return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The
study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the
profession was still less so. Accordingly, at this period he occupied
himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at
this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled,
"Faust: a Tragedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with
Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the
Society for Archæological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken
upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work
of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed
entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of
this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible
only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully
succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface,
"The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation
depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere _transposing_, but a
_re-casting_, of the original. On this principle, it has been my first
and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited--to seize, if
possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to
give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or
every minute expression." If this is what a translator should do, there
can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be
desired--full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and
reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that
Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of
the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are
very characteristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still
animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious
information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages,
gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates'
Library.
The translation of "Faust" established Mr Blackie's reputation as a
German scholar; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied
in reviewing German books for the _Foreign Quarterly Review_. He was
also a contributor to _Blackwood_, _Tait_, and the _Westminster Review_.
The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history or
religion; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on
Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems
to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of
Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as
almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is
reviewed by him; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig
campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been
written. During this time, Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and
Greek studies; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves
especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of
Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse
of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor--asserting that he was a
bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his
stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the _Westminster_,
on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness.
The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way
very satisfactory to an English reader.
In 1841, Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal
College, Aberdeen--a post which he held for eleven years. To this new
labour he gave himself with all his heart, and was eminently
successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate
knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under
the careful training of Dr Melvin; but their reading, both classical and
general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses.
Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his
students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of
the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he
formed a class-library, delivered lectures on Roman literature in all
its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this
period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in
educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced
his work, the subject was a very disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and
he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of
his fellow-professors. He has never, however, bated a jot of heart, and
he is now beginning to reap his reward. Several of the reforms which he
advocated at the commencement of his agitation, and which were at first
met with something approaching to contempt, have been adopted, and he
has lived to see entrance examinations introduced into several
Universities, and the test abolished. Many of the other reforms which he
then proposed are on a fair way to accomplishment, and the subject is no
longer treated with that indifference which met his early appeals. His
principal publications on this subject are: 1. An appeal to the Scottish
people on the improvement of their scholastic and academical
institutions; 2. A plea for the liberties of the Scottish Universities;
3. University reform; with a letter to Professor Pillans.
Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh,
Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and wrote various articles on it in the
newspapers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of
education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his
review of Beneche's masterly work on education, in the _Foreign
Quarterly_, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of
Languages."
During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin
and Greek philology. Some of the results of this labour were published
in the _Classical Museum_. One of the contributions to that journal was
published separately--"On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients."
It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentuation, drawing
accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the
accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It
is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article,
"On Prometheus," clears Æschylus from the charge of impiety, because he
appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the
"Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical
studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman history and Greek
literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time
were translations of Horace and Æschylus. Translations of several odes
of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all
the dramas of Æschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the
Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archæologist, "the friends of
his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now
universally admitted to be the best complete translation of Æschylus in
English.
In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University.
In that position he has carried on the same agitation in behalf of
educational and university reform, which characterised his stay in
Aberdeen. His last _brochure_ on the subject is a letter to the Town
Council of Edinburgh "On the Advancement of Learning in Scotland."
Having made this matter a work of his life, he takes every opportunity
to urge it, and, notwithstanding that he has got many gratuitous
rebuffs, continues on his way cheerily, now delivering a lecture or
speech on the subject, now writing letters in reply to this or that
assailant, and now giving a more complete exposition of his views in the
_North British Review_.
His first publication after his election to the Greek professorship was
"The Pronunciation of Greek; Accent and Quantity. A Philological
Inquiry:" 1852. In this work he sought to shew what authority there is
for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocating a return, in the
reading of prose, to that pronunciation of Greek which was the only one
known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is
consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in
Greece, living in Athens for two months and a-half, and acquiring a
fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the
results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the
_North British_ on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the
_Westminster_ on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an
introductory lecture "On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time
he has written principally in _Blackwood_ and the _North British_,
discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new
German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers
may be mentioned his reviews, in the _North British_, of his friend
Bunsen's "Signs of the Times," and of Perthos' Life. His articles more
especially relating to his own department are Æschylus and Homer, in the
_Encyclopædia Britannica_, an article on accents in the _Cambridge
Philological_, and an essay on Plato in the "Edinburgh Essays."
In 1857 was published the work which brings him into the list of
Scottish poets--"Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems."
The Lays and Legends are the work of the scholar, who, believing verse
to be the proper vehicle for an exposition of these beautiful myths,
gives them that form, instead of writing learned dissertations about
them. The miscellaneous poems shew more of the inner man than any of his
other works--deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and
manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything
that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all
falsehood.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] The present Memoir has been contributed by James Donaldson, Esq.,
Edinburgh.
SONG OF BEN CRUACHAN.
Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
With his peak so high
He cleaves the sky
That smiles on his old gray crown,
While the mantle green,
On his shoulders seen,
In many a fold flows down.
He looks to the north, and he renders
A greeting to Nevis Ben;
And Nevis, in white snowy splendours,
Gives Cruachan greeting again.
O'er dread Glencoe
The greeting doth go
And where Etive winds fair in the glen;
And he hears the call
In his steep north wall,
"God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben."
When the north winds their forces muster,
And ruin rides high on the storm,
All calm, in the midst of their bluster,
He stands with his forehead enorm.
When block on block,
With thundering shock,
Comes hurtled confusedly down,
No whit recks he,
But laughs to shake free
The dust from his old gray crown.
And while torrents on torrents are pouring
Down his sides with a wild, savage glee,
And when louder the loud Awe is roaring,
And the soft lake swells to a sea,
He smiles through the storm,
And his heart grows warm
As he thinks how his streams feed the plains
And the brave old Ben
Grows young again,
And swells with his lusty veins.
For Cruachan is king of the mountains
That gird in the lovely Loch Awe;
Loch Etive is fed from his fountains,
By the streams of the dark-rushing Awe.
Ere Adam was made
He rear'd his head
Sublime o'er the green winding glen;
And when flame wraps the sphere,
O'er earth's ashes shall peer
The peak of the old granite Ben.
THE BRAES OF MAR.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From you my feet must travel far,
Thou high-peak'd steep-cliff'd Loch-na-Gar,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
Thou lone green glen where I was born,
Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn.
From thee my heart is rudely torn,
And I shall see thee never!
The braes of Mar with heather glow,
The healthful breezes o'er them blow,
The gushing torrents from them flow,
That swell the rolling river.
Strong hills that nursed the brave and free,
On banks of clear, swift-rushing Dee,
My widow'd eyne no more shall see
Your birchen bowers for ever!
Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui
Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui,
Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie,
Farewell, farewell for ever!
In you the rich may stalk the deer,
Thou 'lt know the tread of prince and peer;
But oh, the poor man's heart is drear
To part from you for ever!
May God forgive our haughty lords,
For whom our fathers drew their swords;
No tear for us their pride affords,
No bond of love they sever.
Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar,
From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar--
The friendless poor is banished far
From your green glens for ever!
MY LOVES.
Name the leaves on all the trees,
Name the waves on all the seas,
Name the notes of all the groves--
Thus thou namest all my loves.
I do love the dark, the fair,
Golden ringlets, raven hair,
Eye that swims in sunny light,
Glance that shoots like lightning bright.
I do love the stately dame
And the sportive girl the same;
Every changeful phase between
Blooming cheek and brow serene.
I do love the young, the old,
Maiden modest, virgin bold,
Tiny beauties, and the tall--
Earth has room enough for all.
Which is better--who can say?--
Lucy grave or Mary gay?
She who half her charms conceals?
She who sparkles while she feels?
Why should I confine my love?
Nature bids us freely rove;
God hath scatter'd wide the fair,
Blooms and beauties everywhere.
Paris was a pedant fool,
Meting beauty by a rule:
Pallas? Juno? Venus?--he
Should have chosen all the three.
I am wise, life's every bliss
Thankful tasting; and a kiss
Is a sweet thing, I declare,
From a dark maid or a fair.
LIKING AND LOVING.
Liking is a little boy
Dreaming of a sea employ,
Sitting by the stream, with joy
Paper frigates sailing:
Love 's an earnest-hearted man,
Champion of beauty's clan,
Fighting bravely in the van,
Pushing and prevailing.
Liking hovers round and round,
Capers with a nimble bound,
Plants his foot on easy ground,
Through the glass to view it:
Love shoots sudden glance for glance,
Spurs the steed, and rests the lance,
With a brisk and bold advance,
Sworn to die or do it.
Liking 's ever on the wing,
From new blooms new sweets to bring;
Nibbling aye, the nimble thing
From the hook is free still:
Love 's a tar of British blue,
Let mad winds their maddest do,
To his haven carded true,
As I am to thee still.
WILLIAM STIRLING, M.P.
William Stirling of Keir, parliamentary representative of the county of
Perth, was born on the 8th March 1818, in the mansion of Kenmure, in the
vicinity of Glasgow. The only son of the late Archibald Stirling of
Keir, his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, have been
extensive landowners in the counties of Lanark and Perth. The
representative of the house, Sir George Stirling, was a conspicuous
supporter of the famous Marquis of Montrose. On the side of his mother,
who was a daughter of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Polloc, he is
descended from a family who adhered to the Covenant and the Revolution
of 1688.
Mr Stirling took the degrees of B.A. and M.A. at Trinity College,
Cambridge. To literary pursuits ardently devoted from his youth, he
afforded the first indication of his peculiar tastes in a small poetical
_brochure_. "The Songs of the Holy Land," composed chiefly during a
visit to Palestine, were printed for private circulation in 1846, but
were published with considerable additions in a handsome octavo volume
in 1848. Two specimens of these sacred lays are inserted in the present
work with the author's permission.
During a residence in Spain, Mr Stirling was led to direct his attention
to the state of the Fine Arts in that country; and in 1848 he produced a
work of much research and learning, entitled "Annals of the Artists of
Spain," in three volumes octavo. In 1852 appeared "The Cloister Life of
the Emperor Charles V.," which has already passed through several
editions, and has largely increased the reputation of the writer. His
latest publication, "Velasquez and his Works" was published in 1855.
