.

This Hunter and his Daughter

Make everything their prey;

He slays the wild roe bounding,

Her eyes young hearts are wounding--

No shafts so sure as they!

AN INVITATION.

_Music arranged by Julius Siligmann._

The skylark sings his matin lay,

The waking flowers at dawning day,

With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come!

Oh, haste, Love, come with me,

To the wild wood come with me.

Hark, the wing'd warblers singing,

Come with me;

Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging,

Wait for thee!

The sunlight sleeps upon the lea,

And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea,

The wanton wind sighs, Come! come! come!

Oh, haste, Love, come with me,

To the wild wood come with me--

Come and gather luscious berries,

Come with me;

Clustering grapes and melting cherries

Wait for thee!

My bird of love, my beauteous flower,

Come, reign the queen of yonder bower,

'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come!

Oh, haste, then, come with me,

To the wild wood come with me.

Life's first fairest hours are fleeting--

Come with me;

Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting

Wait for thee!

CUPID AND THE ROSE-BUD.

_Set to Music by H. Lambeth._

Young Love once woo'd a budding Rose,

(_Sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._)

With fond delight his bosom glows,

(_How softly fall the flakes of snow._)

Love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips

Peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips,

Then nearer to the Rose he trips;

(_The stately oak will soon lie low._)

Young Love was fond and bashful too,

(_Sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._)

He sigh'd and knew not what to do;

(_Life like an arrow flies away._)

Then whispering low his cherish'd wish,

The Rose-bud trembled on her bush,

While redder grew her maiden blush;

(_Ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._)

To pull this Rose young Love then tried;

(_'Tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._)

Her blush of hope she strove to hide;

(_Joy soars aloft on painted wing._)

Love press'd the Rose-bud to his breast,

He felt the thorn, but well he guess'd

Such "Nay" meant "Yea," 'twas fond Love's jest;

(_'Tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._)

ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL.

TUNE--_"The Brave Old Oak."_

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,

And joyous songs abound;

Our log burns high, but it glows less bright

Than the eyes which sparkle round.

The merry laugh, and the jocund tale,

And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe,

Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale

That wreaths the new fallen snow.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! all eyes are bright,

And joyous thoughts abound;

The log burns high, but it glows less bright

Than the eyes which sparkle round.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! see the old grandsire

Forgets his weight of years;

He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire

Beams through his unbidden tears.

With tremulous tenor he joins the strain--

The song of his manhood's prime;

For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again,

While his aged head nods time.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! and the infant's heart

Beats high with a new delight,

And youths and maidens, with guileless art,

Make merry the livelong night.

The time flies on with gladsome cheer,

And welcomes pass around--

'Tis the warmest night of all the year,

Though winter hath chain'd the ground.

'Tis Yule! 'tis Yule! &c.

JAMES HEDDERWICK.

James Hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _Glasgow Citizen_, was

born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same

Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early

age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his

father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than

mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and

occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to

sundry periodicals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London,

in the course of which he attended the Rhetoric class of the London

University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than

twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the

_Scotsman_ newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political

writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those

lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his

personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the

_Scotsman_, were copied into _Chambers' Edinburgh Journal_, and have

since frequently appeared in different periodicals. One of these,

entitled "First Grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a

writer in _Fraser's Magazine_. Others have found their way, in an

anonymous shape, into a London publication entitled "Beautiful Poetry."

In 1842 Mr Hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the

_Glasgow Citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an

honourable position. Previous to leaving Edinburgh he was entertained at

a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading

individuals. The drudgery of newspaper life has left Mr Hedderwick

little leisure for contributions to polite literature. While in

Edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "Wilson's Tales of the

Border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. In 1844

he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for

general circulation.

MY BARK AT SEA.

Away, away, like a child at play,

Like a living ocean-child,

Through the feathery spray she cleaves her way

To the billows' music wild;

The sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground,

And the waves around her leap,

As with joyous bound, to their mystic sound,

She dances o'er the deep!

Sometimes at rest, on the water's breast,

She lies with folded wing,

But now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd,

She moves a joyous thing!

And away she flies all gleaming bright,

While a wave in lofty pride,

Like a gallant knight, in plumage white,

Is bounding by her side!

For her glorious path the sea she hath,

And she wanders bold and free,

And the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath

Are her mighty minstrelsy!

