illustration: the modern scottish minstrel; by charles rogers, ll.d. f.s.a. scot. vol. v. alexd^{r}. maclagan. edinburgh: adam & charles black, north bridge, booksellers and publishers to the queen.] * * * * * [illustration: ever faithfully yours, f. bennoch.] * * * * * the modern scottish minstrel; or, the songs of scotland of the past half century. with memoirs of the poets, and sketches and specimens in english verse of the most celebrated modern gaelic bards. by charles rogers, ll.d., f.s.a. scot. in six volumes. vol v. edinburgh: adam & charles black, north bridge, booksellers and publishers to her majesty. mdccclvii. edinburgh: printed by ballantyne and company, paul's work. to alexander baillie cochrane, esq. of lamington. sir, i inscribe to you the present volume of "the modern scottish minstrel," not to express approval of your political sentiments, nor to court your patronage as a man of rank. political science has occupied only a limited share of my attention, and i have hitherto conducted my peculiar studies without the favour of the great. my dedication is prompted on these twofold grounds:--bearing in your veins the blood of scotland's illustrious defender, you were one of the first of your order to join in the proposal of rearing a national monument to his memory; and while some doubted the expediency of the course, and others stood aside fearing a failure, you did not hesitate boldly to come forward as a public advocate of the enterprise. yourself a man of letters, you were among the foremost who took an interest in the establishment of the scottish literary institute, of which you are now the president--a society having for its main object the relief, in circumstances of virtuous indigence, of those men of genius and learning who have contributed by the pen to perpetuate among our countrymen that spirit of intelligence and love of freedom which, by his sword, sir william wallace first taught scotsmen how to vindicate and maintain. i have the honour to be, sir, your very obedient, humble servant, charles rogers. _stirling, june 1857._ scottish lyrics and scottish life. by james dodds. judging from a comparison of extant remains, and other means of information now available, it may be doubted whether any country has equalled scotland in the number of its lyrics. by the term _lyrics_, i mean specifically poetical compositions, meant and suitable to be sung, with the musical measures to which they have been wedded. i include under the term, both the compositions themselves, and their music. the scottish ballads are numerous, the scottish songs all but numberless, and the scottish tunes an inexhaustible fountain of melody. "and now 'twas like all instruments, now like a lonely flute; and now it is an angel's song, that makes the heavens be mute." look at the vast collections of them which have been published, and the additions which are ever making, either from some newly-discovered manuscript, or from oral tradition in some out-of-the-way part of the country. the numbers, too, which have been preserved, seem to be exceeded by the numbers that have unfortunately been lost. who has not in his ears the hum of many lyrics heard by him in his childhood--from mother, or nurse, or some old crooning dame at the fireside--which are to be found in no collection, and which are now to himself but like a distant, unformed sound? all our collectors, whilst smiling in triumph over the pearls which they have brought up and borne to the shore, lament the multitude of precious things irrecoverably buried in the depths of oblivion. where, for instance, amid the similar wreck which has befallen so many others, are now the ancient words pouring forth the dirge over the "flowers of the forest," or those describing the tragic horrors on the "braes of yarrow," or those celebrating the wondrous attractions of the "braw lads o' gala water"? we have but the two first lines--the touching key-note of a lover's grief, in an old song, which has been most tamely rendered in ramsay's version--these two lines being- "alas! that i came o'er the moor, and left my love behind me." only one verse has floated down of an old song, which breathes the very soul of a lover's restless longings:- "aye wakin', o! wakin' aye an' eerie; sleep i canna get for thinkin' on my dearie; aye wakin', o!" does it not at once pique and disappoint the fancy, that these two graceful verses are all that remain of a song, where, doubtless, they were once but two fair blossoms in a large and variegated posy:- "within my garden gay the rose and lily grew; but the pride of my garden is wither'd away, and it 's a' grown o'er wi' rue. "farewell, ye fading flowers! and farewell, bonnie jean! but the flower that is now trodden under foot, in time it may bloom again." nay--passing from the tender to the grotesque--would it not have been agreeable to hear something more than two lines from the lips of a lover so stout-hearted, yet so ardent, in his own rough, blunt way, as he who has thus commenced his song:- "i wish my love were in a mire, that i might pull her out again;" or to know something more of the details of that extraordinary parish, of which one surviving verse draws the following sombre picture:- "oh! what a parish!--eh! what a parish! oh! what a parish is that o' dunkel': they 've hang'd the minister, droon'd the precentor; they 've pu'd doon the steeple, and drunk the kirk-bell." the scottish lyrics, lying all about, thus countless and scattered- "thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks in vallambrosa"-are not like those which mark and adorn the literature of many other countries, the euphonisms of a meretricious court, or the rhymed musings of philosophers, or conceits from pagan mythology, or the glancing epigrams of men of wit and of the world, or mere hunting choruses and bacchanalian catches of a rude squirearchy. they are the ballads, songs, and tunes of the people. in their own language, but that language glittering from the hidden well of poesy--in ideas which they at once recognise as their own, because photographed from nature--these lyrics embody the loves and thoughts of the people, the themes on which they delight to dwell, even their passions and prejudices; and vibrate in their memories, quickening the pulses of life, knitting them to the old land, and shedding a poetic glow over all the commonplaces of existence and occupation. it is the faithful popular memory, more than anything else, which has been the ark to save the ancient lyrics of scotland. not only so, but there is reason to believe that our national lyrics have, generally speaking, been creations of the men, and sometimes of the women, of the people. they are the people's, by the title of origin, no less than by the feeling of sympathy. this, of course, is clear, as regards the great masters of the lyre who have appeared within the period of known authorship--ramsay, burns, tannahill, hogg, and cunningham. the authors of the older lyrics--i mean both compositions and tunes--are, with few exceptions, absolutely unknown; but were there room here for discussion, it might be shewn that all the probabilities lead up, principally, to the ancient order of minstrels, who from very early times were nearly as much organised and privileged and honoured in scotland, as ever were the troubadours in provence and italy. ellis, in the introduction to his "specimens of early english metrical romances," alluding to scott's publication of "sir tristrem," remarks--"he has shewn, by a reference to ancient charters, that the scottish minstrels of this early period enjoyed all the privileges and distinctions possessed by the norman trouveurs, whom they nearly rivalled in the arts of narration, and over whom they possessed one manifest advantage, in their familiar acquaintance with the usual scenes of chivalry." these minstrels, like the majority of poetic singers, were no doubt sons of the people--bold, aspiring, and genius-lit--bursting strong from their mother earth, with all her sap and force and fruitfulness about them. amongst the last of the professed minstrels was one burn, who wonned on the borders as late as the commencement of the eighteenth century, and who, in his pleasant, chirping ditty of "leader haughs and yarrow," takes to himself this very title of _minstrel_. "but minstrel burn cannot assuage his grief while life endureth, to see the changes of this age, that fleeting time procureth. for many a place stands in hard case, where blythe folk kenn'd nae sorrow, with homes that dwelt on leader-side, and scotts that dwelt on yarrow." of this minstrel burn there is a quaint little personal reminiscence. an aged person at earlstoun many years ago related, that there used to be a portrait of the minstrel in thirlestane castle, near lauder, "representing him as a douce old man, _leading a cow by a straw-rope_." the master of the "gay science" gradually slipping down from the clouds, and settling quietly and doucely on the plain hard ground of ordinary life and business! let all pale-faced and sharp-chinned youths, who are spasmodic poets, or who are in danger of becoming such, keep steadily before them the picture of minstrel burn, "leading a cow by a straw-rope"--and go and do likewise. but as trees and flowers can only grow and come to perfection in soils by nature appropriate to them, so it is manifest that all this rich and fertile growth of lyrics, of minstrelsy and music, could only spring up amongst a people most impressionable and joyous. i speak of the lowland population, and especially of the borderers, with whose habits, manners and customs, alone i am personally acquainted; and the lingering traces of whose old forms of life--so gay, kindly, and suggestive--i saw some thirty years ago, just before they sank under the mammonism, commonplace, critical apery, and cold material self-seeking, which have hitherto been the plague of the present generation. we have become more practical and knowing than our forefathers, but not so wise. we are now a "fast people;" but we miss the true goal of life--that is, _sober happiness_. fast to smattering; fast to outward, isolated show; fast to bankruptcy; fast to suicide; fast to some finalé of enormous and dreadful infamy. bah! rather the plain, honest, homely life of our grandfathers- "far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; along the cool, sequester'd vale of life, they kept the noiseless tenor of their way." or rather (for every age has its own type, and old forms of life cannot be stereotyped and reproduced), let us have a philosophic and christian combination of modern adventure and "gold-digging" with old-fashioned balance of mind, and neighbourliness, and open-heartedness, and thankful enjoyment. our scottish race have been--yes, and notwithstanding modern changes, still are--a joyous people--a people full of what i shall term _a lyric joyousness_. i say they still are--as may be found any day up the ettricks, and yarrows, and galas--up any of our border glens and dales. the borderers continue to merit the tribute paid to them in the odd but expressive lines of wordsworth:- "the _pleasant men of tiviotdale_, fast by the river tweed." from time immemorial they have been enthusiastic lovers of song and music, and have been thoroughly imbued with their influences. bishop leslie, a contemporary of the state of manners which he describes, has recorded of them, upwards of two centuries ago--"that they take extreme delight in their music, and in their ballads, which are composed amongst themselves, celebrating the deeds of their ancestors, or the valour and success of their predatory expeditions;" which latter, it must be remembered, were esteemed, in those days, not only not criminal, but just, honourable, and heroic. what a gush of mirth overflows in king james' poem of "peebles to the play," descriptive of the beltane or may-day festival, four hundred years ago! at peebles, a charming pastoral town in the upper district of the vale of the tweed:- "at beltane, when ilk body bouns to peebles to the play, to hear the singin' and the soun's, the solace, sooth to say. by firth and forest forth they wound, they graithit them full gay: god wot what they would do that stound, for it was their feast-day, they said, of peebles to the play! * * * * * "hop, calye, and cardronow gatherit out thick-fald, with, _hey and how and rumbelow!