In 1852 Mr Stirling was elected, without opposition, member of
Parliament for the county of Perth, and was again returned at the
general election in April 1857. Recently he has evinced a deep interest
in the literary improvement of the industrial population, by delivering
lectures to the district Mechanics' Institutions.
RUTH.
The golden smile of morning
On the hills of Moab play'd,
When at the city's western gate
Their steps three women stay'd.
One laden was with years and care,
A gray and faded dame,
Of Judah's ancient lineage,
And Naomi her name;
And two were daughters of the land,
Fair Orpah and sweet Ruth,
Their faces wearing still the bloom,
Their eyes the light of youth;
But all were childless widows,
And garb'd in weeds of woe,
And their hearts were full of sorrow,
And fast their tears did flow.
For the Lord God from Naomi
Her spouse and sons had taken,
And she and these that were their wives,
Are widow'd and forsaken;
And wish or hope her bosom knows
None other but to die,
And lay her bones in Bethlehem,
Where all her kindred lie.
So gives she now upon the way
To Jordan's western waters
Her farewell kisses and her tears
Unto her weeping daughters:
"Sweet daughters mine, now turn again
Unto your homes," she said,
"And for the love ye bear to me,
The love ye bear the dead,
The Lord with you deal kindly,
And give you joy and rest
And send to each a faithful mate
To cheer her widow'd breast."
Then long and loud their weeping was,
And sore was their lament,
And Orpah kiss'd sad Naomi,
And back to Moab went;
But gentle Ruth to Naomi
Did cleave with close embrace,
And earnest spoke, with loving eyes
Up-gazing in her face--
"Entreat me not to leave thee,
Nor sever from thy side,
For where thou goest I will go,
Where thou bidest I will bide,
Thy people still my people,
And thy God my God shall be,
And where thou diest I will die,
And make my grave with thee."
So Naomi, not loath, was won
Unto her gentle will;
And thence, with faces westward set,
They fared o'er plain and hill;
The Lord their staff, till Bethlehem
Rose fair upon their sight,
A rock-built town with towery crown,
In evening's purple light,
Midst slopes in vine and olive clad,
And spread along the brook,
White fields, with barley waving,
That woo'd the reaper's hook.
* * * * *
Now for the sunny harvest field
Sweet Ruth her mother leaves,
And goes a-gleaning after
The maids that bind the sheaves.
And the great lord of the harvest
Is of her husband's race,
And looks upon the lonely one
With gentleness and grace;
And he loves her for the brightness
And freshness of her youth,
And for her unforgetting love,
Her firm enduring truth--
The love and truth that guided Ruth
The border mountains o'er,
Where her people and her own land
She left for evermore.
So he took her to his home and heart,
And years of soft repose
Did recompense her patient faith,
Her meekly-suffer'd woes;
And she became the noblest dame
Of palmy Palestine,
And the stranger was the mother
Of that grand and glorious line
Whence sprang our royal David,
In the tide of generations,
The anointed king of Israel,
The terror of the nations:
Of whose pure seed hath God decreed
Messiah shall be born,
When the day-spring from on high shall light
The golden lands of morn;
Then heathen tongues shall tell the tale
Of tenderness and truth--
Of the gentle deed of Boaz
And the tender love of Ruth.
SHALLUM.
Oh, waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him
Who finds with his fathers the grave of his rest;
Sweet slumber is his, who at night-fall hath thrown him
Near bosoms that waking did love him the best.
But sorely bewail him, the weary world-ranger,
Shall ne'er to the home of his people return;
His weeping worn eyes must be closed by the stranger,
No tear of true sorrow shall hallow his urn.
And mourn for the monarch that went out of Zion,
King Shallum, the son of Josiah the Just;
For he the cold bed of the captive shall die on,
Afar from his land, nor return to its dust.
THOMAS C. LATTO.
A song-writer of considerable popularity, Thomas C. Latto was born in
1818, in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the
elementary branches at the parochial seminary, he entered, in his
fourteenth year, the United College of St Andrews. Having studied during
five sessions at this University, he was in 1838 admitted into the
writing-chambers of Mr John Hunter, W.S., Edinburgh, now Auditor of the
Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to Mr William
E. Aytoun, Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh. After a
period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the
situation of managing clerk to a writer in Dundee. In 1852 he entered
into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating
to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in mercantile
concerns at New York.
Latto first became known as a song-writer in the pages of
"Whistle-binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled "The Minister's
Kail-yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition,
appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the "Book of Scottish Song" he made
several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in
_Blackwood's_ and _Tait's Magazines_.
THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR.
TUNE--_"There 's nae Luck about the House."_
There 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss,
Whiles mair than in a score;
But wae betak' the stouin smack
I took ahint the door.
O laddie, whisht! for sic a fricht
I ne'er was in afore;
Fou brawly did my mither hear
The kiss ahint the door.
The wa's are thick--ye needna fear;
But, gin they jeer and mock,
I 'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or wyte the rusty lock.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.
We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin' coal;
An' as for me, I could hae crept
Into a mouse's hole.
The mither look't--saffs how she look't!--
Thae mithers are a bore,
An' gleg as ony cat to hear
A kiss ahint the door.
Their 's meikle bliss, &c.
The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,
As weel micht been in Rome,
For by the fire he puff'd his pipe,
An' never fash'd his thumb;
But, titterin' in a corner, stood
The gawky sisters four--
A winter's nicht for me they micht
Hae stood ahint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.
"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"
The bauld gudewife began;
Wi' that a foursome yell got up--
I to my heels and ran.
A besom whiskit by my lug,
An' dishclouts half-a-score:
Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,
At kissin 'hint the door.
There 's meikle bliss, &c.
THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE.
TUNE--_"My only Jo and Dearie, O!"_
Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen
On Kenly banks sae grassy, O!
Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een?--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet,
Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet;
The smother'd laugh--I flew to greet
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
They glintit slee--the moon and she--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!--
On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me:
She is a dear wee lassie, O!
How rapture's pulse was beating fast
As Mary to my heart I claspt!
Oh, bliss divine--owre sweet to last--
I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, O!
She nestled close, like croodlin' doo--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou'--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Unto my breast again, again,
I prest her guileless heart sae fain;
Sae blest were baith--now she 's my ain,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine--
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
My heart wad break gin I should tyne
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight;
The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright
On me and her, my soul's delight,
The widow's ae bit lassie, O!
THE YELLOW-HAIRED LADDIE.
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe,
The clansmen are arming to rush on the foe;
Gay banners are streaming as forth pours the clan,
The yellow-haired laddie is first in the van.
The pibroch is kindling each heart to the war,
The Cameron's slogan is heard from afar;
They close for the struggle where many shall fall,
But the yellow-haired laddie is foremost of all.
He towers like a wave in the fierce rolling tide,
No kinsman of Evan's may stand by his side;
The Camerons gather around him alone--
He heeds not the danger, and fear is unknown.
The plumes of his bonnet are seen through the fight--
A beacon for valour, which fires at the sight;
But he sees not yon claymore--ah! traitorous thrust!
The plumes and the bonnet are laid in the dust.
The maidens are smiling in rocky Glencoe--
The clansmen approach--they have vanquish'd the foe;
But sudden the cheeks of the maidens are pale,
For the sound of the coronach comes on the gale.
The maidens are weeping in rocky Glencoe,
From warriors' eyelids the bitter drops flow;
They come--but, oh! where is their chieftain so dear?
The yellow-haired laddie is low on the bier.
The maidens are wailing in rocky Glencoe--
There 's gloom in the valley, at sunrise 'twill go;
But no sun can the gloom from their hearts chase away--
The yellow-haired laddie lies cauld in the clay.
TELL ME, DEAR.
AIR--_"Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes."_
Tell me dear! in mercy speak,
Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie?
Faint the rose is on thy cheek,
But still the rose is there, lassie!
Away, away each dark foreboding,
Heavy days with anguish clouding,
Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding,
Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie!
Day and night I've tended thee,
Watching, love, thy changing e'e;
Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e,
Say thou 'rt happy now, lassie!
Willie, lay thy cheek to mine--
Kiss me, oh! my ain laddie!
Never mair may lip o' thine
Press where it hath lain, laddie!
Hark! I hear the angels calling,
Heavenly strains are round me falling,
But the stroke--thy soul appalling--
'Tis my only pain, laddie!
Yet the love I bear to thee
Shall follow where I soon maun be;
I 'll tell how gude thou wert to me--
We part to meet again, laddie!
Lay thine arm beneath my head--
Grieve na sae for me, laddie!
I'll thole the doom that lays me dead,
But no a tear frae thee, laddie!
Aft where yon dark tree is spreading,
When the sun's last beam is shedding,
Where no earthly foot is treading,
By my grave thou 'lt be, laddie!
Though my sleep be wi' the dead,
Frae on high my soul shall speed,
And hover nightly round thy head,
Although thou wilt na see, laddie.
WILLIAM CADENHEAD.
William Cadenhead was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a
limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in
his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and
ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's _Minstrel_ inspired
him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in
verse were admitted in the Poet's Corner of the _Aberdeen Herald_. In
1819 he published a small poetical work, entitled "The Prophecy," which,
affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation.
Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the
local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the
title, "Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of
Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan,
appeared from his pen in 1856. For three years he has held a comfortable
and congenial appointment as confidential clerk to a merchant in his
native city. He continues to contribute verses to the periodicals.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING?
Do you know what the birds are singing?
Can you tell their sweet refrains,
When the green arch'd woods are ringing
With a thousand swelling strains?
To the sad they sing of sadness,
To the blythe, of mirth and glee,
And to me, in my fond love's gladness,
They sing alone of thee!
They sing alone of thee, love,
Of thee, through the whole day long,
And each its own dear charm extols,
And each with its own sweet song!
Do you know what the soft winds whisper
When they sigh through blooming trees--
When each bough is a choral lisper
Of the woodland melodies?
To some they seem to be grieving
For the summer's short-lived glee;
But to me they are always weaving
Sweet songs in praise of thee!
Sweet songs in praise of thee, love,
And telling the flowers below,
How far thy charms outshine them all,
Though brightly their soft leaves glow!