A queen the crested waves among,

A light and graceful form,

She sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song,

Like the genius of the storm!

SORROW AND SONG.

Weep not over poet's wrong,

Mourn not his mischances;

Sorrow is the source of song,

And of gentle fancies.

Rills o'er rocky beds are borne

Ere they gush in whiteness;

Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn

Ere they shew their brightness.

Sweetest gleam the morning flowers

When in tears they waken;

Earth enjoys refreshing showers

When the boughs are shaken.

Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought

In its deepest waters;

From the darkest mines are brought

Gems for beauty's daughters.

Through the rent and shiver'd rock

Limpid water breaketh;

'Tis but when the chords are struck

That their music waketh.

Flowers, by heedless footstep press'd,

All their sweets surrender;

Gold must brook the fiery test

Ere it shew its splendour.

When the twilight, cold and damp,

Gloom and silence bringeth,

Then the glow-worm lights its lamp,

And the night-bird singeth.

Stars come forth when Night her shroud

Draws as Daylight fainteth;

Only on the tearful cloud

God his rainbow painteth.

Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong,

Mourn not his mischances;

Sorrow is the source of song

And of gentle fancies.

THE LAND FOR ME.

I 've been upon the moonlit deep

When the wind had died away,

And like an Ocean-god asleep

The bark majestic lay;

But lovelier is the varied scene,

The hill, the lake, the tree,

When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen;

The land! the land! for me.

The glancing waves I 've glided o'er

When gently blew the breeze;

But sweeter was the distant shore,

The zephyr 'mong the trees.

The murmur of the mountain rill,

The blossoms waving free,

The song of birds on every hill;

The land! the land! for me.

The billows I have been among

When they roll'd in mountains dark,

And Night her blackest curtain hung

Around our heaving bark;

But give me, when the storm is fierce,

My home and fireside glee,

Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce;

The land! the land! for me.

And when around the lightning flash'd

I 've been upon the deep,

And to the gulf beneath I 've dash'd

Adown the liquid steep;

But now that I am safe on shore,

There let me ever be;

The sea let others wander o'er;

The land! the land! for me.

THE EMIGRANTS.

The daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary,

And eerie the face of the fast-falling night,

But closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery

With gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright.

When, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish!

We ran to the door and look'd out through the dark;

Till gazing, at length we began to distinguish

The slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark.

Alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river,

Their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell;

From kindred and friends they had parted for ever,

But their voices still blended in cries of farewell.

We saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking;

We heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers,

But which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking,

A past of delight and a future of tears.

And long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze,

On our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell,

Till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas,

And the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell.

More bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy,

As we shut out the night and its darkness once more;

But pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy,

Were flush'd with delight a few moments before.

So I told how the morning, all lovely and tender,

Sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea,

Would follow the exiles and float with its splendour,

To gild the far land where their homes were to be.

In the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming,

Their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep!

But I in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming,

And fancy I heard hoarse replies from the deep.

And often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever,

A dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell;

'Twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river,

And startling the night with their cries of farewell.

FIRST GRIEF.

They tell me first and early love

Outlives all after dreams;

But the memory of a first great grief

To me more lasting seems;

The grief that marks our dawning youth

To memory ever clings,

And o'er the path of future years

A lengthen'd shadow flings.

Oh, oft my mind recalls the hour

When to my father's home

Death came--an uninvited guest--

From his dwelling in the tomb!

I had not seen his face before,

I shudder'd at the sight,

And I shudder still to think upon

The anguish of that night!

A youthful brow and ruddy cheek

Became all cold and wan;

An eye grew dim in which the light

Of radiant fancy shone.

Cold was the cheek, and cold the brow,

The eye was fix'd and dim;

And one there mourn'd a brother dead

Who would have died for him!

I know not if 'twas summer then,

I know not if 'twas spring,

But if the birds sang on the trees

I did not hear them sing!

If flowers came forth to deck the earth

Their bloom I did not see;

I look'd upon one wither'd flower,

And none else bloom'd for me!

A sad and silent time it was

Within that house of woe,

All eyes were dull and overcast,

And every voice was low!

And from each cheek at intervals

The blood appear'd to start,

As if recall'd in sudden haste

To aid the sinking heart!