_ the young folk were full bald. the bagpipe blew, and they out threw out of the towns untald: lord! sic ane shout was them amang, when they were owre the wald, there west of peebles to the play!" thirty years ago, the same joyousness prevailed in a thousand forms--in hospitality, in festivity, in merry customs, in an exquisite social sense, in the culture of the humorous and the imaginative, in impressibility to every touch of noble and useful enthusiasm. it would be easy to dilate upon the causes which seem to have produced this choice joyous spirit in so unexpected a region as the far, bleak north: but that would be a lengthened subject; and we must content ourselves at present with the fact. and, instead of branching out into general vague illustrations of what i mean by this lyric joyousness, i shall _localise_ it, and embody the meaning in a sketch, light and imperfect it must be, of a real place and a real life--such as mine own eyes witnessed when a boy--and in the fond resuscitation of which, amidst the usual struggles and anxieties allotted to middle age, memory and feeling now find one of their most soothing exercises. let me transport the reader in imagination to the vale of the tweed, that classic region--the arcadia of scotland, the haunt of the muses, the theme of so many a song, the scene of so many a romantic legend. and there, where that most crystalline of rivers has attained the fulness of its beauty and splendour--just before it meets and mingles in gentle union with its scarce less beauteous sister, "sweet teviot"--on one of those finely swelling eminences which everywhere crown its banks, rise the battlements of fleurs castle, which has long been the seat of the roxburghe family. it is a peerless situation; the great princely mansion, ever gleaming on the eye of the traveller, at whatever point he may be, in the wide surrounding landscape. it comes boldly out from the very heart of an almost endless wood--old, wild, and luxuriant; having no forester but nature--spreading right, left, and behind, away and away, till lost in the far horizon. down a short space in front, a green undulating haugh between, roll the waters of the tweed, with a bright clear radiance to which the brightest burnished silver is but as dimness and dross. on its opposite bank is a green huge mound--all that now remains of the mighty old roxburgh castle, aforetime the military key of scotland, and within whose once towering precincts oft assembled the royalty, and chivalry, and beauty of both kingdoms. at a little distance to the east of fleurs, the neat quaint abbey-town of kelso, with its magnificent bridge, nestles amid greenery, close to the river. and afar to the south, the eye, tired at last with so vast a prospect, and with such richness and variety of scenery, rests itself on the cloud-capt range of the cheviots, in amplitude and grandeur not unmeet to sentinel the two ancient and famous lands. upwards of thirty years ago, the ducal coronet of roxburghe was worn by a nobleman who was then known, and is still remembered on tweedside, as the "good duke james." the history of his life, were there any one now to tell it correctly, would be replete with interest. i cannot pretend to authentic knowledge of it; but i know the outline as i heard it when a child--as it used to be recited, like a minstrel's tale, by the gray-haired cottager sitting at his door of a summer evening, or by some faithful old servant of the castle, on a winter's night, over his flagon of ale, at the rousing hall-fire. and from all i have ever learned since, i judge that these country stories in the main were accurate. he was not by birth a _ker_--the family name of the house of roxburghe--descended of the awful "habbie ker" in queen mary's troublous time, the taille-bois of the borders, the ogre-baron of tradition, whose name is still whispered by the peasant with a kind of _eeriness_, as if he might start from his old den at cessford, and pounce upon the rash speaker. duke james was an innes of the "north countrie;" banff or cromarty. he was some eight years of age in the dismal '45. though his father was hanoverian, the "butcher" cumberland shewed him but little favour in the course of his merciless ravages after culloden. a troop of dragoons lived at free quarters on his estate; and one of them, in mere wanton cruelty, fired at the boy when standing at his father's door, and the ball grazed his face. seventy years afterwards, when he was duke, the ettrick shepherd happened to dine at fleurs. he was then collecting his "jacobite relics," and the duke asked him what was his latest ballad? the shepherd answered, it was a version of "highland laddie." he sang it. on coming to the verse, "ken ye the news i hae to tell, bonnie laddie, highland laddie, cumberland's awa' to hell, bonnie laddie, highland laddie!" the duke burst into one of his ringing laughs--the fine, deep _ho, ho!_ that would drown all our effeminate modern gigglings, the sound of which lingers amongst the memories of my boyhood. "he well deserves it--he well deserves it--the wretch! ho, ho!"--and he shouted with laughter, and threw himself into all the rough unceremonious humour of the ballad, finishing off by relating his own dire experience of the doings of cumberland and his dragoons in the north. it seems he entered into the army, and served in the american war. after retiring, i believe he took up his residence in england--devonshire, i think; his name at this time was sir james norcliffe innes. during the once-belauded "good old times" of george iii. he distinguished himself by holding and manfully avowing opinions which were then branded as jacobinism; and he was an intimate friend, and i have heard an active supporter of the virtuous and patriotic major cartwright. about the beginning of the present century, the direct line of the roxburghe kers having failed, a competition arose amongst a host of claimants, for the estate and honours of that ancient house. after a most protracted and severe litigation, which forms one of the _causés celebrés_ in the law-books of scotland, sir james norcliffe innes was preferred. when approaching fourscore, he was installed duke of roxburghe, and put on a coronet at an age, long before which most part of mankind have put on their shrouds. he put it on--ay, and for many years wore it stout and stark--nobly, loftily, sweetly--with a dignity, simplicity, large-heartedness, and munificence, the remembrance of which somehow always brings to my mind that majestic line of shakspeare, containing, after all, only a name and title, yet sounding as the embodiment of whatever is great and heroic in human character- "old john of gaunt, time-honoured lancaster!" i see him before me, as he lives in the recollections of childhood--as he lives and seems to speak in raeburn's inimitable portrait at fleurs. what a perfect mould of man! scarce one mark of old age in that face--no sign of weakness or decay in that frame, which has weathered eighty winters. he was over the middle size; straight, firm, strong built, and compact, with the air of native lordliness and command. his countenance was peculiarly beautiful, full and rounded as if young; fresh-coloured; and beaming with health, spirit, and vivacity. its almost womanly sweetness was chastened and redeemed by the massiveness of the head, the deep penetrating eye, and an aspect of uncommon elevation and nobleness. till the last, he was the very personification of the old _dux_--the duke of chivalry--the foremost leader and commander of the people. but instead of chained mail and helmet, he was to be seen every day walking about amongst his people in hoddin-gray coat, nankeen breeches, white vest, and rumpled white hat--plain, easy, manly, and unaffected in all things. beyond the honour of an occasional pinch of the ears, or that kind, homely greeting which in passing he bestowed on all of us, young and old, i did not and could not know him personally. but, from those who did, i have always heard the highest estimate of his character, intellectually and morally. he possessed extensive information; but rather that of a man who had moved much about, and observed much, than from book-lore. his understanding was of the most masculine order--in all his views and judgments, distinguished by clearness, decision, and energy. but his great mental characteristic seems to have been _wisdom_--that fine, just inward sense of things, which, like poetry, is born in a man, not acquired--the result, generally, as in his case, of an innate power, combined with large, varied, and calming experience. like most men of this stamp, he had both a keen sense of the humorous, and a racy talent for it; abounded in sententious, remarkable sayings; and had a dash of playfulness and eccentricity which gave a zest to his many solid excellences. the physician who attended his deathbed, often expressed regret that he had not kept a memorandum of his many striking observations during the short period of his illness. his character, morally, may be summed up in its two polar qualities--justice the most austere, generosity the most tender and boundless. interwoven through his whole dispositions and actions was a strong, vehement temperament, which infused into all he said and did a vivid intensity, which would sometimes degenerate into sallies of passion, but which, upon the whole, raised and exalted his character to the true heroic dimensions. his factor, a respectable edinburgh burgess, a gunsmith by trade, whom he had selected for no aptitude but from the freak of the name (innes), could not always appreciate his schemes of improvement on the estate, which really were not based on economic considerations, but were meant to afford large means of employment to the people. in consequence, the duke, though he respected him greatly, would sometimes be ruffled, and blurt out a harsh thing at his expense. walking with him one day in the fields, he was explaining with the most animated eloquence, where he intended to make some drains. "but," interrupted the burgess-factor, only thinking of the balance-sheet, "you will spend a great deal of money." "yes," retorted the old nobleman, with ineffable contempt; "you have guessed my object: i _will_ spend a great deal of money." then, turning quick on his heel, "you know more about the barrel of an old gun than about drains." after one of those sallies, the factor, who resided a few miles from fleurs, and had swallowed and forgotten the bitter dose, was preparing, about twelve o'clock at night, to go to bed, when there was a sharp, sudden ring at the door-bell. it was a messenger from the duke, with a letter, in which he stated, that, in reflecting on the incidents of the day before retiring to rest, he felt remorse for the taunt which he had uttered; that it was the ebullition of the moment, but cruel and unkind; and that he could not sleep until he had received forgiveness. it may be conceived in what ardent terms the factor replied, and with what redoubled attachment he regarded and served such a master! this was no exceptional blink of goodness. it was only a specimen of his habit of justice, even against himself--of his magnanimity and generous candour--changeless as the sun. during the just, benignant sway of the "good duke james," perhaps fleurs was the happiest place of all scotland to live in;--not a happier could be in the wide world. to have been born and brought up there, and in one's childhood to have had such a taste of the "golden age," i have always esteemed the sweetest privilege of life. no one can become utterly sour, no one can lose faith and hope in humanity, who was nurtured on the milk and honey of fleurs, under "good duke james." poetry and enthusiasm must spring eternal in his breast. this is no illusion from the fancies of boyhood. ask the old peasant of tweedside--a mature, hardy man then--and he will tell, with a glow on his cheek, and a tear, due to remembrance, in his eye, "ah! the fleurs was a braw place under auld duke jemmy!" nature, industry, peace, mirth, love, a kindred soul between duke and people, seemed to breathe in every gale there, and sing in the matins and vespers of every bird. there the _lyric joyousness_, characteristic of the scottish people when allowed freely to develop, expanded itself to the utmost of its power and fervour. fleurs was like the "ida vale" of spenser:- "in ida vale, (who knows not ida vale?) when harmless troy yet felt not grecian spite, an hundred shepherds wonn'd; and in the dale, while their fair flocks the three-leaved pastures bite, the shepherd boys, with hundred sportings light, gave wings unto the time's too speedy haste." in our old, picturesque saxon form of speech, the husband was the "_bread-winner_." duke james was emphatically the "_bread-giver_." to furnish employment, to diffuse comfort and happiness amongst the employed, was the all-absorbing object of his life. anything that would have ministered to his own luxury and glorification was but little heeded. there might be pleasure-grounds more ornamental than his, walks more trim, conservatories more gaudily replenished with exotics, chambers more resplendent with costly furniture and pictures by the great masters, equipage more gay and dashing--in all that belonged to the _personnel_, he was plain and moderate; but where was there ever such planting of forests, or cutting of timber, or building of this and the other structure--all kinds of heavy works, employing hundreds of hands? on many of the high labour-festivals which signalised the calendar at fleurs, upwards of _three hundred people_, all earning their livelihood under his patriarchal sway, would dine together in the court, and dance together on the velvet lawn in front of his castle. at six o'clock on a mild summer evening, what a spectacle, to see fleurs gate thrown wide open, and troop after troop of labourers _debouche_!--not worn-out, fagged, and sullen, but marching with alacrity and cheerfulness--the younger lilting a merry song, the older and more careful carrying home fagots of wood, gathered at their resting hours, to supply the fire for their cheap evening meal. and all had some story to tell of the _duke_!