Do you know what the streamlet trilleth
As it glides or leaps along,
While the cool green nook it filleth
With the gushes of its song?
Do you think it sings its dreaming
Of its distant home, the sea?
Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming
Is still of thee, of thee!
Is still of thee, of thee, love,
Till echoes and woodland fays--
Yea, Nature all is eloquent
And vocal in thy praise.
AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE.
Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie,
As I 've look'd in days gane by,
When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie,
And answer'd sigh for sigh;
When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie,
Although poor and lane together,
We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie,
And were a' to ane anither!
Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie,
They ance were dear to me,
As the honey-savour'd blossoms
To the nectar-hunting bee!
It kens whar dwalls the banquets
O' the sweetest dewy wine--
And as the chosen flower to it,
Sae were thy lips to mine.
I see thy very thochts, Jeanie,
Deep in thy clear blue e'e,
As ye 'll see the silver fishes flash,
When ye sail the midnicht sea;
And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie,
Though the thochts they are nae mine,
For I see there 's nae repentant ane,
That they ance were sae langsyne.
Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie--
Ay, that 's the very chime,
Whase silver echoes haunted me
Through a' my youthfu' prime.
Speak on! thy gentle words, Jeanie,
Awake a blessed train
Of memories that I thocht had slept
To never wake again!
God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie,
And your face sae angel fair!
May the ane be never pierced wi' grief,
Nor the ither blanch'd wi' care;
And he wha has your love, Jeanie,
May he be dear to thee,
As I may aiblins ance have been--
And as thou 'rt still to me!
ALLAN GIBSON.
A poet of sentiment and moral feeling, Allan Gibson was removed from the
scene at the threshold of a promising career. He was born at Paisley on
the 2d October 1820. In his boyhood he devoted himself to the perusal of
works of history and romance; and he acquired a familiarity with the
more distinguished British poets. It was his delight to stray amidst
rural scenes, and to imbibe inspiration among the solitudes of nature.
His verses were composed at such periods. They are prefaced by prose
reflections, and abound in delicate colouring and gentle pathos. Several
detached specimens of his prose writing are elegant and masterly. He
followed an industrial occupation, but was unfortunate in business.
After an illness of two years, he died on the 9th August 1849, at the
early age of twenty-nine. He was possessed of much general talent; was
fond of society, fluent in conversation, and eloquent as a public
speaker. His habits were sober and retiring. He left a widow and four
children. A thin 8vo volume of his "Literary Remains" was published in
1850, for the benefit of his family.
THE LANE AULD MAN.
He sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek,
Its hearth was cauld to his weary feet,
For a' were gane, an' nae mair would meet
By the side o' the lane auld man.
To the wreck o' his hopes fond memory clung
When flowers o' his heart on his hearthstane sprung;
But death's cauld hand had cruelly wrung
The heart o' the lane auld man.
A leafless tree in life's wintry blast,
He stood alane o' his kin the last,
For ane by ane frae his side they pass'd,
An' left him a lane auld man.
His bonnie bairns, o' his heart the prize,
Wi' their bounding step and sunny eyes,
Hae left his hearth for hame in the skies;
Alack for the lane auld man!
The weel lo'ed form o' his ain auld wife,
Wha sooth'd the cares o' a lang bleak life,
Has gane to rest wi' her weans frae strife,
An' heeds na her lane auld man.
Owre the turf on their breast he lo'ed to weep,
And sair he lang'd wi' the lost to meet,
Till death did close, in his ain calm sleep,
The een o' the lane auld man.
Whar yew-trees bend owre the dark kirk-yard,
An' gowans peep frae the lang green-sward,
The moss-clad stanes o' the cauld grave guard
The last o' the lane auld man.
THE WANDERER'S RETURN.
Shadows of glory the twilight is parting,
The day-star is seeking its home in the west,
The herd from the field to the fold is departing,
As, Lochwinnoch, sad on thy summits I rest.
And far o'er the scene, while the evening is veiling
Thy waters that spread their still breast on the lea,
On his broad truant wing the lone heron is sailing,
To rest with his mate by the rock on the sea.
But, houseless and homeless, around thee I wander,
The faces are gone I have panted to see,
And cold is the hearth to the feet of the stranger,
Which once had a seat in its circle for me.
Here youth's golden hours of my being were number'd,
When joy in my bosom was breathing its lay;
If care on the light of my happiness linger'd,
Hope hasted the heartless intruder away.
Then sweetly the brow of the beaming-eyed future
Was smiling my welcome to life's rosy way,
And fondly I sigh'd in her Eden to meet her,
And bask in the bowers where her happiness lay.
While fancy on light airy pinion was mounting,
I strain'd my young vision in rapture to see
The land of my dreams, with its love-mirror'd fountains,
And breath'd in the balm of the south's sunny sea.
Then, far on the track of ambition, I follow'd
The footsteps of fortune through perilous climes,
And trod the bright scenes which my childhood had hallow'd
But found not the charms which fond fancy enshrines.
The gold I have won, can it purchase the treasure
Of hearts' warm affections left bleeding behind,
Restore me the ties which are parted for ever,
And gild the dark gloom of my desolate mind?
The gold I have won! but, unblest and beguiling,
It came like the sun when unclouded and gay;
Its light on the cold face of winter is smiling,
But cheers not the earth with the warmth of its ray.
Again fare-thee-well, for the heart-broken rover
Now bids thee a long and a lasting adieu;
Yet o'er thee the dreams of my spirit will hover,
And burn as it broods on life's dismal review.
THOMAS ELLIOTT.
The author of a small volume of very meritorious poems and lyrics,
Thomas Elliott is descended from a branch of the old Border family of
that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the
Revolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in
county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d
December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not
removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the
ordinary branches of popular education. In his fifteenth year he
apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in
1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hours in
extensive and varied reading. After a few years of somewhat desultory
employment, he visited Glasgow in 1847, and there, following his
original trade, he has continued to reside.
Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year
1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had
given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled "Doric Lays and Attic
Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his
lyrics have been published with music in "The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a
collection of songs published at Glasgow.
UP WITH THE DAWN.
Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil,
And bare the brawny arm,
To drive the harness'd team afield,
And till the fruitful farm;
To dig the mine for hidden wealth,
Or make the woods to ring
With swinging axe and sturdy stroke,
To fell the forest king.
With ocean car and iron steed
Traverse the land and sea,
And spread our commerce round the globe
As winds that wander free.
Subdue the earth, and conquer fate,
Outspeed the flight of time;
Old earth is rich, and man is young,
Nor near his jocund prime.
Work, and the clouds of care will fly,
Pale want will pass away;
Work, and the leprosy of crime
And tyrants must decay.
Leave the dead ages in their urns;
The present time be ours,
To grapple bravely with our lot,
And strew our path with flowers.
CLYDE BOAT SONG.
_Music by A. Hume._
Leave the city's busy throng--
Dip the oar, and wake the song,
While on Cathkin Braes the moon
Rises with a star aboon:
Hark! the boom of evening bells
Trembles through the dewy dells.
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
While the golden eventide
Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.
Life 's a river, deep and old,
Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold;
Now in shadow, then in light,
Onward aye, a thing of might;
Sons of Albyn's ancient land,
Row with strong and steady hand,
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Gaily row, and cheery sing,
Till the woodland echoes ring;
Row, lads, row; row lads, row,
O'er the tide, up the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.
Hammers on the anvil rest,
Dews upon the gowan's breast;
Young hearts heave with tender thought,
Low winds sigh, with odours fraught,
Stars bedeck the blue above,
Earth is full of joy and love;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row;
Let your oars in concert beat
Merry time, like dancers' feet;
Row, lads, row; row, lads, row,
With the tide, down the Clyde,
Row, lads, row.
DIMPLES AND A'.
I love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true
Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo;
Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma',
She says she 's my ain lassie, dimples and a'--
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'.
Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge,
Her bonnie black e'e has a long jetty fringe,
Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa',
Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a'--
Dimpled and a', dimpled and a'--
And I ken it 's my ain hand, dimples and a'.
I 'll wed my dear lassie, and gie her my name,
I 'll get a bit housie, and bring my love hame;
When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw,
She 'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a'--
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
My ain bonnie wifie, wi' her dimples and a'.
When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above,
I 'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love;
She 'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa'
Frae our cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
Dimples and a', dimples and a'--
Our ain cosie ingle, wi' dimples and a'.
BUBBLES ON THE BLAST.
A wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees,
And from a cutty pipe 's puffing bubbles on the breeze;
Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair,
To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.
Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind,
And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind;
And such are human pomp and ambition at the last--
The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.
How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng,
To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along!
'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar--
Now a revolution, and again a woeful war;
A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might;
A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light;
Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast--
All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.
Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage
As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age;
This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay--
Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.
We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things,
That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings;
And others yet may rise from the future, like the past,
The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.
A SERENADE.
The shadows of evening fall silent around,
The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd;
While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse,
With your love at my heart, your name on my lips;
Your name on my lips, like a melody rare--
Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.
The birds by the river sing plaintive and low,
They seem to be breathing a burden of woe;
They seem to be asking, why am I alone?
And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?
The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air,
And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.
The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide,
Recall your sweet image again to my side--
Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute;
Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot;
Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair,
And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.
Come love, to the bank where the violets blow,
Beside the calm waters that slumber below,
While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom,
Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume;
Oh! what is the world, with its splendours or care,
When you are beside me in shady Kenmair!
A SONG OF LITTLE THINGS.
I 'm a very little man,
And I earn a little wage,
And I have a little wife,
In a little hermitage,
Up a quiet little stair,
Where the creeping ivy clings;
In a mansion near the stars
Is my home of little things.
I 've two bonnie little bairns,
Full of prattle and of glee,
And our little dwelling rings
With their laughter, wild and free.
Of the greenwoods, all the day,
I 've a little bird that sings;
It reminds me of my youth,
And the age of little things.
I 've no money in the funds,
And no steamers on the sea;
But my busy little hands
Are a treasure unto me.