Softly we trod, as if afraid

To mar the sleeper's sleep,

And stole last looks of his pale face

For memory to keep!

With him the agony was o'er,

And now the pain was ours,

As thoughts of his sweet childhood rose

Like odour from dead flowers!

And when at last he was borne afar

From the world's weary strife,

How oft in thought did we again

Live o'er his little life!

His every look--his every word--

His very voice's tone--

Came back to us like things whose worth

Is only prized when gone!

The grief has pass'd with years away

And joy has been my lot;

But the one is oft remember'd,

And the other soon forgot.

The gayest hours trip lightest by,

And leave the faintest trace;

But the deep, deep track that sorrow wears

Time never can efface!

THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves;

Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat;

How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves,

While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves,

And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings;

Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills!

In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings,

As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings,

Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound;

Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day!

There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round,

Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd,

And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!

Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while?

Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream,

To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream,

Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary?

Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows?

The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery,

Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie,

With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!

WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He

entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small

periodical, entitled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently

edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of

the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a

short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the

_Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from

impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy

at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in

fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety

of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem,

entitled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."

YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.

What ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain?

I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.

There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie;

I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.

We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair;

Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare;

In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain,

An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung;

The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young;

An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind--

Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung.

Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share,

But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair;

Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part,

An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

While we live for each other, our lot will be blest;

An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd;

We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien,

An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.

A couple that strive to be honest and fair

May be rich without siller, and guid without lear;

Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue,

Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.

Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall,

in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825,

at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.

THE LANG WINTER E'EN.

Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair;

The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare;

To the cot wee robin returns for a screen

Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

But charms there are still, though nature has nane,

When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane,

Then round the fireside social hearts do convene,

And pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en.

O' warldly wealth I hae got little share,

Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care;

Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien',

To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear,

Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear,

But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean

In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.

THOMAS YOUNG.

The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems,"

a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas

Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven,

Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he

accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the

_Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change

occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he

remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable

appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to

proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with

an annual salary of £300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he

afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at

Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.

ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.

By Niagara's flood

Antoinette stood,

And watch'd the wild waves rush on,

As they leapt below

Into vapoury snow,

Or fell into flakes of foam.

The sun's last beams

Fell in golden gleams

On water and wave-girt isle,

And in tinge all fair

Dipp'd the girl's bright hair

And heighten'd her happy smile.

Away--away!

In wild ecstasy

She threads the abyss's brink,

Where waters--black--

Of the cataract

Into drifted snow-waves sink.

A father's eye

Looketh anxiously

On the freaks of his favour'd child,

Till her spirit appals

His soul, and he calls

"Antoinette" in accents wild.

A bolder heart

Loves the girl's free sport,

And he grasps her by the gown,

Then tosseth her high

In the twilight sky--

But, heavens! she falleth down!

She sinks in the wave;

He swimmeth to save!

Oh, never was mortal arm

More manfully braced,

As it grasps her slim waist,

And struggles in frantic alarm!

In vain does he strike--

The fresh waves break,

And the doom'd ones are downward borne!

Yet the swimmer's eye

Seemeth still to defy

The might of the merciless storm.

More loud than before

Is the cataract's roar,

And the furrow'd wave is bright

With many a pearl

From the shining swirl

Of the water's lucid light.

And down below

Is the woolly snow

Of Niagara's wrathful bed,

But the lip of the bold

Hath never told

The secrets that there lie hid.

A strong arm, press'd

Round a maiden's waist

On the doleful morrow is seen,

And her oozy hair

Laves his forehead bare

With the waft of the wavy stream.

ROBERT WILSON.

Robert Wilson was born in the parish of Carnbee, and county of Fife. He

practised for some time as a surgeon in St Andrews. He has contributed

many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. In 1856, a

duodecimo volume of "Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S.

His other publications are a small volume on "The Social Condition of

France," "Lectures on the Game Laws," and several _brochures_ on

subjects of a socio-political nature. He has latterly resided at

Aberdour, Fifeshire.

AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK.

Away, away, my gallant bark!

The waves are white and high;

And fast the long becalmèd clouds

Are sailing in the sky.

The merry breeze which wafts them on,

And chafes the billow's spray,

Will urge thee in thy watery flight:

My gallant bark, away!

Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes,

Are spread thy wingèd sails,

To soar above the mountain waves,

And scoop their glassy vales;

And, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest,

Thy azure journey o'er,

The shadow of thy folded wings

Upon the sunny shore.

Away, away, my gallant bark!

Across the billow's foam;

I leave awhile, for ocean's strife,

The quiet haunts of home;

The green fields of my fatherland

For many a stormy bay;

The blazing hearth for beacon-light:

My gallant bark, away!

LOVE.

What fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart!

Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart,

Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core,

That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before.

And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide,

Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside;

And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year,

And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near.

With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems,

And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams;

And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh,

And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye.

And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new;

But if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true?

Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train,

And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again.

EDWARD POLIN.

A writer of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the

29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a

pattern-setter in his native town. Fond of literary pursuits, he

extensively contributed to the local journals. He subsequently became

sub-editor of the _Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle_. In 1843 he accepted the

editorship of the _Newcastle Courant_--a situation which, proving

unsuitable, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the

literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The

vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain

to bathe. He had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were

observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended

with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to

restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a

hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had

attained only his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's

churchyard, Cripplegate, London.

A young man of no inconsiderable genius, Polin afforded indication of

speedily attaining a literary reputation. By those to whom he was

intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. Many of his

MS. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to

the world.

A GOOD OLD SONG.

I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies,

And have revell'd amid their flowers;

I have lived in the light of Italian eyes,

And dream'd in Italian bowers,

While the wondrous strains of their sunny clime

Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears,

But, oh, how I longed for the song and the time

When my heart could respond with its tears.

Then sing me a song, a good old song--

Not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand--

But a simple song, a good old song

Of my own dear fatherland.

I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay

All, all they would have me adore

Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say

Can be equall'd on earth never more.

And it may be their numbers indeed are divine,

Though they move not my heart through mine ears,

But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne"

Can alone claim my tribute of tears.

I have come from a far and a foreign clime

To mine own loved haunts once more,

With a yearning for all of my childhood's time

And the dear home-sounds of yore;

And here, if there yet be love for me,

Oh, away with those stranger lays,

And now let my only welcome be

An old song of my boyhood's days.

ALEXANDER BUCHANAN.

Alexander Buchanan was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie,

Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in

Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses,

and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on

business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Retiring from merchandise,

he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on

the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been

celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication,

entitled, "Lays of St Mungo." Numerous poems from his pen remain in MS.

in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at Govan.

I WANDER'D ALANE.

AIR--_"Lucy's Flittin'."_

I wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin',

The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa';

The sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin',

A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw;

Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin,

While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green,

An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin',

Kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en.

I leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin',

An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e,

I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'--

Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me;

I thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure,

I tried to forget, but the labour was vain;

My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure,

An' they to the grave baith thegither had gane.

The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow,

The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears,

An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow,

It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears.

I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea' me,

An' happy I then could hae parted wi' life--

For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me

As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife.

Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me,

Leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree;

Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me--

I 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me.

I wander me aften to break melancholy,

On ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim I see,

Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly;

Sae, burden'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die.

KATIE BLAIR.[8]

I 've met wi' mony maidens fair

In kintras far awa,

I 've met wi' mony here at hame,

Baith bonny dames an' braw;

But nane e'er had the power to charm

My love into a snare

Till ance I saw the witchin' e'e

An' smile o' Katie Blair.

She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks,

Whar' thick the greenwoods grow,

Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves

While merrily they row.

They drouk the lily an' the rose,

An' mony flowerets fair,

Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet

As winsome Katie Blair.

She is a queen owre a' the flowers

O' garden an' o' lea--

Her ae sweet smile mair cheering is

Than a' their balms to me.

As licht to morn she's a' to me,

My bosom's only care;

An' worthy o' the truest love

Is winsome Katie Blair.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Printed from the Author's MS.

DAVID TAYLOR.

David Taylor was born, in April 1817, in the parish of Dollar, and

county of Clackmannan. In early life his parents, having removed to the

village of St Ninians, near Stirling, he was there apprenticed to a

tartan manufacturer. He has continued to reside at St Ninians, and has

been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. He has written numerous poems

and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs.

Latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music.

MY AIN GUDEMAN.