--some little trait of kindness, or some of those drolleries in which he would occasionally indulge, but ever without loss of dignity. he used to walk for hours together beside my grandfather whilst holding the plough--a wise and holy man, an abraham amongst the people--and converse with him as brother with brother, especially on the incidents of his own life, and on matters of religion. on his coming forward, my grandfather would take off his hat; but the duke would stop him, and say, "keep on your hat, james. it 's all very well to teach the young fellows manners, but there 's no ceremony between you and me; we are equals--two plain old men." his servants, of whatever degree, dined together in the common hall; but some of the more aspiring "ambitioned" (as the yankees say) a separate table. one of them, who was supposed to be rather a favourite, was deputed to break the project to the duke, and obtain his consent at some propitious moment. thinking he had him one day in a most accommodating temper, he cautiously hinted the scheme, and gradually waxed bolder, and disclosed all particulars, as the duke seemed to listen with tacit approval. "well, well," answered the duke, carelessly, "all my servants are alike to me. you may dine at one table, or at twenty, if you can so arrange it. but whatever the number"--here his voice rose ominously, and his eye flashed with anger--"you, sirrah, shall dine at the lowest!" the great question of the "tables" was crushed. sometimes--after the fashion of haroun al raschid, though not in disguise--he would steal down quietly and unperceived, through the out-of-the-way holes and corners of the immense castle, to see with his own eyes what the inhabitants of the remoter regions were about. some dry joke, or some act of benevolence, according to circumstances, was sure to be the result. as he was one day poking through the passages, he suddenly encountered an enormously big, fat servant-woman, engaged in cleaning a stair. she was steaming with perspiration. eyeing her curiously for a moment, "ho, ho!" he cried (his usual introductory exclamation), "do _you_ bake the bread?" the woman, staring in astonishment, and, fortunately for her own self-complacency, not understanding the point of the strange question, replied, "no, your grace, that is not my department; i am in the laundry, and my business is"--"oh, never mind," said the duke, with the look of one greatly relieved, "i am perfectly satisfied so you don't bake the bread." a decayed gentleman, who had found harbourage at fleurs, was staying rather longer than convenient. it was in the depth of winter, and the ground was covered with snow. the duke, who was an early riser in all seasons, had been out for his morning walk; and on his return proceeded to the gentleman's room, who was still in bed. "you lazy lie-a-bed!" exclaimed the duke, "there 's a snow-ball for you--and there 's another--and there 's another," and suiting the action to the word, he discharged into the bed upon him a shower of white-looking balls; but they happened to be, not snow-balls, but pound-notes squeezed into the shape--report said, twenty in number. the gentleman took the practical but benevolent hint, and departed, carrying with him the snow-balls, not melted. in his more serious mood, he, one sabbath, met a girl returning from church, and inquired what church she had been attending. he then walked with her a long time, discoursing upon the slight shades of difference amongst the various religious denominations, and concluded, "i shall not see it, but i believe that, in course of time, there will be only one sheepfold under the one shepherd." labour at fleurs was a twin to mirth. we were always having festivities. the duke was ingenious in devising reasons for them. because he was scotch by origin, he celebrated all the peculiar scottish festivals; because he was english by residence, he celebrated all the peculiar english festivals; because in his youth the "old style" of computing the year was still used, he first of all held old year's day, and new year's day, and twelfth night, according to the new style, and then repeated the observance all over again, according to the old style. and there was a constant succession, the whole year through, of birth-days, and the commemoration of public holidays and rejoicings. "it was a merry place in days of yore." suppose summer shining in all its pride, and that labour is to enjoy one of its highest festivals at fleurs. all work ceases at noon; and by two, the people, dressed in holiday attire, muster at the trysting-spot, and march in a body to the castle, preceded by tam anderson, the duke's piper, a grave, old-fashioned man, in livery of green coat and black velvet breeches--a fossil specimen he of what the border minstrel once was, when his art was in its prime. as tam drones away on his bagpipe "lumps o' puddin'," and "brose and butter," they take their places at three long tables, covering a large court. three hundred workpeople and their families are there; for the duke sternly forbids any but his own people to be present. it is in vain for me, whose knowledge of cookery never extended beyond the edinburgh student's fare of mince collops and prestonpans beer, to attempt a description of this monster-feast--the mountains of beef and dumplings, the wilderness of pasties and tarts, the orchardfuls of fruit, the oceans of strong ale--the very fragments of which would have been enough to carry a garrison through a twelvemonth's siege. after having "satiated themselves with eating and drinking," like the large-stomached heroes of the antique world, they had an hour's interval for sauntering, that healthy digestion might have time to arrange and stow away the immense load which the vessel had just taken in. again, however, they marshalled to the piper's warning note, playing, "fy, let us a' to the bridal!" and this time marched to the spacious, smooth, and beautiful lawn in front of the castle, where _givan's band_ awaited their arrival, and the dance speedily began. the merriment now swelled to ecstacy; lads and lasses leaped through and through, as on the wings of zephyrs; a hundred couples bounding at once on the green sward; the old folks chiming in the chorus of universal laughter, and snapping their fingers to the dances in which they had no longer the strength and nimbleness to join; the youngsters getting up mimic reels in sly corners; and the music seeming to stir into delight the branches of the great elms which festooned this ball-room of nature. but was there not something awanting to complete the unity of the scene? where was the presiding divinity? " ... _deus_ nobis hæc otia fecit, namque erit ille mihi semper deus." oh, for an hour past he has been watching the rustic carnival from yonder portico, with his gracious duchess (much his junior), his true help-meet in everything good, courteous, and benevolent! at length he descends into the circle, with a smile to all, a word of recognition to this one, a light airy jest at the expense of that one, and a responsive _hooch_ to the wild, whirling dancers. as he advances, all the pretty girls draw themselves up to catch his eye, and to have the honour of his hand in the dance. he strolls about, peering gently, until, in some obscure corner, he espies a young, shy, modest damsel, the lowliest there, whom no one is noticing, a lowly worker in the back kitchen, or even in the fields. her he selects--blushing with surprise and a tumult of nameless emotions--to be queen of the festival; he pats her on the shoulders, whispers paternal-gallant things in her ear, and calling lustily for "tullochgorum" from the fiddlers, leads her gracefully through the dance, himself--though upwards of eighty--throwing some steps of the highland fling, snapping his fingers, and _hooching_ in unison with the impassioned throng of youths around him--those young stately plants who have grown up under the dew and shelter of his benign protection. when the dance is finished, kissing her on the cheek, he leads his little simple partner back to her seat, and leaves her in a delicious vision of the good old duke, who had distinguished her, sitting solitary and unnoticed, above all her companions, and placed the coronal upon her brow, queen of the festival. as he returns slowly to the castle, there is an involuntary pause in the merry-making. the musicians lay down their bows, the youths stop short in the mazes of the bacchic dance, the spectators stand up uncovered, the subtle electric chain of love and loyalty passes between duke and people, and a grand universal "hurrah!" rings through the welkin--the outburst of gratitude, reverence, and joy. it is touching, solemn, sublime, this pause and outburst of feeling in the midst of the wild festal scene. not a maiden there but loves him as she would a father; not a stalwart hind but, if need were, would die in defence of his old chief. "when the ear hears him, then it blesses him; and when the eye sees him, it gives witness to him; because he delivers the poor that cry, and the fatherless, and him that has none to help him. the blessing of him that is ready to perish comes upon him; and he causes the widow's heart to sing for joy. he puts on righteousness, and it clothes him; his judgment is as a robe and a diadem." but eighty-six years are a heavy load on the shoulders even of a giant. the grasshopper at length becomes a burden to the strongest and most cheerful. news came from the castle that our old duke was unwell, was confined to his room, then to his bed. one morning--i remember it as if yesterday--as i was walking through the court-yard with one of the farm-servants, the butler looked from a window above, shook his head mournfully, folded his arms across his breast, and bent his eyes towards the ground. we read his meaning at a glance,--"the good duke james was dead!" for days and days the people gave way to a deep, even a passionate grief, as if each had lost a beloved father, and was left to all the loneliness and privation of an orphan's lot. the body, or rather the coffin which enclosed it, was laid out in state; and they were allowed to take a last farewell of their chief. his valet, a favourite servant, stood at the head, with his handkerchief almost constantly over his eyes, scarcely able to hide his tears. the chamber was dimly lighted, and filled with all the emblems of woe--in this case no mimicry. all walked round, slowly and solemnly--the ancients of the hamlet, the stalwart peasantry, and the women leading the children by the hand--all gazing intently on the spot where the dead lay, as if even yet to catch a glimpse of that piercing eye and benignant smile. the silence was profound, awful, but for a throbbing under-hum as of stifled breath, broken ever and anon by a sharp sob--the "hysterica passio," the "climbing sorrow," which even reverence and self-restraint could no longer keep down. the day of the funeral arrived. his remains were to be borne about twelve miles off, to bowden, under the shadow of the three-peaked eildons, for there the ancient vault is where lie "the race of the house of roxburghe." the long, long line of mourning carriages i well remember; but these only spoke the general respect and commonplace regret of the neighbourhood, which are incident to such an occasion. his _people_ in their hundreds--these were his mourners! the younger and stronger of them, in one way or other, accompanied the death procession to the last resting-place. the women of the place, leading the children, went down, all weeping as they went, to a bend in the tweed, where there would be a last view of the funeral train. there it was!--darkly marching on the opposite bank, winding round the mouldering hillock which was once roxburgh castle, and finally disappearing--disappearing for ever!--behind that pine-covered height! as the last of the train floated and melted away from the horizon, we all sunk to the ground at once, as if struck by some instantaneous current; and such a wail rose that day as tweed never heard; whilst an echoing voice seemed to cry along his banks, and into the depth of his forests--"the last of the patriarch-dukes has departed!" one instance is worth a thousand dissertations. and the above thin water-colour sketch of a _real popular life_, though presenting only one or two out of an endless variety of its phases, will give a more distinct conception than a volume of fanciful generalities could, of what i mean by the lyric joyousness of the scottish people; and is, besides, a sincere, though mean and unworthy tribute to the virtues of a true patriarchal nobleman, about the last of the race, whose name, if the world were not too apt to forget its most excellent ones, would be eternised in the memory of mankind. it is from this soil--this sensitive and fervid national temperament--that there has sprung up such a harvest of ballads, and songs, and heart-moving, soul-breathing melodies. hence the hearty old habits and curious suggestive customs of the people: the hospitality, exuberant as abraham's, who sat in the tent-door bidding welcome even to the passing traveller; the merry-meetings and "rockings" in the evening, where each had to contribute his or her song or tale, and at the same time ply some piece of work; the delight in their native dances, furious and whirling as those of the bacchantes; the "guisarding" of the boys at christmas, relic of old-world plays, when the bloody melodrama finished off into the pious benediction- "god bless the master of the house, the mistress also, and all the pretty babies that round the table go;" the "first foot," on new year's morning, when none must enter a house empty-handed; the "hogmanay," or first monday of the new year, when the whole boys and girls invaded the country-side, and levied from the peaceful inhabitants black-mail of cakes, and cheese, and ha'pence- "get up, gudewife! and shake your feathers, dinna think that we are beggars; we are bairns come out to play, rise up and gie 's our hogmanay!"