I can work, and I can sing,
With a joy unknown to kings;
While peace and plenty smile
On my bonnie little things.
And when my work is done,
In my cosie ingle nook,
With my little ones around,
I can read a little book.
And I thank my lucky stars
For whatever fortune brings;
I 'm richer than a lord--
I 'm content with little things.
MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND.
Oh! wae 's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame,
It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame,
Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu' o' sand,
And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land.
I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells,
The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells,
The dash o' the deep, on the gray rocky strand,
That gird the blue hills o' my ain mountain land.
I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow,
The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow;
But I wake frae my sleep like a being that 's bann'd,
And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land.
I ken there 's a lass that looks out on the sea,
Wi' tears in the een that are watchin' for me;
Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o' my hand,
Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land.
WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN.
Give me the hour when bells are rung,
And dinsome wheels are still,
When engines rest, and toilers leave
The workshop, forge, and mill;
With smiling lip, and gladsome e'e,
My gudewife welcomes me;
Our bairnies clap their wee white hands,
And speel upon my knee.
When I come hame at e'en,
When I come hame at e'en,
How dear to me the bairnies' glee,
When I come hame at e'en.
Our lowly bield is neat and clean,
And bright the ingle's glow,
The table 's spread with halesome fare,
The teapot simmers low.
How sweet to toil for joys like these
With strong and eydent hand,
To nurture noble hearts to love,
And guard our fatherland.
When I come hame at e'en, &c.
Let revellers sing of wassail bowls,
Their wines and barley bree;
My ain wee house and winsome wife
Are dearer far to me.
To crack with her of joys to come,
Of days departed long,
When she was like a wee wild rose,
And I a bird of song.
When I come hame at e'en,
When I come hame at e'en,
How dear to me these memories
When I come hame at e'en.
WILLIAM LOGAN.
William Logan, author of the song "Jeanie Gow," was born on the 18th
February 1821, in the village of Kilbirnie, and county of Ayr. Intended
by his parents for one of the liberal professions, he had the benefit of
a superior school education. For a number of years he has held a
respectable appointment in connexion with a linen-thread manufactory in
his native place.
JEANIE GOW.
Ye hameless glens and waving woods,
Where Garnock winds alang,
How aft, in youth's unclouded morn,
Your wilds I 've roved amang.
There ha'e I heard the wanton birds
Sing blythe on every bough,
There first I met, and woo'd the heart
O' bonnie Jeanie Gow.
Dear Jeanie then was fair and young,
And bloom'd as sweet a flower
As ever deck'd the garden gay
Or lonely wild wood bower.
The warbling lark at early dawn,
The lamb on mountain brow,
Had ne'er a purer, lighter heart
Than bonnie Jeanie Gow.
Her faither's lowly, clay-built cot
Rose by Glengarnock side,
And Jeanie was his only stay,
His darling and his pride.
Aft ha'e I left the dinsome town,
To which I ne'er could bow,
And stray'd amang the ferny knowes
Wi' bonnie Jeanie Gow.
But, ah! these fondly treasured joys
Were soon wi' gloom o'ercast,
For Jeanie dear was torn awa'
By death's untimely blast.
Ye woods, ye wilds, and warbling birds,
Ye canna cheer me now,
Sin' a' my glee and cherish'd hopes
Ha'e gane wi' Jeanie Gow.
JAMES LITTLE.
James Little was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a
respectable shoemaker, was a claimant, through his maternal grandmother,
of the title and estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very
limited elementary education, the subject of this notice, at an early
age, was called on to work with his father; but soon afterwards he
enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life,
chiefly passed in North America and the West Indies, he purchased his
discharge, and resumed shoemaking in his native city. In 1852 he
proceeded to the United States, but subsequently returned to Glasgow. In
1856 he published a small duodecimo volume of meritorious verses, with
the title, "Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several songs from his pen have
been published, with music, in the "Lyric Gems of Scotland."
OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN.
Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark
Across the ocean drear,
While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief,
And wet wi' sorrow's tear.
The flowers that spring upon the Clyde
Will bloom for us in vain;
Nae mair wi' lightsome step we 'll climb
Our native hills again.
Amang their glens our fathers sleep,
Where mony a thistle waves;
And roses fair and gowans meek
Bloom owre their lowly graves.
But we maun dree a sadder fate
Far owre the stormy main;
We lang may look, but never see
Our native hills again.
Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west,
When starnies light the sky,
We'll gather round the ingle's side,
And sing o' days gane by;
And sunny blinks o' joy will come
To soothe us when alane,
And aft, in nightly dreams, we'll climb
Our native hills again.
HERE 'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE.
_Music by Alexander Hume._
Sing not to me of sunny shores
Or verdant climes where olives bloom,
Where, still and calm, the river pours
Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume;
Give me the land where torrents flash,
Where loud the angry cat'racts roar,
As wildly on their course they dash--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.
Sing not to me of sunny isles,
Though there eternal summers reign,
Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles,
And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain;
Give me the land of mountains steep,
Where wild and free the eagles soar,
The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.
Sing not to me of sunny lands,
For there full often tyrants sway
Who climb to power with blood-stain'd hands,
While crouching, trembling slaves obey;
Give me the land unconquer'd still,
Though often tried in days of yore,
Where freedom reigns from plain to hill--
Then here's a health to Scotia's shore.
THE DAYS WHEN WE WERE YOUNG.
The happy days of yore!
Will they ever come again,
To shed a gleam of joy on us,
And win the heart from pain?
Or will they only come in dreams,
When nicht's black curtain 's hung?
Yet even then 'tis sweet to mind
The days when we were young.
Fond mem'ry, wi' its mystic power,
Brings early scenes to view--
Again we roam among the hills,
Sae wat wi' morning dew--
Again we climb the broomy knowes,
And sing wi' prattlin' tongue,
For we had nae cares to fash us
In the days when we were young.
How aft, when we were callants,
Hae we sought the ocean's shore,
And launch'd wi' glee our tiny boats,
And heard the billows roar?
And aft amang the glancin' waves
In daring sport we 've sprung,
And swam till we were wearied,
In the days when we were young.
In winter, round the ingle side,
We 've read wi' kindling e'e,
How Wallace Wight, and Bruce the Bold,
Aft made the southrons flee;
Or listen'd to some bonnie sang,
By bonnie lassie sung:
Oh! love and happiness were ours,
In days when we were young.
Oh! his maun be a waefu' heart
That has nae sunny gleams
Of by-gane joys in early days,
Though it be but in dreams:
Wha thinks nae o' his mither's arms,
Sae aft around him flung,
To shield him safe frae earthly harms,
In days when he was young:
Wha thinks nae o' his sisters fair,
That toddled out and in,
And ran about the braes wi' him,
And play'd wi' meikle din;
And his maun be a barren heart,
Where love has never sprung,
Wha thinks nae o' the days gane by
The days when he was young.
LIZZIE FREW.
'Twas a balmy summer gloamin',
When the sun had gane to rest,
And his gowden beams were glintin'
Owre the hills far in the west;
And upon the snawy gowan
Saftly fell the pearly dew,
When I met my heart's best treasure,
Gentle, winsome Lizzy Frew.
Light she tripp'd amang the bracken,
While her glossy waving hair
Play'd around her gentle bosom,
Dancing in the summer air.
Love laugh'd in her een sae paukie,
Smiles play'd round her rosy mou',
And my heart was led a captive
By the charms o' Lizzie Frew.
Thochts o' her can mak' me cheerie,
As I toil the lee-lang day;
And at nicht, though e'er sae wearie,
Gladly out wi' her I stray.
I ask nae for a greater pleasure,
Than to ken her heart is true--
I ask nae for a greater treasure,
Than my gentle Lizzie Frew.
COLIN RAE BROWN.
The son of a respectable shipowner and captain in the merchant service,
Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th of December 1821.
Having completed his education in Glasgow, whither the family removed in
1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connexion
with the publishing house of Messrs Murray and Sons, Glasgow, and
undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the
establishment in Glasgow of the _North British Daily Mail_, he accepted
an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper.
When the _Mail_ passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown
established, in conjunction with a partner, the Fine Art Gallery in St
Vincent Street, with which he continues to be connected. In 1848 he
published a volume of lyrics, which was well received; a second poetical
work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, "Lays and
Lyrics," has met with similar success. A number of songs from both
volumes have been published separately with music. On the abolition of
the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the _Bulletin_
and _Workman_, a daily and a weekly newspaper, both published in
Glasgow.
CHARLIE 'S COMIN'.
Charlie 's comin' o'er the sea,
Soon, he 'll set the country free
From those that bear the rule and gree
In bonnie Caledonia!
Gentle breezes, softly blow,
We burn until we meet the foe,
And strike the bold decisive blow
For king and Caledonia!
Noble hearts are beating high,
All will fight, none basely fly,
For if they conquer not, they 'll die
For ancient Caledonia!
Oh, that Charlie were but here!
The base usurper then might fear--
As loud the din fell on his ear
Of joy in Caledonia!
Heard ye not that distant hum?
And now the pipe, and now the drum,
Proclaim the news that Charlie 's come
To gladden Caledonia!
Tyrants, tremble, Charlie 's here!
Now, indeed, ye 've cause to fear;
Hielan' hearts be of good cheer,
And on for Caledonia!
THE WIDOW'S DAUGHTER.
Why gaze on that pale face,
Childless one, childless one?
Why seek this lonely place?
She hath gone, she hath gone.
Thy daughter is not here,
Widow'd one, widow'd one--
Nay, wipe away that tear,
She hath won, she hath won!
Her home is far away,
She 's at rest, she 's at rest,
In everlasting day,
With the blest, with the blest.
No pains, no sorrows there,
All are past, all are past;
That sigh summ'd up her care,
'Twas her last, 'twas her last.
'Tis not her there you see,
Sister dear, sister dear;
That earth holds nought for thee,
Draw not near, draw not near.
The place is cold and dark,
Haste away, haste away;
Corruption is at work--
Soulless clay! soulless clay!
The lamp hath ceased to burn,
Quench'd the flame, quench'd the flame;
Let dust to dust return,
Whence it came, whence it came.