O dear, dear to me

Is my ain gudeman,

For kindly, frank, an' free

Is my ain gudeman.

An' though thretty years ha'e fled,

An' five sin' we were wed,

Nae bitter words I 've had

Wi' my ain gudeman.

I 've had seven bonnie bairns

To my ain gudeman,

An' I 've nursed them i' their turns

For my ain gudeman;

An' ane did early dee,

But the lave frae skaith are free,

An' a blessin' they 're to me

An' my ain gudeman.

I cheerie clamb the hill

Wi' my ain gudeman;

An', if it 's Heaven's will,

Wi' my ain gudeman,

In life's calm afternoon,

I wad toddle cannie doun,

Syne at the foot sleep soun'

Wi' my ain gudeman.

ROBERT CATHCART.

Robert Cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver

in Paisley. Besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he

published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "The Early

Blossom."

MARY

Sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom,

Spreadin' owre the lea, Mary;

Sweeter far thy love in bloom,

Whilk blaws alane for me, Mary.

When the woods in silence sleep,

And is hid in dusk the steep,

When the flowers in sorrow weep

I 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, Mary.

When love plays in rosy beams

Roun' the hawthorn-tree, Mary,

Then thine e'e a language gleams

Whilk tells o' love for me, Mary.

When thy sigh blends wi' my smile,

Silence reigns o'er us the while,

Then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil,

Tells thy love's bloom'd for me, Mary.

When our hands are join'd in love,

Ne'er to part again, Mary,

Till death ance mair his arrows prove

And tak us for his ain, Mary;

Then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss!

In a hallow'd hour like this,

We in rapture join to kiss

And taste o' heaven again, Mary.

WILLIAM JAMIE.

William Jamie was born on the 25th December 1818, in the parish of

Marykirk, Kincardineshire. He received his education at the parish

school of Maryculter, Aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during

his boyhood. After working for some time with his father as a

blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. From

early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at

Laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "The Muse of the

Mearns," which passed through two editions. Of his various subsequent

publications may be enumerated, "The Emigrant's Family, and other

Poems;" "The Musings of a Wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "The

Jacobite's Son." Since 1851 he has resided at Pollockshaws, in the

vicinity of Glasgow. On the sale of his poetical works he is wholly

dependent for subsistence.

AULD SCOTIA'S SANGS.

Although the lays o' ither lands

Ha'e mony an artfu' air,

They want the stirrin' melody

An auld man lo'es to hear.

Auld Scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms

Which maks the bosom fain;

And to her sons, that 's far awa',

Wi' thochts o' hame again.

Sweet bygane scenes, and native charms,

They fondly bring to min'

The trystin'-tree and bonny lass,

Wi a' love's dreams langsyne.

Oh! lilt me owre some tender strain,

For weel I lo'e to hear--

Be 't bonny "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"

And "Bush aboon Traquair."

Or "Banks and braes o' bonny Doon,"

Whaur Robin tuned his lyre;

And "Roslin Castle's" ruined wa's--

Oh! sing, and I'll admire!

For I hae heard auld Scotia's sangs

Sung owre and owre wi' glee;

And the mair I hear their artless strains

They dearer grow to me.

Enchanting strains again they bring,

Fond memory glints alang

To humble bards wha woke the lyre,

And wove the patriot's sang.

Oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs,

The sangs o' youth and glee;

They tell o' Bruce and glorious deeds,

Which made our country free.

JOHN CRAWFORD.

A poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and

power of the Bard of Coila, John Crawford was, in the year 1816, born at

Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had

witnessed the death of Burns' "Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With

only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on

his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a

house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since

prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. Of strong native genius,

he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has

sought recreation in the composition of verses. In 1850 he published a

small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "Doric Lays; being snatches

of Song and Ballad." This little work was much commended by Lord

Jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable Miss

Mitford. "There is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an

originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns.... This is

the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and

stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has

given to a poor invalid?"

Crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. He is at

present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled,

"Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." The following poetical

epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of Mr Scott Riddell.

The days, when write wad minstrel men

To ane anither thus, are gone,

And days ha'e come upon us when

Bards praise nae anthems but their own:

But I will love the fashion old

While breath frae heaven this breast can draw,

And joy when I my tale have told

Anent the Bard of Alloa.