-the "halloween," whose rites of semi-diablerie have been immortalised by burns; and the "kirn," or harvest home, the wind-up of the season, the epitome of the lyric joyousness of the whole year. hence it is that under an exterior, to strangers so reserved, austere, and frigid, they all cherish some romantic thought, or feeling, or dream: they are all inly imbued with an enthusiasm which surmounts every obstacle, and burns the deeper and faster the more it is repressed. every one of us, calling up the history of our own little circle of cottage mates and schoolfellows, could recount numerous pregnant examples of this national characteristic. and hence, also, after wandering the wide world, and buffeting in all the whirlpools of life, cautiously waiting chances, cannily slipping in when the door opens, and struggling for distinction or wealth in all kinds of adventure, and under the breath of every clime--there are few, indeed, of our people, when twilight begins to gather over their path, but turn towards the light that comes from their old homes; and would fain pass a serene and meditative old age by the burnside where they "paidled" in their youth, and lay down their bones beside their fathers in the kirkyard of yon calm sequestered glen. scott went down to the nether springs of the national character when he made his "last minstrel" sing- "by yarrow's stream still let me stray, though none should guide my feeble way; still feel the breeze down ettrick break, although it chill my wither'd cheek; still lay my head by teviot stone!" times have changed, it is true, even within the comparatively short space which has elapsed since the death of the good duke james of roxburghe. or rather, he was the last lingering representative of an age, of ideas, of a state of manners--lovely, but transitional--which had even then vanished, except the parting ray that fell on that one glistening spot. it was the transition from mediæval clanship to modern individualism--from that form of society where thousands clustered devotedly round the banner of one, their half-worshipped chief, to the present fashion, where it is, "every man for himself, and god for us all!" yet the period of transition was a golden age. it was a golden age--i know it, for i lived in it. there was the old patriarchy--the feeling, undefinable to those who have not experienced the same state of life, as if gods walked upon earth; and with this patriarchal, overshadowing, protecting sway, derived from the old, there was blended the modern recognition of the rights and dignity of man--the humblest man--as an individual. thrown, as we all now are, into the modern anarchy, hurly-burly, and caricaturism, when fathers are "old governors," and dukes are served solely for their wages and pickings, like mr prog, the sausage-vendor, and the gentle look of respect and courtesy has been exchanged for the puppy's stare through a quizzing-glass; is it not something to have lived in the more reverent primitive state, to have tasted its early vernal freshness, and basked in its sunshine of loyal homage, and beautiful and stately repose? yet far be it from me to croak as the "laudator temporis acti." past, present, and future--all are divine--all are parts of a celestial scheme--none to be scorned, all to be loved and improved. but the past is under the sod; the future is behind the clouds; the present alone has its foot upon the green sward. in a higher sense than the epicure's, it is "_our own_." let us, then, appreciate, exalt, and enjoy it. there are good and glorious signs in our present, amid much that is of earth earthy, and of self selfish. if man has become more isolated, more rigidly defined, and has been stript of most of his old pictorial haloes--he is also beginning to display a plain, honest, equal, fraternal yearning and sympathy, man to man. our hard material age shews the buddings of a poetry of its own. streams shall gush from the rock. if there were, in the days of loyal clanhood, joyousness, and generous susceptibility, festive reliefs to labour, and reverence for greatness; why should not this be so even more, under the influence of common brotherhood? "charity never faileth!" everything dies but charity and joy. even in the general conflagration, these will be exhaled from earth, only to burst forth afresh in heaven--"a pure river of water of life, clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of god." contents. page francis bennoch, 1 truth and honour, 7 our ship, 8 auld peter macgowan, 10 the flower of keir, 11 constancy, 12 my bonnie wee wifie, 13 the bonnie bird, 14 come when the dawn, 15 good-morrow, 16 oh, wae's my life, 17 hey, my bonnie wee lassie, 18 bessie, 20 courtship, 21 together, 22 florence nightingale, 23 joseph macgregor, 25 laddie, oh! leave me, 25 how blythely the pipe, 26 william dunbar, d.d., 28 the maid of islay, 29 william jerdan, 30 the wee bird's song, 32 what makes this hour? 33 alexander bald, 34 the lily of the vale, 35 how sweet are the blushes of morn, 35 george wilson, 37 mild as the morning, 37 the beacons blazed, 38 the rendezvous, 40 john younger, 42 ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew, 43 the month of june, 44 john burtt, 46 o'er the mist-shrouded cliffs, 47 o! lassie i lo'e dearest, 47 charles james finlayson, 49 the bard strikes his harp, 50 ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, 51 oh, my love 's bonnie, 52 william dobie, 54 the dreary reign of winter's past, 55 robert hendry, m.d., 57 oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie, 58 hew ainslie, 60 the hameward sang, 61 dowie in the hint o' hairst, 62 on wi' the tartan, 63 the rover o' lochryan, 64 the last look o' hame, 65 the lads an' the land far awa', 66 my bonnie wee bell, 67 william thomson, 68 the maiden to her reaping-hook, 68 alexander smart, 71 when the bee has left the blossom, 73 oh, leave me not, 74 never despair, 75 john dunlop, 77 the year that 's awa', 78 oh, dinna ask me, 78 love flies the haunts of pomp and power, 79 war, 80 william blair, 82 the highland maid, 82 the neapolitan war-song, 84 archibald mackay, 85 our auld scots sangs, 85 my laddie lies low, 87 jouk and let the jaw gae by, 88 victorious be again, boys, 89 william air foster, 91 fareweel to scotia, 91 the falcon's flight, 92 the salmon run, 94 charles marshall, 97 the blessing on the wark, 98 jewel of a lad, 99 twilight joys, 100 william wilson, 102 oh, blessing on her starlike een, 102 oh! blessing on thee, land, 104 the faithless, 105 my soul is ever with thee, 106 auld johnny graham, 107 jean linn, 108 bonnie mary, 109 mrs mary macarthur, 111 the missionary, 111 john ramsay, 114 farewell to craufurdland, 114 james parker, 116 the mariner's song, 116 her lip is o' the rose's hue, 117 john hunter, 119 the bower o' clyde, 119 mary, 122 in distant years, 123 robert chambers, 124 young randal, 126 the ladye that i love, 127 thou gentle and kind one, 128 lament for the old highland warriors, 129 thomas aird, 131 the swallow, 132 genius, 133 robert white, 136 my native land, 137 a shepherd's life, 138 her i love best, 140 the knight's return, 141 the bonnie redesdale lassie, 143 the mountaineer's death, 144 william cameron, 146 sweet jessie o' the dell, 146 meet me on the gowan lea, 147 morag's fairy glen, 148 oh! dinna cross the burn, willie, 150 alexander tait, 151 e'ening's dewy hour, 151 charles fleming, 153 watty m'neil, 153 william ferguson, 155 i'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may, 155 wooing song, 156 i'm wandering wide, 158 thomas dick, 160 how early i woo'd thee, 160 hugh miller, 161 sister jeanie, haste, we 'll go, 166 oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze, 167 alexander macansh, 171 the mother and child, 172 change, 173 the tomb of the bruce, 174 james pringle, 176 the ploughman, 176 william anderson, 178 woodland song, 180 the wells o' weary, 181 i'm naebody noo, 182 i canna sleep, 183 william m. hetherington, d.d., ll.d., 185 'tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray, 186 oh, sweet is the blossom, 187 thomas watson, 189 the squire o' low degree, 189 james macdonald, 192 bonnie aggie lang, 193 the pride o' the glen, 194 mary, 196 james ballantine, 198 naebody's bairn, 200 castles in the air, 201 ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew, 202 wifie, come hame, 203 the birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest, 204 creep afore ye gang, 205 ae guid turn deserves anither, 205 the nameless lassie, 206 bonnie bonaly, 207 saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, 208 the mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win, 209 the widow, 209 miss eliza a. h. ogilvy, 211 craig elachie, 212 john finlay, 215 the noble scottish game, 216 the merry bowling-green, 218 thomas tod stoddart, 220 angling song, 221 let ither anglers, 222 the british oak, 223 peace in war, 224 alexander maclagan, 226 curling song, 229 the auld meal mill, 230 the thistle, 232 the scotch blue bell, 233 the rockin', 235 the widow, 237 the highland plaid, 238 the flower o' glencoe, 239 mrs jane c. simpson, 241 gentleness, 242 he loved her for her merry eye, 244 life and death, 245 good-night, 246 andrew park, 248 hurrah for the highlands, 249 old scotland, i love thee! 250 flowers of summer, 251 home of my fathers, 252 what ails my heart? 253 away to the highlands, 254 i'm away, 255 there is a bonnie, blushing flower, 256 the maid of glencoe, 257 marion paul aird, 258 the fa' o' the leaf, 258 the auld kirkyard, 260 far, far away, 261 william sinclair, 263 the royal breadalbane oak, 264 evening, 265 mary, 266 absence, 267 is not the earth, 269 oh! love the soldier's daughter dear! 270 the battle of stirling, 272 william miller, 274 ye cowe a', 274 alexander hume, 276 my ain dear nell, 276 the pairtin', 278 metrical translations from the modern gaelic minstrelsy. page john macdonald, d.d., 281 the missionary of st kilda, 282 duncan kennedy, 284 the return of peace, 285 allan m'dougall, 287 the song of the carline, 288 kenneth mackenzie, 290 the song of the kilt, 290 john campbell, 292 the storm blast, 293 james m'gregor, d.d., 294 light in the highlands, 295 the modern scottish minstrel. francis bennoch.[1] francis bennoch, the son of a farmer on the property of the duke of buccleuch, and of a mother whose family have been tenants on the same estate for nearly two hundred years, was born at drumcrool, in the parish of durrisdeer, and county of dumfries, on the 25th june 1812. at the age of sixteen, in february 1828, he arrived in london, and entered a house of business in the city. during the nine ensuing years, he assiduously pursued his avocation, and strove to make himself master of the elements and practice of trade. in 1837 he commenced on his own responsibility, and every succeeding year has advanced him in mercantile prosperity and position. now, at the head of the firm of bennoch, twentyman, & rigg, wholesale traders and manufacturers, there is no name in the city more universally respected. in the corporate body of the city of london mr bennoch for some years took a prominent part as a citizen, a common councilman, and lastly as the deputy of a ward. an independent man and a reformer of abuses, he has so managed his opposition to measures, and even to men, as to win the warm approval of his own friends, and the respect of the leaders of all parties. his plans for bridging the thames may be referred to in proof of his patriotic devotedness to improvement. influenced in his youth by the genius of the locality in which he was born, to which the ayrshire ploughman had left a legacy of immortal song, succeeded by allan cunningham, and a number of distinguished followers, it was not, however, till he had been two years a denizen of the metropolis that mr bennoch's scottish feeling sought to vent itself in verse. the love of country is as inherent and vehement in the children of the north as in the swiss mountaineers; wheresoever they wander from it, their hearts yearn towards the fatherland- "land of brown heath and shaggy wood, land of the mountain and the flood, land of their sires"-with the same cherished and enduring affection which excites in the _rans des vaches_ so overpowering a sympathy. and the pastoral is perhaps even more replete with the poetical elements than the "stern and wild." it is amid such scenes as the doon, the tweed, the teviot, the ettrick, the gala, and the nith adorn, that the jaded senses are prone to seek recreation, and the spirit, tired with work or worn with cares, flees rejoicingly from the world to the repose of its first breathing and time-sweetened, boyish delights. thus we find young bennoch, amid the clatter of the great city, turning to the quiet of his native valley to sing the charms of the nith, where he "had paidlet i' the burn, and pu'd the gowans fine." it was in the _dumfries courier_ that his first poetic essay found its way to print. that journal was then edited by the veteran m'diarmid, himself an honour to the literature of scotland, and no mean judge of its poetry. a cheer from such a quarter was worth the winning, and our aspirant fairly won it, by the five stanzas of which the following is the last:- "the flowers may fade upon your banks, the breckan on the brae, but, oh! the love i ha'e for thee shall never pass away. though age may wrinkle this smooth brow, and youth be like a dream, still, still my voice to heaven shall rise for blessings on your stream!" but banks and braes, and straths and streams, and woods and waves, though very dear to memory, merely come up to the painted beauties of descriptive verse. they must be warmed through "the dearest theme that ever waked the poet's dream," and love must fill the vision, before the soul can soar above the delicious but inanimate charms of earth, into the glowing region of human feeling and passion. "in peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed; in war, he mounts the warrior's steed; in halls, in gay attire is seen; in hamlets, dances on the green. love rules the court, the camp, the grove, and man below, and saints above: for love is heaven, and heaven is love!" nor was this essential inspiration wanting in the breast of the young bard. the climate of caledonia is cold, but that the hearts of her sons are susceptible of tropic warmth is shewn by a large proportion of her lyric treasures. heroism, pathos, satire, and a peculiar quaint humour, present little more than an equal division, and the attributes of the wholly embodied scottish muse attest the truth of the remark on the characteristic heat and fire which pervade her population, and excite them to daring in war and ardour in gentler pursuits. thus bennoch sung his mary, jessie, bessie, isabel, and other belles, but above all his margaret:- "the moon is shining, margaret, serenely bright above, and, like my dearest margaret, her every look is love! the trees are waving, margaret, and balmy is the air, where flowers are breathing, margaret, come, let us wander there. * * * * * yes! there 's a hand, dear margaret, a heart it gives to thee; when heaven is false, my margaret, then i may faithless be." in the volume whence the preceding quotations are taken (second edition, 1843), the principal poem is "the storm," in which occur many passages of singular vigour, and slighter touches of genuine poetry. thus- "the sea, by day so smooth and bright, is far more lovely seen by night, when o'er old ocean's wrinkled brow, the night has hung her silver bow, and stars in myriads ope their eyes to guide the footsteps of the wise, and in the deep reflected lie, till ocean seems a second sky; and ships, like wing'd aerial cars, are voyaging among the stars." this is- "ere winter comes with icy chain, and clanks his fetters o'er the ground." the impersonation of winter himself is very striking- "loud, loud were the shouts of his boisterous mirth, as he scatter'd dismay o'er the smiling earth; the clouds were rent as the storm was driven; he howl'd and laugh'd in the face of heaven." the temperament and inclination cherished by the love of song, naturally seek the companionship of similar tastes and congenial enjoyments. thus, in the midst of the turmoil and distractions of orders and sales, invoices and shipments, mr bennoch has always found leisure to pay his court to literature, and cultivate the society of those whose talents adorn it. conjoined with this, a skilful appreciation of works of art has led him to intimate relations with many of the leading artists of our time. the interesting biography of haydon affords a glimpse at the character of some of these relations. wherever disappointed and however distressed, poor haydon "claimed kindred here, and had his claim allowed." to his mercantile friend in wood street he never applied in vain. to a very considerable extent his troubles were solaced, his difficulties surmounted, his dark despair changed to golden hope, and the threat of the gaol brightened into another free effort of genius to redeem itself from the thralls of law and grinding oppression. had his generous friend not been absent from england at the fatal time, it is very probable that the dreadful catastrophe would have been averted; but he only landed from the continent to receive the shocking intelligence that all was over. friendship could but shed the unavailing tear, but it did not forget or neglect the dear family interests for which (in some measure) the despairing sacrifice was made. it is to be hoped that such an unhappy event has been somewhat compensated by the social intercourse with talent ever hospitably cherished, not only in his pleasant home in blackheath park, but amid the precious hours that could be snatched from most active engagements in wood street. at either, authors and artists are constantly met; and the brief snatches alluded to are often so heartily occupied as to rival, if not surpass, the slower motions of the more prolonged entertainments. both may boast of "the feast of reason and the flow of soul," and a crowning increase to these enjoyments is derived from the circumstance, that mr bennoch's connexions with the continent, and more especially with the united states, contribute very frequently to engraft upon these "re-unions" a variety of eminent foreigners and intellectual citizens of america. it is a trite saying, that few men can be good or useful abroad who are not happy at home. mr bennoch has been fortunate in wedded life. she who is the theme of many of his sweetest and most touching verses, is a woman whom a poet may love and a wise man consult; in whom the sociable gentleman finds an ever cheerful companion, and the husband a loving and devoted friend. among the latest of mr bennoch's movements in literary affairs, may be mentioned his services on behalf of the late estimable mary russell mitford. through his intervention the public was gratified by the issue of "atherton," and other tales, and also by a collected edition of her dramatic works, which she dedicated to him as an earnest of her affectionate regard. mr bennoch is a member of the society of arts, the royal society of antiquaries, the royal society of literature, and the scottish literary institute. footnotes: [1] the present memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran william jerdan, late of the _literary gazette_. truth and honour. if wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame, there is that in the doing brings honour or shame; there is something in running life's perilous race, will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee as base. oh, then, be a man--and, whatever betide, keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. if a king--be thy kingship right royally shewn, and trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne; rely not on weapons or armies of might, but on that which endureth,--laws loving and right. though a king, be a man--and, whatever betide, keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. if a noble--remember, though ancient thy blood, the heart truly noble is that which is good; should a stain of dishonour encrimson thy brow, thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough. be noble as man--and, whatever betide, keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. if lover or husband--be faithful and kind, for doubting is death to the sensitive mind; love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy; the sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy. love dignifies man--and, whatever betide, keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. if a father--be firm, yet forgiving, and prove how the child honours him who rebuketh with love. if rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be, remember the truthful alone are the free. erect in thy manhood, whatever betide, keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. then, though sickness may come, or misfortunes may fall, there is that in thy bosom surviveth them all; truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale, they are beacons of light in adversity's gale. oh, the manlike is godlike--no ill shall betide while truth 's thy companion, and honour thy guide. our ship.[2] a song, a song, brave hearts, a song, to the ship in which we ride, which bears us along right gallantly, defying the mutinous tide. away, away, by night and day, propelled by steam and wind, the watery waste before her lies, and a flaming wake behind. then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship that carries us o'er the sea, through storm and foam, to a western home the home of the brave and free. with a fearless bound to the depths profound, she rushes with proud disdain, while pale lips tell the fears that swell, lest she never should rise again. with a courser's pride she paws the tide, unbridled by bit i trow, while the churlish sea she dashes with glee in a cataract from her prow. then a ho and a hip, &c. she bears not on board a lawless horde, piratic in thought or deed, yet the sword they would draw in defence of law, in the nation's hour of need. professors and poets, and merchant men whose voyagings never cease; from shore to shore, the wide world o'er, their bonds are the bonds of peace. then a ho and a hip, &c. she boasts the brave, the dutiful, the aged and the young, and woman bright and beautiful, and childhood's prattling tongue. with a dip and a rise, like a bird she flies, and we fear not the storm or squall; for faithful officers rule the helm, and heaven protects us all. then a ho and a hip to the gallant ship that carries us o'er the sea, through storm and foam, to a western home, the home of the brave and free. footnotes: [2] composed on board the steamship niagara, on her voyage to new york, in august 1849. auld peter macgowan. air--_'the brisk young lad.'_ auld peter macgowan cam down the craft, an' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh't; o little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft, when he wanted me to lo'e; he patted my brow an' smooth'd my chin, he praised my e'en an' sleek white skin, syne fain wad kiss; but the laugh within came rattlin' out, i trew. o sirs, but he was a canty carle, wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl, an' aye he spoke o' his frien' the earl, and thought he would conquer lo'e. he boasted o' gear an' acres wide, o' his bawsand youd that i should ride when i was made his bonny wee bride, returning lo'e for lo'e; that i a lady to kirk should gang, ha'e writ my virtues in a sang; but i snapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang, gin that's the best ye can do." o sirs, but he was a silly auld man, nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' lan'; an' through the town like lightning ran, the tale o' auld peter's lo'e. an' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft, and raved and stamp'd like ane gane daft, till tears trickled owre his burning chaft, sin' he couldna win my lo'e. "far better be single," the folk a' said, "than a warming pan in an auld man's bed;" he will be cunning wha gars me wed, wi' ane that i never can lo'e; na, na! he maun be a fine young lad, a canty lad, an' a dainty lad; oh, he maun be a spirited lad, wha thinks to win my lo'e. the flower of keir. o what care i where love was born; i know where oft he lingers, till night's black curtain 's drawn aside, by morning's rosy fingers. if you would know, come, follow me, o'er mountain, moss, and river, to where the nith and scar agree to flow as one for ever. pass kirk-o'-keir and clover lea, through loanings red with roses; but pause beside the spreading tree, that fanny's bower encloses. there, knitting in her shady grove, sits fanny singing gaily; unwitting of the chains of love, she 's forging for us daily. like light that brings the blossom forth, and sets the corn a-growing, melts icy mountains in the north, and sets the streams a-flowing; so fanny's eyes, so bright and wise, shed loving rays to cheer us, her absence gives us wintry skies, 'tis summer when she 's near us! o, saw ye ever such a face, to waken love and wonder; a brow with such an arch of grace, and blue eyes shining under! her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles, are equall'd not by many; her look it charms, her love it warms, the flower of keir is fanny. constancy. oh! i have traversed lands afar, o'er mountains high, and prairies green; still above me like a star, serene and bright thy love has been; still above me like a star, to gladden, guide, and keep me free from every ill. oh, life were chill, apart, my love, apart from thee. other eyes might beam as bright, and other cheeks as rosy be; other arms as pure and white, and other lips as sweet to pree; but ruddy lips, or beaming eyes, however fond and fair to see, i could not, would not love or prize apart, my love, apart from thee. other friendships i have known, friendships dear, and pure, and kind; liking soon to friendship grown, love is friendship's ore refined. oh, what is life, with love denied? a scentless flower, a leafless tree; my song with love,--my love with pride, are full,--my love, are full of thee. my bonnie wee wifie. my bonnie wee wifie, i 'm waefu' to leave thee, to leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me; come night and come morning, i 'll soon be returning; then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we 'll be! oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary, the snaw 's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea; all nature looks eerie. how can she be cheery, since weel she maun ken i am parted frae thee? oh, wae is the lammie, that 's lost its dear mammy, an' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane; the plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking, are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain. the sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer, the sense to the soul, an' the light to the e'e, the bud to the blossom, sae thou 'rt to my bosom; oh, wae 's my heart, wifie, when parted frae thee. there 's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing, should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay; love in our hearts glowing, its riches bestowing, bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away. let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing the bloom frae thy cheek when thou 'rt thinking of me; come night and come morning, i 'll then be returning; nae mair, cozie wifie, we parted shall be. the bonnie bird. oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird? oh, where wiled ye that winsome fairy? i fear me it was where nae truth was heard, and far frae the shrine o' guid st mary. i didna snare the bonnie, bonnie bird, nor try ony wiles wi' the winsome fairy, but won her young heart where the angels heard, in the bowery glen of inverary. and what want ye wi' sic a bonnie bird? i fear me its plumes ye will ruffle sairly; or bring it low down to the lane kirkyard, where blossoms o' grace are planted early. as life i love my bonnie, bonnie bird, its plumage shall never be ruffled sairly; to the day o' doom i will keep my word, an' cherish my bonnie bird late an' early. oh, whence rings out that merry, merry peal? the laugh and the sang are cherish'd rarely; it is--it is the bonny, bonny bird, wi' twa sma' voices a' piping early. for he didna snare that bonny, bonny bird, nor did he beguile the winsome fairy, he had made her his ain, where the angels heard, at the holy shrine o' the blest st mary. come when the dawn. come when the dawn of the morning is breaking, gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain, come when the clamorous birds are awaking man unto duty and pleasure again; bright let your spirits be, breathing sweet liberty, drinking the rapture that gladdens the brain. high o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing, down in the meadows the mowers are seen, haymakers singing, and village bells chiming; lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green, flying, pursuing, toying, and wooing- nature is now as she ever has been. then when the toils of the day are all over, gathered, delighted, set round in a ring- youth, with its mirthfulness--age, with its cheerfulness, brimful of happiness, cheerily sing, "bright may our spirits be- happy and ever free. blest are the joys that from innocence spring." good morrow.