To thy chamber, sister dear;
There to God, there to God,
Bend humble and sincere,
'Neath His rod, 'neath His rod.
Prayer heals the broken heart--
He is kind, He is kind;
Each bruised and bleeding part
He will bind, He will bind.
Weep not for her that 's gone--
Time will fly, time will fly--
Thou 'lt meet thy cherish'd one
'Yond the sky! 'yond the sky!
ROBERT LEIGHTON.
Robert Leighton, author of "Rhymes and Poems by Robin," a duodecimo
volume of verses, published in 1855, was born at Dundee in 1822. He has
been chiefly employed in mercantile concerns. The following lyric, which
has attained some popularity, was one of his earliest poetical efforts,
being composed in his sixteenth year.
MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK.
There 's some can be happy and bide whar they are,
There 's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far;
But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock,
While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.
Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht,
Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na straucht,
Yet frae mornin' till e'en--aye as steady 's a rock--
I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock.
Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through,
And when at the end I begin it anew;
There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock,
To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock.
There isna' a hoose but I micht mak' my hame,
There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame,
Though I open'd the door without gieing a knock,
And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock.
As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed,
And better, say some, for they hinna to read;
The lads and the lasses around me a' flock,
And there 's no ane forgets that I hae a meal pock.
The gudeman he speaks about corn and lan',
"Hoo 's the markets," says he, "are they risen or fa'en?
Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?"
But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock.
To be usefu' to her I haud sticks on the fire,
Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre,
She 'll gie me a hand o' the cradle to rock,
And for that she 's aye gude to my muckle meal pock.
Though my friends a' be gane whar I yet hae to gang,
And o' followin' them noo I canna be lang,
Yet while I am here I will lauch and I 'll joke,
For I 'll aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock.
JAMES HENDERSON.
A poet of much elegance and power, James Henderson was born on the 2d
November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, in the village of Denny
and county of Stirling. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow,
where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by
sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature in
its ever varying aspects, he found relaxation from business in the
composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume,
entitled "Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much
commended by the periodical and newspaper press. Having proceeded to
India in 1849, he became a commission agent in Calcutta. He visited
Britain in 1852, but returned to India the same year. Having permanently
returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow as an
East India merchant.
THE WANDERER'S DEATHBED.
Afar from the home where his youthful prime
And his happy hours were pass'd,
On the distant shore of a foreign clime
The wanderer breathed his last.
And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
By the brooklet's glassy brim;
And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
And the dirge of its evening hymn.
He left the land of his childhood fair,
With hope in his glowing breast,
With visions bright as the summer's light,
And dreams by his fancy blest.
But death look'd down with a chilling frown
As he stood on that distant shore,
And he leant his head on the stranger's bed,
Till the last sad pang was o'er.
Strange faces, fill'd with a soulless look,
O'er the wanderer's deathbed hung;
And the words were cold as the wintry wold,
That fell from each heedless tongue.
Nor mournful sigh, nor tearful eye
The solace of pity gave,
While the moments pass'd till he breathed his last,
To sleep in the silent grave.
Afar from the home where his youthful prime
And his happy hours were pass'd,
On the distant shore of a foreign clime
The wanderer breathed his last.
And they dug his grave where the wild flowers wave,
By the brooklet's glassy brim;
And the song-bird there wakes its morning prayer,
And the dirge of its evening hymn.
THE SONG OF TIME.
I fleet along, and the empires fall,
And the nations pass away,
Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
That die with the dawning day.
The lordly tower, and the battled wall,
The hall, and the holy fane,
In ruin lie while I wander by,
Nor rise from their wreck again.
I light the rays of the orient blaze,
The glow of the radiant noon;
I wing my flight with the sapphire night,
And glide with the gentle moon.
O'er earth I roam, and the bright expanse
Where the proud bark bounds away;
And I join the stars in their choral dance
Round the golden orb of day.
I fleet along, and the empires fall,
And the nations pass away,
Like visions bright of the dreamy night,
That die with the dawning day.
The sceptre sinks in the regal hall,
And still'd is the monarch's tread,
The mighty stoop as the meanest droop,
And sleep with the nameless dead.
THE HIGHLAND HILLS.
The Highland hills! there are songs of mirth,
And joy, and love on the gladsome earth;
For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled
In the forest glade and the woodland wild.
Then come with me from the haunts of men
To the glassy lake in the mountain glen,
Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills
That chainless leap from the Highland hills.
The Highland hills! when the sparkling rays
Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze,
When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow,
While the fountains leap and the rivers flow,
Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls
Bid echo wake in the rocky halls,
Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils
A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills.
The Highland hills! when the noonday smiles
On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles,
We 'll clamber high where the heather waves
By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves;
And I 'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime,"
Of the days of old and of ancient time,
And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills,
Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills.
The Highland hills! in the twilight dim
To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb,
And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far,
Till the beacon blaze of the evening star,
And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams,
Look down on the deep and the shining streams,
Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills
With joy and love in the Highland hills.
MY NATIVE LAND.
Sublime is Scotia's mountain land,
And beautiful and wild;
By tyranny's unhallow'd hand
Unsullied, undefiled.
The free and fearless are her sons,
The good and brave her sires;
And, oh! her every spirit glows
With freedom's festal fires!
When dark oppression far and wide
Its gory deluge spread,
While nations, ere they pass'd away,
For hope and vengeance bled,
She from her rocky bulwarks high
The banner'd eagle hurl'd,
And trampled on triumphant Rome,
The empress of the world.
She gave the Danish wolf a grave
Deep in her darkest glens,
And chased the vaunting Norman hound
Back to his lowland dens;
And though the craven Saxon strove
Her regal lord to be,
Her hills were homes to nurse the brave,
The fetterless, and free.
Peace to the spirits of the dead,
The noble, and the brave;
Peace to the mighty who have bled
Our Fatherland to save!
We revel in the pure delight
Of deeds achieved by them,
To crown their worth and valour bright
With glory's diadem.
JAMES MACLARDY.
The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on
the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was
a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty
rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world.
For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly
betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being
dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his
father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in
improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of
the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has
latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable
emolument.
THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.
The sunny days are come, my love,
The gowan 's on the lea,
And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips,
Invite the early bee;
The scented winds are whisp'ring by,
The lav'rock 's on the wing,
The lintie on the dewy spray
Gars glen and woodland ring.
The sunny days are come, my love,
The primrose decks the brae,
The vi'let in its rainbow robe
Bends to the noontide ray;
The cuckoo in her trackless bower
Has waken'd from her dream;
The shadows o' the new-born leaves
Are waving in the stream.
The sunny days are come, my love,
The swallow skims the lake,
As o'er its glassy bosom clear
The insect cloudlets shake.
The heart of nature throbs with joy
At love and beauty's sway;
The meanest creeping thing of earth
Shares in her ecstasy.
Then come wi' me my bonny Bell,
And rove Gleniffer o'er,
And ye shall lend a brighter tint
To sunshine and to flower;
And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won
A blessing or a wae--
Awake a summer in my breast,
Or bid hope's flowers decay.
For spring may spread her mantle green,
O'er mountain, dell, and lea,
And summer burst in every hue
Wi' smiles and melody,
To me the sun were beamless, love,
And scentless ilka flower,
Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun,
Its music and its bower.
OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.
Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud
That sleeps in the smile o' dawn;
An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells
That spangle the blossom'd lawn:
An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart,
That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea;
But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice,
That my love was nae for me.
Oh, my love was gay as the summer time,
When the earth is bricht an' gled,
An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw,
In their sparkling pearl-draps cled:
An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen
That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea;
But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face,
That my love was nae for me.
Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower
That waves by the moss-grown stane,
An' her lips were rich as the rowans red
That hang in forest lane;
An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht,
That struck ane dumb to see;
But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named,
That my love was nae for me.
Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale
That fans the temples o' toil,
An' the sweets o' a thousand summers cam'
On her breath an' sunny smile:
An' spotless she gaed on the tainted earth,
O' a mortal blemish free,
While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy,
That my love was nae for me.
Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss
Was reaming to the brim,
When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower
Cam' a grisly carl fu' grim,
Wha dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips
Wi' a wild, unearthly glee;
Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirm'd,
That my love was nae for me.
Oh, my love was young, an' the grim auld carl
Held her fast in his cauld embrace,
An' suck'd the red frae her hiney'd mou',
An' the blush frae her peachy face:
He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat,
An' quench'd the fires o' her e'e;
But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower,
For my love was nae for me.
Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart,
An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame;
Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht,
Wi' the cauld warld for my hame.
Yet my minstrelsy 's but a lanely lay,
My wealth my aumous fee;
Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carl,
For this warld is nae for me.
ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON.
The author of "Harebell Chimes," a volume of interesting verses, Andrew
James Symington, was born at Paisley, on the 27th of July 1825. His
father was a scion of the noble house of Douglas, and his mother claimed
descent from the old Highland family of Macalister. On the completion of
his education at the grammar school, the subject of this sketch entered
the warehouse of his father, who carried on business as a muslin
manufacturer. By the death of his father in 1841, he succeeded, along
with an elder brother, to the full management of the concern. In 1848
the establishment was removed from Paisley to Glasgow, where it
continues to be prosperously carried on.
Eminently devoted to literary and artistic studies, Mr Symington has
cultivated the personal intercourse of artists and men of letters. He
has contributed to some of the leading periodicals. His volume of
"Harebell Chimes," published in 1849, contains poetry of a high order;
it was especially commended by the late Samuel Rogers, with whom the
author had the privilege of corresponding. In 1855, a small volume
entitled "Genivieve, and other Poems," was printed by Mr Symington for
circulation among his friends.
DAY DREAM.
Close by the marge of Leman's lake,
Upon a thymy plot,
In blissful rev'rie, half awake,
Earth's follies all forgot,
I conjured up a faery isle
Where sorrow enter'd not,
Withouten shade of sin or guile--
A lovely Eden spot.