Thou, Crawford, sung hast mony a lay.

Far mair through nature's power than art's,

Pouring them frae thine ain, that they

Might reach and gladden other hearts;

Therefore our hearts shall honour thee,

And say't alike in cot and ha'--

Sublime thro' pure simplicity

Is he--the Bard of Alloa.

Though far o'er earth these lays shall roam,

And make to mankind their appeal;

'Tis not because they 'll lack a home,

While Scottish hearts, as wont, can feel:

The swains shall sing them on the hill,

The maidens in the greenwood-shaw,

And mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will,

The gifted Bard of Alloa.

E'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon,

And clouted hose, and pinafores,

Will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon

As they can staucher 'boot the doors:

Sae shall they sing anent themsells

To nature true, as its ain law;

For minstrel nane on earth excels

In this the Bard of Alloa.

Fresh as the moorland's early dews,

And glowing as the woodland rose,

Of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues,

As richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's--

With me, my native land, rejoice,

And let the bard thy bosom thaw,

As Spring's sweet breathing comes the voice

Of him wha sings frae Alloa.

Then rest thee, Crawford, on the lawn,

And thus, if song thy soul shall sway,

I'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han'

Pu's for itsel' a flower or twa;

'Tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say--

But maist for whilk will tear-drops fa'

When death has come, and flowers shall bloom

Aboon the Bard of Alloa?

Oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true,

And glory shall your brows adorn,

And else than this, by none or few,

The poet's wreath will long be worn.

Cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings

O' scenes whilk man yet never saw--

Pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings,

Your strains like him of Alloa.

Possess maun he a poet's heart,

And he maun ha'e a poet's mind

Wha deftly plays the generous part

That warms the cauld, and charms the kind.

Nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers

Whilk hinder other hearts to fa'

Into a sordid sink--like yours--

But bless the Bard of Alloa.

Ah! little ye may trow or ken

The mony cares, and waes, and toils,

'Mang hearts and hames o' lowly men

Whilk nought save poetry beguiles;

It lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon,

When she begins her face to thraw,

That ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune

As his that sounds frae Alloa.

And as for me, ere this I'd lain

Where mark'd my head a mossy stane,

Had it not made the joys my ain

When a' life's other joys were gane.

If 'mang the mountains lone and gray,

Unknown, my early joys I sung,

When cares and woes wad life belay,

How could my harp away be flung?

The dearest power in life below,

Is life's ain native power of song,

As he alone can truly know,

To whom it truly may belong.

Lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step,

And lessen'd hath it mony a hill,

And lighted up the rays o' hope,

Ay, and it up shall light them still.

Lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure,

Ambition win the wreath o' fame,

Wealth gies reputed wit and power,

And crowns wi' joy the owner's aim.

But be my meed the generous heart,

For nought can charm this heart o' mine,

Like those who own the undying art

That gies a claim to Ossian's line.

Hale be thy heart, dear Crawford--hale

Be every heart belonging thee,--

The day whan fortune gies ye kale

Out through the reek, may ye ne'er see.

Ilk son o' song is dear to me;

And though thy face I never saw,

I'll honour till the day I dee

The gifted Bard o' Alloa.

MY AULD WIFIE JEAN.

AIR--_"There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame."_

My couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see,

As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me;

For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen

When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean.

The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me,

And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e;

For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen

When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean.

A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss,

Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss,

When I read a response to my vows in thy e'en.

An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean.

Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek,

Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek,

When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean,

Wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean.

Thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain

That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain;

But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween

The vows I had niffer'd wi' bonnie young Jean.

I canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn,

The gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne;

But we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein,

And the thrift I've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean.

Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we,

A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie,

A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien',

Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean.

The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast,

'Yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past,

An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean,

He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean.

Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen;

Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en;

The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en,

And aft I 've to comfort my auld wifie Jean.

The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust,

Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist;

And soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a Frien',

And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean.

THE LAND O' THE BONNET AND PLAID.

Hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae,

The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae;

Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade--

The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn,

Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern;

There Freedom in triumph an altar has made

For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid.

A coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom,

To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb:

Shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade

Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid?

Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love!

The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove;

And honour'd forever be matron and maid

In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid.

Hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae,

O' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae,

Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade--

Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid.

SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.[9]

Sing on, fairy Devon,

'Mong gardens and bowers,

Where love's feast lies spread

In an Eden o' flowers.

What visions o' beauty

My mind has possess'd,

In thy gowany dell

Where a seraph might rest.

Sing on, lovely river,

To hillock and tree

A lay o' the loves

O' my Jessie and me;

For nae angel lightin',

A posie to pu',

Can match the fair form

O' the lassie I lo'e.

Sweet river, dear river,

Sing on in your glee,

In thy pure breast the mind

O' my Jessie I see.

How aft ha'e I wander'd,

As gray gloamin' fell,

Rare dreamin's o' heaven

My lassie to tell.

Sing on, lovely Devon,

The sang that ye sung

When earth in her beauty

Frae night's bosom sprung,

For lanesome and eerie

This warld aye would be

Did clouds ever fa'

Atween Jessie and me.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Written for the present work.

ANN O' CORNYLEE.

GAELIC AIR--_"Soraiadh slan do'un Ailleagan."_

I 'll twine a gowany garland

Wi' lilies frae the spring;

The fairest flowers by Clutha's side

In a' their bloom I 'll bring.

I 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade

My lassie's scornfu' e'e--

For oh, I canna bide the frown

O' Ann o' Cornylee.

Nae gilded ha', nae downie bed

My lowly lot maun cheer,

A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe

Is a' my worldly gear;

A lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown,

Is a' I ha'e to gie;

A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn

O' Ann o' Cornylee.

The linty 'mang the yellow broom,

The laverock in the lift

Ha'e never sang the waes o' love

O' hope and joy bereft;

Nor has the mavis ever sang

The ills I ha'e to dree,

For lovin' o' a paughty maid,

Fair Ann o' Cornylee.

MY MARY DEAR.[10]

TUNE--_"Annie Laurie."_

The gloamin' star was showerin'

Its siller glories doun,

And nestled in its mossy lair

The lintie sleepit soun';

The lintie sleepit soun',

And the starnies sparklet clear,

When on a gowany bank I sat

Aside my Mary dear.

The burnie wanders eerie

Roun' rock and ruin'd tower,

By mony a fairy hillock

And mony a lanely bower;

Roun' mony a lanely bower,

Love's tender tale to hear,

Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd

And won my Mary dear.

Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness

Frae me for ever ta'en!

Wi' summer's flowery loveliness

Ye come na back again!

Ye come na back again,

The waefu' heart to cheer,

For lang the greedy grave has closed

Aboon my Mary dear.

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Written for the present work.

THE WAES O' EILD.

(_For an old Gaelic air._)

The cranreuch 's on my heid,

The mist 's now on my een,

A lanesome life I lead,

I'm no what I ha'e been.

Ther 're runkles on my broo,

Ther 're furrows on my cheek,

My wither'd heart fills fu'

Whan o' bygane days I speak.

For I 'm weary,

I 'm weary,

I 'm weary o' care--

Whare my bairnies ha'e gane,

Oh, let me gang there.

I ance was fu' o' glee,

And wha was then sae gay,

Whan dreamin' life wad be

But ae lang simmer day?

My feet, like lichtnin', flew

Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring,

They gimply staucher noo

Aneath a feckless thing.

For I 'm weary,

I 'm weary,

I 'm weary o' care--

Whare my first luve lies cauld,

Oh, let me lie there.

The ourie breath o' eild

Has blown ilk frien' frae me;

They comena near my beild

I ha'e dauted on my knee;

They hand awa their heids,

My frailties no to see;

My blessing on them, ane and a'--

I 've naething else to gie.

For I 'm weary,

I 'm weary,

I 'm weary and worn--

To the friens o' my youth

I maun soon, soon return.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.[11]

John Stuart Blackie, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh,

was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally

come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the

Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. At the

grammar school of Aberdeen, then under the rectorship of Dr Melvin, the

boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the

ridiculous Scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to

expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in Marischal College.

He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh--and

then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he

proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where

he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of

German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen

months, devoting himself to the Italian language and literature, and to

the study of archæology. His first publication testifies to his success

in both studies. It is entitled, "Osservazioni sopra un antico

sarcophago." It was written in Italian, and published in the _Annali del

Instituto Archæologico, Roma_, 1831.