[3] good morrow, good morrow! warm, rosy, and bright, glow the clouds in the east, laughing heralds of light; whilst still as the glorious colours decay, full gushes of music seem tracking their way. hark! hark! is it the sheep-bell among the ling, or the early milkmaid carolling? hark! hark! or is it the lark, as he bids the sun good-morrow?- good-morrow; though every day brings sorrow. the daylight is dying, the night drawing near, the workers are silent; yet ringing and clear, from the leafiest tree in the shady bowers, comes melody falling in silvery showers. hark! hark! is it the musical chime on the hill, that sweetly ringeth when all is still? hark! hark! oh, sweeter than lark, is the nightingale's song of sorrow, of sorrow; but pleasure will come to-morrow. footnotes: [3] one of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late mary russell mitford and appears in her tale of atherton. the other stanza was composed by mr bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved friend. oh, wae's my life. oh, wae's my life, and sad my heart, the saut tears fill my e'e, willie, nae hope can bloom this side the tomb, since ye hae gane frae me, willie. o' warl's gear i couldna' boast, but now i'm poor indeed, willie; the last fond hope i leant upon, has fail'd me in my need, willie. for wealth or fame ye've left your jean, forgat your plighted vow, willie; can honours proud dispel the cloud, that darkens on your brow, willie? oh, was i then a thing sae mean, for nought but beauty prized, willie; caress'd a'e day, then flung away, a fading flower despised, willie? sin' love has fled, and hope is dead, soon my poor heart maun break, willie; as your ain life, oh, guard your wife- i 'll love her for your sake, willie. through my despair, oh, mony a prayer, will rise for her and ye, willie; that ye may prove to her, in love, mair faithfu' than to me, willie. hey, my bonnie wee lassie. hey, my bonnie wee lassie, blythe and cheerie wee lassie, will ye wed a canty carle, bonnie, bonnie wee lassie? i ha'e sheep, an' i ha'e kye, i ha'e wheat, an' i ha'e rye, an' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye, that ye shall spen' wi' me, lassie! hey, my bonnie wee lassie, blythe and cheerie wee lassie, will ye wed a canty carle, bonnie, bonnie wee lassie? ye shall dress in damask fine, my goud and gear shall a' be thine, and i to ye be ever kin'. say,--will ye marry me, lassie? hey, my bonnie wee lassie, blythe and cheerie wee lassie, will ye wed a canty carle, bonnie, smiling wee lassie? gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose, fill up your lanky sides wi' brose, an' at the ingle warm your nose; but come na courtin' me, carle. oh, ye tottering auld carle, silly, clavering auld carle, the hawk an' doo shall pair, i trew, before i pair wi' ye, carle! your heart is cauld an' hard as stanes, ye ha'e nae marrow in your banes, an' siller canna buy the brains that pleasure gie to me, carle! oh, ye tottering auld carle, silly, clavering auld carle, the hound an' hare may seek ae lair, but i'll no sleep wi' ye, carle. i winna share your gowd wi' ye, your withering heart, an' watery e'e; in death i'd sooner shrouded be than wedded to ye, auld carle! oh, ye tottering auld carle, silly, clavering auld carle, when roses blaw on leafs o' snaw, i'll bloom upon your breast, carle. but there's a lad, an' i'm his ain, may heaven blessings on him rain! though plackless, he is unco fain, and he's the man for me, carle! oh, youth an' age can ne'er agree; though rich, you're no the man for me. gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee; pray heaven to be your bride, carle. bessie. oh, mony a year has come and gane, an' mony a weary day, sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame, i first was lured away, to wander over unco lands, far, far ayont the sea; but no to find a land like this, the hame o' bess an' me! i've traversed mony a dreary land, across the braid, braid sea; but, oh, my native mountain hame, my thochts were aye wi' thee. as certain as the sun wad rise, and set ahint the sea, sae constant, bessie, were my prayers, at morn an' nicht for thee; when i return'd unto my hame, the hills were clad wi' snow; though they look'd cold and cheerless, love, my heart was in a glow. though keen the wintry north wind blew, like summer 'twas to me; for, bess, my frame was warm wi' love, of country, kindred, thee! nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles returning sunny beams, than i then hailed my native hame, its mountains, woods, and streams. now we are met, my bonnie bess, we never mair will part; although to a' we seem as twa, we only hae ae heart! we 'll be sae loving a' the nicht, sae happy a' the day, that though our bodies time may change, our love shall ne'er decay: as gently as yon lovely stream declining years shall run, an' life shall pass frae our auld clay, as snow melts 'neath the sun. courtship. yestreen on cample's bonnie flood the summer moon was shining; while on a bank in chrichope wood two lovers were reclining: they spak' o' youth, an' hoary age, o' time how swiftly fleeting, of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane,- the reason of their meeting! when willie thoucht his heart was firm, an' might declare its feeling, a glance frae bessy's starry een sent a' his senses reeling; for aye when he essay'd to speak, an' she prepared to hear him, the thought in crimson dyed his cheek, but words would no come near him! 'tis ever thus that love is taught by his divinest teacher; he silent adoration seeks, but shuns the prosy preacher. now read me right, ye gentle anes, nor deem my lesson hollow; the deepest river silent rins, the babbling brook is shallow. together. together, dearest, we have play'd, as girl and boy together; through storm and calm, in sun and shade, in spring and wintry weather. oh! every pang that stinging came but made our love the dearer; if danger lower'd--'twas all the same, we only clung the nearer. in riper years, when all the world lay bathed in light before us, and life in rainbow hues unfurl'd its glowing banner o'er us, amid the beauty storms would rise and flowers collapsing wither, while open friends turned hidden foes- yet were we blest together. but now the battle's fought and won, and care with life is flying, while, setting slowly like the sun, ambition's fires are dying. we gather hope with fading strength, and go, we know not whither, contented if in death at last we sleep in peace together. florence nightingale. with lofty song we love to cheer the hearts of daring men; applauded thus, they gladly hear the trumpet's call again. but now we sing of lowly deeds devoted to the brave, where she, who stems the wound that bleeds, a hero's life may save: and heroes saved exulting tell how well her voice they knew; how sorrow near it could not dwell, but spread its wings and flew. neglected, dying in despair, they lay till woman came to soothe them with her gentle care, and feed life's flickering flame. when wounded sore, on fever's rack, or cast away as slain, she called their fluttering spirits back and gave them strength again. 'twas grief to miss the passing face that suffering could dispel; but joy to turn and kiss the place on which her shadow fell.[4] when words of wrath profaning rung, she moved with pitying grace; her presence still'd the wildest tongue, and holy[5] made the place. they knew that they were cared for then, their eyes forgot their tears; in dreamy sleep they lost their pain, and thought of early years- of early years, when all was fair, of faces sweet and pale. they woke: the angel bending there was--florence nightingale! footnotes: [4] she would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.--_soldier's letter from the crimea._ [5] "before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it was as holy as a church."--_ibid._ joseph macgregor. the writer of several good songs, which have been published with music, joseph macgregor, followed the profession of an accountant in edinburgh. expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrangement of the city affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. a zealous member of the liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the reform bill movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of francis jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in parliament. he latterly occupied ramsay lodge, the residence of the poet allan ramsay, where he died about the year 1845, at a somewhat advanced age. the following songs from his pen are published by the kind permission of messrs robertson & co., musicsellers, edinburgh. laddie, oh! leave me. down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery, when love's star was smilin', i met wi' my dearie; ah! vain was its smilin'--she wadna believe me, but said wi' a saucy air, "laddie, oh! leave me; leave me, leave me, laddie, oh! leave me." "i 've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie, i 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly, through life e'er to weary, i 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee; look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;" leave thee, leave thee, &c. "there 's nae ither saft e'e that fills me wi' pleasure, there 's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure, there 's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me, till death break this fond heart--oh! then i maun leave thee;" leave thee, leave thee, &c. the tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses; what hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses! i kiss'd them, and blest her--at last to relieve me she yielded her hand, and sigh'd, "oh! never leave me;" leave me, leave me, &c. how blythely the pipe. air--_"kinloch of kinloch."_ how blythely the pipe through glenlyon was sounding, at morn when the clans to the merry dance hied; and gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding, when ronald woo'd flora, and made her his bride. but war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming- the battle-cry echoed, around and above broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing; up, ronald! to arms for home and your love. all was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger'd despairing, with her bride-maids still deck'd in their gay festal gear! and she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing, which might laurel love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier! but cheer thee, fond maiden--each wild breeze is laden with victory's slogan, through mountain and grove; where death streams were gushing, and war-steeds were rushing, lord ronald has conquer'd for home and for love! william dunbar, d.d. a native of dumfries, william dunbar, received his elementary education in that town. having studied at the university of edinburgh, he was in 1805 licensed as a probationer of the established church. during the vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his probationary career, he resided chiefly in the hebrides. at this period he composed the popular song, entitled, "the maid of islay," the heroine being a miss campbell of the island of islay. in several collections the song has been erroneously ascribed to joseph train. mr dunbar was, in may 1807, ordained to the parish of applegarth, dumfriesshire. long reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, dr dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for the entomological series of the "naturalist's library." his observations were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the title, "the natural history of bees, comprehending the uses and economical management of the british and foreign honey-bee; together with the known wild species. illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured from nature, with portrait and memoir of huber." the publication has been pronounced useful to the practical apiarian and a valuable contribution to the natural history of the honey-bee. in the fiftieth year of his pastorate, dr dunbar enjoys the veneration of a flock, of whom the majority have been reared under his ministerial superintendence. the maid of islay. rising o'er the heaving billow, evening gilds the ocean's swell, while with thee, on grassy pillow, solitude! i love to dwell. lonely to the sea-breeze blowing, oft i chant my love-lorn strain, to the streamlet sweetly flowing, murmur oft a lover's pain. 