With trellis'd vines, in cool arcade,
And leaves of tender green,
All trembling in the light and shade,
As sunbeams glanced between:
The mossy turf, bespangled gay
With fragrant flowery sheen--
Bell, primrose, pink, and showers of May--
The fairest ever seen.
Near where a crystal river ran
Into the rich, warm light,
A domèd palace fair began
To rise in marble white.
'Twas fill'd, as if by amulet,
With mirrors dazzling bright--
With antique vase and statuette,
A palace of delight.
And "Mignon" in a snow-white dress,
With circlet on her hair,
Appear'd in all her loveliness,
Like angel standing there.
She struck the cithern in her hand,
And sang with 'witching air
Her own sweet song, "Know'st thou the land?"
To music wild and rare.
It died away--the palace changed,
Dream-like, into a bower!
Around, the soft-eyed dun-deer ranged,
Secure from hunter's power.
Wild thyme and eye-bright tinged the ground,
With daisy, starry flower,
While crimson flower-bells cluster'd round
The rose-twined faery bower.
Therein "Undine," lovely sprite!
Sat gazing on sunrise,
And sang of "morning, clear and bright"--
The tears came in her eyes:
She look'd upon the lovely isle,
And now up to the skies,
Then in a silv'ry misty veil
She vanish'd from mine eyes.
A music, as of forest trees
Bent 'neath the storm-blast's sway,
Rose swelling--dying in the breeze,
A strange, wild lullaby.
The islet with its flowery turf
Then waxèd dim and gray;
I look'd--no islet gemm'd the surf--
The dream had fled away.
FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT.
Fair as a star of light,
Like diamond gleaming bright,
Through darkness of the night,
Is my love to me.
As bell of lily white,
In streamlet mirror'd bright,
All quiv'ring with delight,
Is my love to me--
My love to me.
A flowing magic thrill
Which floodeth heart and will
With gushes musical,
Is my love to me.
Bright as the trancèd dream,
Which flitteth in a gleam,
Before morn's golden beam,
Is my love to me--
My love to me.
Like living crystal well,
In cool and shady dell,
Unto the parch'd gazelle,
Is my love to me.
And dearer than things fair,
However rich and rare,
In earth, or sea, or air,
Is my love to me--
My love to me.
NATURE MUSICAL.
There is music in the storm, love,
When the tempest rages high;
It whispers in the summer breeze
A soft, sweet lullaby.
There is music in the night,
When the joyous nightingale,
Clear warbling, filleth with his song
The hillside and the vale.
Then sing, sing, sing,
For music breathes in everything.
There is music by the shore, love,
When foaming billows dash;
It echoes in the thunder peal,
When vivid lightnings flash.
There is music by the shore,
In the stilly noon of night,
When the murmurs of the ocean fade
In the clear moonlight.
There is music in the soul, love,
When it hears the gushing swell,
Which, like a dream intensely soft,
Peals from the lily-bell.
There is music--music deep
In the soul that looks on high,
When myriad sparkling stars sing out
Their pure sphere harmony.
There is music in the glance, love,
Which speaketh from the heart,
Of a sympathy in souls
That never more would part.
There is music in the note
Of the cooing turtle-dove;
There is music in the voice
Of dear ones whom we love.
There is music everywhere, love,
To the pure of spirit given;
And sweetest music heard on earth
But whispers that of heaven.
Oh, all is music there--
'Tis the language of the sky--
Sweet hallelujahs there resound
Eternal harmony.
Then sing, sing, sing,
For music breathes in everything.
ISABELLA CRAIG.
Isabella Craig is a native of Edinburgh, where she has continued to
reside. Her educational advantages were limited. To the columns of the
_Scotsman_ newspaper she has for several years contributed verses. In
1856 she published a collection of her poetical compositions, in a
duodecimo volume, with the title, "Poems by Isa." She contributes to the
periodicals.
OUR HELEN.
Is our Helen very fair?
If you only knew her
You would doubt it not, howe'er
Stranger eyes may view her.
We who see her day by day
Through our household moving,
Whether she be fair or nay
Cannot see for loving.
O'er our gentle Helen's face
No rich hues are bright'ning,
And no smiles of feignèd grace
From her lips are light'ning;
She hath quiet, smiling eyes,
Fair hair simply braided,
All as mild as evening skies
Ere sunlight hath faded.
Our kind, thoughtful Helen loves
Our approving praises,
But her eye that never roves
Shrinks from other gazes.
She, so late within her home
But a child caressing,
Now a woman hath become,
Ministering, blessing.
All her duty, all her bliss,
In her home she findeth,
Nor too narrow deemeth this--
Lowly things she mindeth;
Yet when deeper cares distress,
She is our adviser;
Reason's rules she needeth less,
For her heart is wiser.
For the sorrows of the poor
Her kind spirit bleedeth,
And, because so good and pure,
For the erring pleadeth.
Is our Helen very fair?
If you only knew her
You would doubt it not, howe'er
Stranger eyes may view her.
GOING OUT AND COMING IN.
In that home was joy and sorrow
Where an infant first drew breath,
While an aged sire was drawing
Near unto the gate of death.
His feeble pulse was failing,
And his eye was growing dim;
He was standing on the threshold
When they brought the babe to him.
While to murmur forth a blessing
On the little one he tried,
In his trembling arms he raised it,
Press'd it to his lips and died.
An awful darkness resteth
On the path they both begin,
Who thus met upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.
Going out unto the triumph,
Coming in unto the fight--
Coming in unto the darkness,
Going out unto the light;
Although the shadow deepen'd
In the moment of eclipse,
When he pass'd through the dread portal
With the blessing on his lips.
And to him who bravely conquers,
As he conquer'd in the strife,
Life is but the way of dying--
Death is but the gate of life;
Yet awful darkness resteth
On the path we all begin,
Where we meet upon the threshold,
Going out and coming in.
MY MARY AN' ME.
We were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd,
We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd;
When I got my young lassie her first vow to gie,
We promised to wait for each ither a wee.
My mother was widow'd when we should hae wed,
An' the nicht when we stood roun' my father's death-bed,
He charged me a husband and father to be,
While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me.
I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine,
Nor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine,
Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me,
"Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee."
An' years hae flown by deeply laden wi' care,
But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear,
She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong,
'Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong.
Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now,
Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow,
A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see,
They tell me how lang she has waited on me.
Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil,
Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile;
She aft speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee,
She tells me that there she 'll be waitin' on me.
A SONG OF SUMMER.
I will sing a song of summer,
Of bright summer as it dwells,
Amid leaves and flowers and sunshine,
In lone haunts and grassy dells.
Lo! the hill encircled valley
Is like an emerald cup,
To its inmost depths all glowing,
With sunlight brimming up.
Here I 'd dream away the day time,
And let happy thoughts have birth,
And forget there 's aught but glory,
Aught but beauty on the earth.
Not a speck of cloud is floating
In the deep blue overhead,
'Neath the trees the daisied verdure
Like a broider'd couch is spread.
The rustling leaves are dancing
With the light wind's music stirr'd,
And in gushes through the stillness
Comes the song of woodland bird.
Here I 'd dream away the day-time,
And let gentlest thoughts have birth,
And forget there 's aught but gladness,
Aught but peace upon the earth.
ROBERT DUTHIE.
The writer of some spirited lyrics, Robert Duthie was born in Stonehaven
on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary
education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father,
who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school
in his native town; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed
his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the
younger members of the family. Devoting his leisure hours to literature
and poetry, he is a frequent contributor to the provincial journals; and
some of his lyrical productions promise to secure him a more extended
reputation.
SONG OF THE OLD ROVER.
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the wild sea waves,
And the tempest around me is swelling;
The winds have come forth from their ice-ribb'd caves,
And the waves from their rocky dwelling;
But my trim-built bark
O'er the waters dark
Bounds lightly along,
And the mermaid lists to my echoing song.
Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to lave
In the briny spray of the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep,
And the storm-bird above me is screaming;
While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep
The lightning is fearfully gleaming;
But onward I dash,
For the fitful flash
Illumes me along,
And the thunders chorus my echoing song.
Hurrah! hurrah! how I love to brave
The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat where my well-served shot
Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me;
But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field
Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me;
Then I, a true child
Of the ocean wild,
With a tuneful tongue
Bear away with my prize and my conquering song.
Hurrah! hurrah! shot and storm, let them rave--
I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave!
I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home--
The home of the hurrying billow;
But the time is at hand when no longer I 'll roam,
But in peace lay me down on its pillow:
The petrel will scream
My requiem hymn,
And the thunders prolong
The deep-chorus'd note of my last echo'd song,
As I sink to repose in my rock-bound grave
That is down in the depths of the wild sea wave.
BOATMAN'S SONG.
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea,
The home of the rover, the bold and free;
Land hath its charms, but those be mine,
To row my boat through the sparkling brine--
To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow
Of the bounding thing as we onward go--
To nerve the arm and bend the oar,
Bearing away from the vacant shore.
Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea--
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine:
Hurrah! let us dash through the sparkling brine.
Gloomily creeping the mists appear
In denser shade on the mountains drear;
And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep,
By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep;
Nor a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest,
To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast;
But all is still, save the lisping waves
Washing the shells in the distant caves.
Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea--
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me--
'Tis the home of my heart where I 'd ever rove!
Hurrah! hurrah! for the home I love.
Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar,
And I love the splash of the bending oar,
Playing amid the phosphoric fire,
Seen as the eddying sparks retire.
'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam
Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam.
The land hath its charms, but the sea hath more;
Then away let us row from the vacant shore.
Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea--
'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me;
'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free:
Hurrah! hurrah! for the boundless sea.
LISETTE.
When we meet again, Lisette,
Let the sun be sunk to rest
Beneath the glowing wavelets
Of the widely spreading west;
Let half the world be hush'd
In the drowsiness of sleep,
And howlets scream the music
Of the revels that they keep.
Let the gentle lady-moon,
With her coldly drooping beams,
Be dancing in the ripple
Of the ever-laughing streams,
Where the little elves disport
In the stilly noon of night,
And lave their limbs of ether
In the mellow flood of light.