'twas for her, the maid of islay, time flew o'er me wing'd with joy; 'twas for her, the cheering smile aye beam'd with rapture in my eye. not the tempest raving round me, lightning's flash or thunder's roll; not the ocean's rage could wound me, while her image fill'd my soul. farewell, days of purest pleasure, long your loss my heart shall mourn! farewell, hours of bliss the measure, bliss that never can return! cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring, cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore, on the past with sadness pond'ring, hope's fair visions charm no more. william jerdan. the well known editor of the _literary gazette_, william jerdan, was born at kelso, roxburghshire, on the 16th april 1782. the third son and seventh child of john jerdan, a small land proprietor and baron-bailie under the duke of roxburghe, his paternal progenitors owned extensive possessions in the south-east of scotland. his mother, agnes stuart, a woman of superior intelligence, claimed descent from the royal house of stuart. educated at the parochial school of his native town, young jerdan entered a lawyer's office, with a view to the legal profession. towards literary pursuits his attention was directed through the kindly intercourse of the rev. dr rutherford, author of the "view of ancient history," who then assisted the minister of kelso, and subsequently became incumbent of muirkirk. in 1801 he proceeded to london, where he was employed as clerk in a mercantile establishment. returning to scotland, he entered the office of a writer to the signet; but in 1804 he resumed his connexion with the metropolis. suffering from impaired health, he was taken under the care of a maternal uncle, surgeon of the _gladiator_ guard-ship. on the recommendation of this relative, he served as a seaman for a few months preceding february 1806. a third time seeking the literary world of london, he became reporter to the _aurora_, a morning paper, of temporary duration. in january 1807, he joined the _pilot_, an evening paper. subsequently, he was one of the conductors of the _morning post_ and a reporter for the _british press_. purchasing the copyright of the _satirist_, he for a short time edited that journal. in may 1813, he became conductor of _the sun_, an appointment which he retained during a period of four years, but was led to relinquish from an untoward dispute with the publisher. he now entered on the editorship of the _literary gazette_, which he conducted till 1850, and with which his name will continue to be associated. during a period of nearly half a century, mr jerdan has occupied a prominent position in connexion with literature and politics. he was the first person who seized bellingham, the murderer of percival, in the lobby of the house of commons. with mr canning he was on terms of intimacy. in 1821 he aided in establishing the royal society of literature. he was one of the founders of the melodist's club, for the promotion of harmony, and of the garrick club, for the patronage of the drama. in the affairs of the royal literary fund he has manifested a deep interest. in 1830 he originated, in concert with other literary individuals, the _foreign literary gazette_, of which he became joint-editor. about the same period, he wrote the biographical portion of fisher's "national portrait gallery." in 1852-3 appeared his "autobiography," in four volumes; a work containing many curious details respecting persons of eminence. in 1852 mr jerdan's services to literature were acknowledged by a pension of £100 on the civil list, and about the same time he received a handsome pecuniary testimonial from his literary friends. the wee bird's song.[6] i heard a wee bird singing, in my chamber as i lay; the casement open swinging, as morning woke the day. and the boughs around were twining, the bright sun through them shining, and i had long been pining, for my willie far away- when i heard the wee bird singing. he heard the wee bird singing, for its notes were wondrous clear; as if wedding bells were ringing, melodious to the ear. and still it rang that wee bird's song; just like the bells--dong-ding, ding-dong; while my heart beat so quick and strong- it felt that he was near! and he heard the wee bird singing. we heard the wee bird singing, after brief time had flown; the true bells had been ringing, and willie was my own. and oft i tell him, jesting, playing, i knew what the wee bird was saying, that morn, when he, no longer straying, flew back to me alone. and we love the wee bird singing. footnotes: [6] here first published. what makes this hour? what makes this hour a day to me? what makes this day a year? my own love promised we should meet- but my own love is not here! ah! did she feel half what i feel, her tryst she ne'er would break; she ne'er would lift this heart to hope, then leave this heart to ache; and make the hour a day to me, and make the day a year; the hour she promised we should meet- but my own love is not here. alas! can she inconstant prove? does sickness force her stay? or is it fate, or failing love, that keeps my love away, to make the hour a day to me, and make the day a year? the hour and day we should have met- but my own love is not here. alexander bald. alexander bald was born at alloa, on the 9th june 1783. his father, who bore the same christian name, was a native of culross, where he was originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity, under the late earl of dundonald. he subsequently became agent for the collieries of john francis erskine, afterwards earl of mar. a book of arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, "the corn-dealer's assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable guide for tenant farmers. the subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. along with his friend, mr john grieve, the future patron of the ettrick shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. he established a literary association in his native town, entitled, "the shakspeare club;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the presence of men of genius and learning. to the _scots' magazine_ he became a poetical contributor early in the century. a man of elegant tastes and christian worth, mr bald was a cherished associate of the more distinguished literary scotsmen of the past generation. during the period of half a century, he has conducted business in his native town as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. his brother, mr robert bald, is the distinguished mining engineer. the lily of the vale.[7] tune--_'ye banks and braes o' bonny doon.'_ the lily of the vale is sweet, and sweeter still the op'ning rose, but sweeter far my mary is than any blooming flower that blows. whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads, i'll wander oft by mary's side; and whisper saft the tender tale, by forth, sweet forth's meandering tide. there will we walk at early dawn, ere yet the sun begins to shine; at eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread, and mark that splendid orb's decline. the fairest, choicest flowers i'll crop, to deck my lovely mary's hair; and while i live, i vow and swear, she'll be my chief--my only care. footnotes: [7] this song was originally published in the _scots' magazine_ for october 1806. in the "book of scottish song," it has been attributed to allan ramsay. how sweet are the blushes of morn. how sweet are the blushes of morn, and sweet is the gay blossom'd grove; the linnet chants sweet from the thorn, but sweeter's the smile of my love. awhile, my dear mary, farewell, since fate has decreed we should part; thine image shall still with me dwell, though absent, you'll reign in my heart. but by winding devon's green bowers, at eve's dewy hour as i rove, i'll grieve for the pride of her flowers, and the pride of her maidens, my love. the music shall cease in the grove, thine absence the linnet shall mourn; but the lark, in strains bearing love, soft warbling, shall greet thy return. george wilson. george wilson was born on the 20th june 1784, in the parish of libberton, and county of lanark. deprived of both his parents early in life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a sheep-farm in the vicinity of peebles. at the burgh school of that place he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired himself as a cow-herd. passing through the various stages of rural employment at tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker in edinburgh. on fulfilling his indenture, he accepted employment as a journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own account. in 1831 he removed from edinburgh to the village of corstorphine, in the vicinity; where he continues to reside. he published "the laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. the following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsiderable vigour, and seem worthy of preservation. mild as the morning. air--_'bonnie dundee.'_ mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty, young mary, all lovely, had come from afar, with tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom, to view with sad horror the carnage of war. she sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow; her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain; the hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded, and deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain. "oh! donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping? or groan'st thou in chains of some barbarous foe? are none of thy kindred in life now remaining, to tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?" a hero who struggled in death's cold embraces, whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore- "alas! lady mary, the mighty m'donald, will lead his brave heroes to battle no more." she turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded; the tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart; she saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded, he wanted that succour, she could not impart- "oh! murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven, "thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er; and oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother, lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more." the beacons blazed. air--_'cope sent a letter frae dunbar.'_ the beacons blazed, the banners flew, the war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew, the trusty clans their claymores drew, to shield their royal charlie. come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans, frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens, bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns, to shield and save prince charlie. they, like their fathers, bold and brave, came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive; of danger fearless, sworn to save or fa' for royal charlie. famed scotia's chiefs, intrepid still, led forth their tribes frae strath and hill, and boldly dared, wi' right guid will, to shield their royal charlie. the forests and the rocks replied to shouts which rung both far and wide: our prince is come, his people's pride- oh, welcome hame, prince charlie! thee, scotia's rightful prince we own; we'll die, or seat thee on the throne, where many a scottish king has shone; the sires o' royal charlie. no faithful scot now makes a pause; plain truth and justice plead thy cause; each fearlessly his weapon draws, to shield and save prince charlie. now, lead us on against thy foes; thy rightful claim all europe knows; we'll scatter death with all our blows, to shield and save prince charlie. now, chiefs and clans, your faith display, by deathless deeds in battle day, to stretch them pale on beds of clay, the foes of royal charlie. the rendezvous. warlike chieftains now assembled, fame your daring deeds shall tell, fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled, when you raised your warlike yell. bards shall sing when battle rages, scotia's sons shall victors be; bards shall sing in after ages, caledonians aye were free. blest be every bold avenger, cheer'd the heart that fears no wound; dreadful in the day of danger be each chieftain ever found. let the hills our swords have shielded, ring to every hero's praise; and the tribes who never yielded, their immortal trophies raise. heroes brave, be ever ready, at your king and country's call; when your dauntless chiefs shall lead you, let the foe that dares you fall. let the harp to strains resounding, ring to cheer the dauntless brave; let the brave like roes come bounding on to glory or a grave. let your laurels never-fading, gleam like your unconquer'd glaive; where your thistle springs triumphant, there let freedom's banner wave. john younger. john younger, the shoemaker of