When we meet again, Lisette,
Let it be in yonder pile,
Beneath the massy fretting
Of its darkly-shaded aisle,
Where, through the crumbling arches
The quaint old carvings loom,
And saint and seraph keep their watch
O'er many an ancient tomb.
ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON.
Alexander Stephen Wilson was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish
of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been
killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought
up from infancy under the care of his maternal grandfather. In his
boyhood he attended school during winter, and in summer was employed as
a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to a land-surveyor,
with whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he
early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals.
At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among
the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on
the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled _The Rural
Echo_, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own
compositions, both in prose and poetry, and commanded a wide
circulation. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly
turned his attention to that department of study. He has likewise been
ardent in the pursuit of physical science. An ingenious treatise from
his pen on the nature of light, published in 1855, attracted no
inconsiderable notice, and is strongly indicative of original power. He
has latterly resided in Perth, holding the appointment of assistant
civil engineer.
THINGS MUST MEND.
The gloom of dark despondency
At times will cloud the breast;
Hope's eagle eye may shaded be,
'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd;
But while we nurse an honest aim
We shall not break nor bend,
For when things are at the worst
They must mend.
The gentle heart by hardship crush'd
Will sing amid its tears,
And though its voice awhile be hush'd,
'Tis tuned for coming years;
A light from out the future shines
With hope's tear-drops to blend,
And when things are at the worst
They must mend.
Amid life's danger and despair
Still let our deeds be true,
For nought but what is right and fair
Can heal our hopeless view.
The beautiful will soothe us, like
The sunshine of a friend,
And when things are at the worst
They must mend.
Oh, never leave life's morning dream,
'Tis whisper'd down from heaven,
But trace its maze, though sorrow seem
The sole reward that 's given;
The joy is there, or not on earth,
Which with our souls may blend,
And when things are at the worst
They must mend.
THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR.
Life's pleasure seems sadness and care,
When dark is the bosom that feels,
Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair
Is the ray which our sorrow reveals;
Though darkly at times flows the stream,
It rows till its waters are clear--
And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream
Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Afar in the wilderness blooms
The flower that spreads beauty around,
And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs
And softens with balm every wound.
Oh, call not our life sad nor vain,
Wi' its joys that can ever endear,
There 's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain,
Like the wee blink that shines in a tear.
Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe
And fair is the lone desert isle;
Young Flora peeps gay from the snow;
And dearest in grief is a smile;
The dew-drop is bright with a star;
Age glows when young memories appear;
But a symbol to hope that is sweeter by far
Is the wee blink that shines in a tear.
FLOWERS OF MY OWN LOVED CLIME.
Ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where I roved,
When my wild heart was careless and free,
But now far away from the zephyrs ye loved,
Ye are bloomless and wither'd like me.
Yet sweet is the perfume that 's breathed from your leaves,
Like songs of the dear olden time;
Ye come with the memory that glads while it grieves,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Oh, strange are the dreams ye awake in my breast
Of the home and the friends that were mine,
In the days when I feel that my bosom was blest,
Nor deem'd it should ever repine.
I gaze on your leaves where loved eyes have been,
And the spell brings the dear olden time
When I roved where ye bloom'd in yon valley so green,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
Deep down in my heart, where the world cannot see,
I treasure a life all my own,
And that land, sweet flowers, shall ope for thee,
For like thine half its beauty hath flown.
I 'll live o'er the raptures of young years again,
And snatch back the dear olden time,
When I gaze on your blossoms, in pleasure or pain,
Sweet flowers of my own loved clime!
JAMES MACFARLAN.
A poet of singular merit, under circumstances in the highest degree
unfavourable to intellectual culture, James Macfarlan was born in
Glasgow on the 9th April 1832. His father, who follows the occupation of
a pedlar, caused him to become, from an early age, the companion of his
wanderings. A few months' attendance at educational seminaries in
Glasgow and Greenock constituted his entire scholastic education; but an
intense ardour in the pursuit of letters supplied the lack of a more
methodical training. At the age of twenty-two, he produced a volume of
poems which attracted much attention, and called forth the warmest
encomiums from the press. This was followed by two smaller publications
of verses, with the titles, "City Songs, and other Poetical Pieces," and
"The Lyrics of Life." A little poetical _brochure_, entitled, "The
Wanderer of the West," is his latest production.
Macfarlan was for some time in the employment of the directors of the
Glasgow Athenæum. Latterly, he has held a situation in connexion with
the _Bulletin_, a daily journal published in Glasgow.
ISABELLE.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
Oh, beautiful and bright!
Thy voice is music of the heart--
Thy looks are rarest light!
What time the silver dawn of dreams
Lights up the dark of sleep,
As yon pale moon lights up the heaven
With beauty clear and deep,
I see thee in the ebbing stars,
I hear quaint voices swell,
And dim and phantom winds that come
And whisper, Isabelle.
Oh, beautiful and bright thou art!
Oh, beautiful and bright!
Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart,
Like rich star-crowded night.
As moonbeams silver on the wave
Of some night-sadden'd river,
So on my lonesome life thy love
Would lie in light for ever.
Yet wander on--oh, wander on,
Cold river, to the sea,
And, weary life, _thy_ ocean gain--
Undream'd eternity.
In vain the cruel curse of earth
Hath torn our lives apart;
The man-made barriers of gold
Weigh down the humble heart.
Oh, hadst thou been a village maid--
A simple wayside flower--
With nought to boast, save honest worth,
And beauty all thy dower!
Such might have been--such _should_ have been,
But other lot befell;
I am the lowly son of toil,
And thou proud Isabelle.
It ever seems to me that love
Should level all degrees;
Pure honour, and a stainless heart
Are Nature's heraldries.
No scutcheon needs a noble soul
(Alas! how thinks the age?);
He is not poor who freedom hath
For his broad heritage.
Then welcome sternest teacher, Toil;
Vain dreams of youth, farewell;
The future hath its duty's prize--
The past, its Isabelle.
HOUSEHOLD GODS.
Built on Time's uneven sand,
Hope's fair fabric soon is shatter'd;
Bowers adorn'd by Fancy's hand
Torn in wandering leaves are scatter'd.
Perish'd, perish'd, lost and perish'd,
Old affections fondly cherish'd.
All our blossoms wither soon,
While we dream the flower will strengthen,
And across life's summer noon
Death's dark shadow seems to lengthen.
In that mighty shadow perish'd
All we liv'd for, all we cherish'd.
Dear ones loved are lost in night;
O'er the world we wander lonely,
And the heart of all youth's light
Holds one fading sunbeam only.
Old affections vainly cherish'd,
All except the memory perish'd.
POOR COMPANIONS.
Look up, old friend! why hang thy head?
The world is all before us.
Earth's wealth of flowers is at our feet,
Heaven's wealth of worlds is o'er us.
Spring leans to us across the sea
With affluent caressing,
And autumn yet shall crown our toil
With many a fruitful blessing.
Then why should we despair in spring,
Who braved out wintry weather?
Let monarchs rule, but we shall sing
And journey on together.
You mourn that we are born so poor--
I would not change our treasure
For all the thorn-concealing flowers
That strew the path of pleasure.
God only searches for the soul,
Nor heeds the outward building;
Believe me, friend, a noble heart
Requires no aid of gilding.
Then never let us pine in spring,
We 've braved out wintry weather,
We yet may touch a sweeter string
When toiling on together.
What though our blood be tinged with mud,
My lord's is simply purer;
'Twill scarce flow sixty years, nor make
His seat in heaven surer.
But should the noble deign to speak,
We 'll hail him as a brother,
And trace respective pedigrees
To Eve, our common mother.
Then why should we despair in spring,
Who braved out wintry weather?
Let monarchs rule, while we shall sing,
And journey on together.
WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL.
A youth of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Riddell, was the
youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell.[12] He was born at Flexhouse,
near Hawick, Roxburghshire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh
year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh,
where he remained till 1850, when, procuring a bursary from the
governors of Heriot's Hospital, he entered the University of Edinburgh.
During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary
ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was
seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and
occasionally enfeebled his mental, energies. After a period of
suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead,
on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year.
Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the
age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in
his eighth year some vigorous poetry. With a highly retentive memory he
retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in
childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the
various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and
Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern
languages. He found consolation on his deathbed, by perusing the
Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with
Christian resignation.
FOOTNOTES:
[12] See "Minstrel," vol. iv. p. 1.
LAMENT OF WALLACE.[13]
No more by thy margin, dark Carron,
Shall Wallace in solitude, wander,
When tranquil the moon shines afar on
Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur.
For lost are to me
Thy beauties for ever,
Since fallen in thee
Lie the faithful and free,
To waken, ah, never!
And I, thus defeated, must suffer
My country's reproach; yet, forsaken,
A home to me nature may offer
Among her green forests of braken.
But home who can find
For heart-rending sorrow?
The wound who can bind
When thus pierced is the mind
By fate's ruthless arrow?
'Tis death that alone ever frees us
Of woes too profound to be spoken,
And nought but the grave ever eases
The pangs of a heart that is broken.
Then, oh! that my blood
In Carron's dark water
Had mix'd with the flood
Of the warriors' shed
'Mid torrents of slaughter.
For woe to the day when desponding
I read in thine aspect the story
Of those that were slain when defending
Their homes and their mountains of glory.
And curst be the guile
Of treacherous knavery
That throws o'er our isle
In its tyranny vile
The mantle of slavery.
FOOTNOTES:
[13] Composed in the author's fourteenth year.
OH! WHAT IS IN THIS FLAUNTING TOWN?[14]
Oh! what is in this flaunting town
That pleasure can impart,
When native hills and native glens
Are imaged on the heart,
And fancy hears the ceaseless roar
Of cataracts sublime,
Where I have paused and ponder'd o'er
The awful works of time?
What, what is all the city din?
What all the bustling crowd
That throngs these ways from morn to night
Array'd in trappings proud?
While fancy's eye still sees the scenes
Around my mountain home,
Oh! what 's to me yon turret high.
And what yon splendid dome?
Ah! what except a mockery vain
Of nature free as fair,
That dazzles rather than delights
The eye that meets its glare?
Then bear me to the heathy hills
Where I so loved to stray,
There let me rove with footsteps free
And sing the rural lay.
FOOTNOTES:
[14] Composed at the age of fifteen.
MARGARET CRAWFORD.
The author of "Rustic Lays," an interesting volume of lyric poetry,
Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in
the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of
attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training
to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an
operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was
while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her
thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the
beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Torwoodlee, whose husband her father
served, she was taught dress-making. She subsequently accepted the
situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her
parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of
Mid-Lothian. An inmate of their humble cottage, she has for some years
been employed as a dress-maker. Her "Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855, in
an elegant little volume. Of its contents she thus remarks in the
preface: "Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the
banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies
of the woodland, has often charmed her into forgetfulness of the rough
realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's
cottage, at the hours of the _gloamin'_, when, after the bustle of the
day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by
the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till
she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and
assumed the form in which they now appear."
MY NATIVE LAND.
My native land! my native land!
Where liberty shall firmly stand,
Where men are brave in heart and hand,
In ancient Caledonia!
How dear to me those gurgling rills
That wander free amang the hills!
How sweet to me the sang that fills
The groves o' Caledonia!
They tell me o' a distant isle
Where summer suns for ever smile;
But frae my heart they 'll never wile
My love for Caledonia!
And what are a' their flowery plains,
If fill'd with weeping slav'ry's chains?
Nae foot o' slavery ever stains
My native Caledonia!
Though cauld 's the sun that shed's his rays
O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes,
Oh, let me spend my latest days
In ancient Caledonia!
My native land! my native land!
Where liberty shall firmly stand,
Where men are brave in heart and hand--
True sons of Caledonia!
THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.
Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness--
Far from my dear native country I roam;
Fondly I cling to the bright scenes of gladness
That shone o'er my heart in my dear happy home.
Far from the home of my childhood I wander,
Far from the friends I may never meet more;
Oft on those visions of bliss I shall ponder--
Visions that memory alone can restore.
Friends of my youth I shall love you for ever--
Closer and firmer ye twine round my heart;
Though now the wide sea our lot may dissever,
Affection and friendship can never depart.
Land of my fathers, I leave thee in sadness--
Dear to my heart thou shalt ever remain!
Oh, when shall I gaze on those bright scenes of gladness?
When shall I visit my country again?
THE STREAM OF LIFE.
Down by a crystal stream
Musing I stray'd,
As 'neath the summer beam
Lightly it play'd,
Winding by field and fen,
Mountain and meadow, then
Stealing through wood and glen,
Soft'ning the shade.
Thus, then, methought, is life;
Onward it flows--
Now mingling peace with strife,
Toil with repose--
Now sparkling joyously
Under the glare of day,
Drinking each sunny ray,
Purely it flows.
Now gliding peacefully,
Calm and serene,
Smoothly it takes its way,
Softly I ween
Murmur its waters past--
Oh, will that stillness last?
See, rocks are nearing fast,
Changing the scene.
Wildly it dashes now,
Loudly it roars,
Over the craggy brow
Fiercely it pours.
All in commotion lost,
Wave over wave is toss'd;
Spray, white as winter's frost,
Up from it soars.
Yet where the conflict 's worst
Brightest it gleams;
Rays long in silence nursed
Shoot forth in streams:
Beauties before unknown
Out from its breast are thrown;
Light, like a golden zone,
Brilliantly beams.
Thus in the Christian's breast
Pure faith may lie,
Hid in the day of rest
Deep from the eye;
But when life's shadows lower
Faith lights the darkest hour,
Driving, by heavenly power,
Gloom from the sky.
DAY-DREAMS OF OTHER YEARS.
There are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years,
And time long, long departed, like the present still appears;
And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours,
When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers.
O those days of dreamy sweetness! O those visions of delight!
Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright;
They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace,
Telling tales of bygone blessings, bidding present sorrows cease.
Long-lost friends are gath'ring round me, smiling faces, gentle forms,
All unconscious of earth's struggles, all unmindful of its storms--
Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth,
When friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth.
Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still--
Mirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill;
Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land--
Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band!
Now deeply traced with sorrow is the once unclouded brow,
And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now;
We are tasting life in earnest--all its vain illusions gone--
And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one.
Some are sleeping with their kindred--summer blossoms o'er them wave;
Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave;
While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore,
And that happy, loving company shall meet--ah! never more.
But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot,
The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot;
And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days--
Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays.
Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth,
May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth--
Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom;
But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom.
AFFECTION'S FAITH.
Away on the breast of the ocean,
Far away o'er the billowy brine,
'Mid the strife of the boiling commotion,
Where the storm and the tempest combine,
Roams my heart, of its wand'ring ne'er weary;
While Hope, with her heavenly smile,
Cheers the bosom that else would be dreary,
And points me to blessings the while.
Of the far-hidden future still dreaming,
On the wild wings of fancy I fly,
And the star of affection, bright beaming,
Is piercing the gloom of our sky;
And my home is away o'er the ocean,
Afar o'er the wide swelling sea,
Where a heart, in its purest devotion,
Is breathing fond blessings on me.
GEORGE DONALD, JUN.
George Donald the younger was born on the 1st of March 1826, at
Thornliebank, near Glasgow. His father, George Donald the elder, is
noticed in an earlier part of the present volume. Sent to labour in a
calico print-work in his tenth year, his education was chiefly obtained
at evening schools, and afterwards by self-application during the
intervals of toil. In his seventeenth year he became apprenticed to a
pattern-designer, and having fulfilled his indenture, he has since
prosecuted this occupation. From his youth a writer of verses, he has
contributed poetical compositions to the Glasgow _Examiner_ and
_Citizen_ newspapers.
OUR AIN GREEN SHAW.
They tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear,
Whar rivers row ower gowden sands, and flower unfading blaw,
But, oh! nae joys o' nature to me are half sae dear
As the flow'rets springing wild in our ain green shaw.
They speak o' gilded palaces, o' lords and leddies fair,
And scenes that charm the weary heart in cities far awa';
But nane o' a' their gaudy shows and pleasures can compare
Wi' the happiness that dwells in our ain green shaw.
Oh weel I lo'e when summer comes wi' sunny days an' glee,
And brings to gladden ilka heart her rural pleasures a',
When on the thorn the mavis sings and gowans deck the lea,--
Oh, then nae spot 's sae bonnie as our ain green shaw.
While Heaven supplies each simple want and leaves me still my cot,
I'll bear through life a cheerfu' heart whatever may befa',
Nor envy ither's joys, but aye be happy wi' my lot
When wand'ring in the e'enin' through our ain green shaw.
ELIZA.
In her chamber, vigil keeping,
Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,
Weeping for her lover slain:
Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,
Once a joyous-hearted maiden
Till her William cross'd the main.
Fatal day that saw them parted!
For it left her lonely-hearted--
Her so full of joy before--
Brought to her the thought of sadness,
Clouding her young spirit's gladness,
That she ne'er might see him more!
Sad Eliza, no blest morrow
Will dispel thy secret sorrow,
Bring thine own true love again.
Mournful is thy William's story:
On the field of martial glory,
Fighting bravely, he was slain!
Now the silent stars above her
Seem to tell her of her lover,
For each night, with pensive gaze
On the blue vault shining o'er her,
Sits Eliza, while before her
Fleet the scenes of other days.
Thus her lonely vigil keeping,
Fair Eliza sitteth weeping,
Weeping for her lover slain:
Fair Eliza, sorrow-laden,
Once a joyous-hearted maiden
Till her William cross'd the main.
JOHN JEFFREY.
The author of "Lays of the Revolutions," John Jeffrey, was born on the
29th March 1822, at the manse of Girthon, in the stewartry of
Kirkcudbright. His maternal granduncle was the celebrated Dr Thomas
Brown of Edinburgh. From his father, who was parish minister of Girthon,
and a man of accomplished learning, he received an education sufficient
to qualify him for entering, in 1836, the University of Edinburgh. In
1844 he became a licentiate of the Free Church, and after declining
several calls, accepted, in 1846, the charge of the Free Church
congregation at Douglas, Lanarkshire. Mr Jeffrey was early devoted to
poetical studies. In his eighteenth year he printed, for private
circulation, a small volume of poems, entitled "Hymns of a Neophyte." In
1849 appeared his "Lays of the Revolutions," a work which, vindicating
in powerful verse the cause of oppressed European nationalities, was
received with much favour by the public. To several of the leading
periodicals Mr Jeffrey has contributed spirited articles in support of
liberal politics. A pamphlet from his pen, on the decay of traditional
influence in Parliament, entitled "The Fall of the Great Factions," has
obtained considerable circulation. More recently he has devoted himself
to the study of the modern languages, and to inquiries in ethnological
science.
WAR-CRY OF THE ROMAN INSURRECTIONISTS.
Rise, Romans, rise at last,
Craft's kingdom now is past;
Brook no delay!
Lombard blades long ago,
Swifter than whirlwinds blow,
Swept from Milan the foe:
Why should we stay?
Rise, then, for fatherland;
In rock-like phalanx stand,
Cowards no more.
Rise in colossal might,
Rise till the storm of fight
Wrap us in lurid light
Where cannons roar!
In this great dawn of time,
In this great death of crime,
Quit us like men;
By our deeds, by our words,
By our songs, by our swords--
Use all against the hordes,
Sabre or pen!
More than fame, duty calls,
Trumpet-tongued from the walls
Girding great Rome;
Battle for truth and faith,
Battle lest hostile scathe
Crush us, or fetters swathe
Free hearth and home!
Hark! how God's thunders roll,
Booming from pole to pole
Of the wide world!
"Old lies are crush'd for aye,
Now truths assume their sway,
Bright shines the flag of day
O'er night unfurl'd!"
Tower, then, the barricades!
Flash forth the lightning blades!
Romans, awake!
Storm as the tempests burst,
Down with the brood accursed!
Sparks long in silence nursed
Etna-like break;
And that volcano's thirst
Seas cannot slake!
PATRICK SCOTT.