st boswells, and author of the prize essay on the sabbath, has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of his country. he was born on the 5th july 1785, at longnewton village, in the parish of ancrum, and county of roxburgh. so early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. in 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of st boswells, where he has continued to reside. expert in his original profession, he has long been reputed for his skill in dressing hooks for tweed angling; the latter qualification producing some addition to his emoluments. he holds the office of village postmaster. a man of superior intellect and varied information, john younger enjoys the respect of a wide circle of friends. his cottage is the resort of anglers of every rank; and among his correspondents he enumerates the most noted characters of the age. letter writing is his favourite mode of recreation, and he has preserved copies of his letters in several interesting volumes. he has published a poetical _brochure_ with the title, "thoughts as they rise;" also a "treatise on river angling." his prize essay on the sabbath, entitled, "the light of the week," was published in 1849, and has commanded a wide circulation. of his lyrical effusions we have selected the following from his ms. collection. ilka blade o' grass gets its ain drap o' dew. oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, my ain sweet bairnies dear, whatever storms in life may blaw, take nae sic heart o' fear. though life's been aye a checker'd scene since eve's first apple grew, nae blade o' grass has been forgot o' its ain drap o' dew. the bonnie flowers o' paradise, and a' that 's bloom'd sinsyne, by bank an' brae an' lover's bower, adown the course o' time, or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand,- their annual bloom renew, ilk blade o' grass has had as weel its ain sweet drap o' dew. the oaks and cedars of the earth may toss their arms in air, or bend beneath the sweeping blast that strips the forest bare; the flower enfolds while storms o'erpass, till sunshine spreads anew, and sips, as does ilk blade o' grass, its lucent drap o' dew. the great may loll in world's wealth and a' the pomp o' state, while labour, bent wi' eident cares, maun toil baith ear and late. the poor may gae to bed distrest, with nae relief in view, and rising, like ilk blade o' grass, shine wi' the pearl o' dew. oh, what a gentle hand is his that cleeds the lilies fair, and o' the meanest thing in life takes mair than mother's care! can ye no put your trust in him, with heart resign'd and true, wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass, ilk blade its drap o' dew. the month of june. o june, ye spring the loveliest flowers that a' our seasons yield; ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers, the garden, and the field; the pathway verge by hedge and tree, so fresh, so green, and gay, where every lovely blue flower's e'e is opening to the day. the river banks and craggy peaks in wilding blossoms drest; with ivy o'er their jutting nooks ye screen the ouzel's nest; from precipice, abrupt and bold, your tendrils flaunt in air, with craw-flowers dangling living gold ye tuft the steep brown scaur. your foliage shades the wild bird's nest from every prying e'e, with fairy fingers ye invest in woven flowers the lea; around the lover's blissful hour ye draw your leafy screen, and shade those in your rosy bower, who love to muse unseen. john burtt. john burtt was born about the year 1790, at knockmarloch, in the parish of riccarton, and county of ayr. with a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. in his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at greenock, and compelled to serve on board. effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at kilmarnock. he subsequently taught an adventure school, first in kilmarnock, and afterwards at paisley. the irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he published, under the title of "horæ poeticæ; or, the recreations of a leisure hour." in 1817 he emigrated to the united states, where his career has been prosperous. having studied theology at princeton college, new jersey, he became a licentiate of the presbyterian church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at salem. in 1831 he removed to philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the _presbyterian_. admitted in 1833 to a presbyterian church in cincinnati, he there edited the _standard_, a religious newspaper. in august 1835, he was promoted to a chair in the theological seminary of that place. o'er the mist-shrouded cliffs.[8] air--_'banks of the devon.'_ o'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying, where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave; what woes wring my heart while intently surveying the storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave? ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore; where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in coila's green vale, the pride of my bosom--my mary 's no more. no more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander, and smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; no more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, for the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. no more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast- i haste with the storm to a far distant shore, where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, and joy shall revisit my bosom no more. footnotes: [8] this song has been erroneously assigned to burns. o! lassie, i lo'e dearest! o! lassie, i lo'e dearest! mair fair to me than fairest, mair rare to me than rarest, how sweet to think o' thee. when blythe the blue e'ed dawnin' steals saftly o'er the lawnin', and furls night's sable awnin', i love to think o' thee. an' while the honey'd dew-drap still trembles at the flower-tap, the fairest bud i pu't up, an' kiss'd for sake o' thee. an' when by stream or fountain, in glen, or on the mountain, the lingering moments counting, i pause an' think o' thee. when the sun's red rays are streamin', warm on the meadow beamin', or o'er the loch wild gleamin', my heart is fu' o' thee. an' tardy-footed gloamin', out o'er the hills slow comin', still finds me lanely roamin', and thinkin' still o' thee. when soughs the distant billow, an' night blasts shake the willow, stretch'd on my lanely pillow, my dreams are a' o' thee. then think when frien's caress thee, oh, think when cares distress thee, oh, think when pleasures bless thee, o' him that thinks o' thee. charles james finlayson. charles james finlayson was born on the 27th august 1790, in the parish of larbert, and county of stirling. owing to the death of his father during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at school. while a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the fields. with a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the cottage matrons. the small gratuities which he procured for holding the horses of the farmers at the annual falkirk _trysts_, put him in possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could supply. in his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the carron iron works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. he travelled from carron to glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy of ossian. improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified, while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the psalmody, in the church of his native parish. resigning this appointment, and his situation in the carron works, he for some time taught church music in the neighbouring towns. on an invitation from the kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the old kirk, edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the respected clergyman, dr macknight. having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice of his art, mr finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. he visited the principal towns in the east and southern districts of scotland, and was generally successful. during his professional visit to dumfries in 1820, he became one of the founders of the burns' club in that town. after a short absence in canada, he settled in kircudbright as a wine and spirit merchant. in 1832 he was appointed to the office of postmaster. having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys the fruits of a well-earned competency. he has contributed songs to blackie's "book of scottish song," and other collections. his song beginning "oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into german, and published with music at leipsic. the bard strikes his harp. the bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among, and echo repeats to the breezes his strain; enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng, and the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain. he sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew, when beauty inspired him, and love was the theme; while his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew, and a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name. the hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise, are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail! e'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays, and the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale. too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine; neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer, they think not, alas! as they view his decline, that his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear. yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes, and which souls that are songless can never enjoy; they know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy. sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray, yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere; while the names that neglect thee have melted away, as the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear. ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest. ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast an' frae the purple east smiles on the day; laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain, greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay; wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes, scattering their rich perfumes over the lea; but summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh, only bring sorrow and sadness to me. blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief- day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie; night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings- sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me. aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair; hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue; but a' the ills o' fate never could thus create anguish like parting, dear annie, frae you. farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies- aft has adversity fled frae your ray; farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile, that ever could beguile sorrow away; farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green, where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew; farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart- farewell, dear annie--a long, long adieu! oh, my love's bonnie. oh! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie; oh! my love's bonnie and dear to me; the smile o' her face, and her e'e's witchin' grace, are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gie. her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin', when echo repeats her soft notes to the ear, and lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming, that dip in the stream o' the carron so clear. but poortith 's a foe to the peace o' this bosom, that glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee; alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom, when riches nae lasting contentment can gie. yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover, and guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee; for ne'er, till it sets, will i prove a false lover, or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee. william dobie. an accomplished antiquary, and writer of verses, william dobie was born in 1790, in the village of beith, ayrshire. educated at the parish school, he was in his thirteenth year apprenticed to a mechanical profession. at the close of his apprenticeship, he commenced business in his native district. in 1822, the munificence of a wealthy relative enabled him to retire from his occupation, which had proved unsuitable to his tastes. for several years he resided in london. he subsequently made a tour through britain, and visited the continent. his "perambulations in kintyre," a manuscript volume, is frequently quoted by mr cosmo innes, in his "origines parochiales scotiæ," a valuable work printed for the bannatyne club. in 1840 he prepared a history of the parish of kilbirnie, for the "new statistical account." he afterwards published an account of the church and churchyard of kilbirnie, in an interesting pamphlet. recently mr dobie has superintended the erection of a monument to sir william wallace, on barnweil hill, near kilmarnock, which has been reared at the entire cost of william patrick, esq., of roughwood. the greater number of the many spirited inscriptions on the monument are the composition of mr dobie. the dreary reign of winter 's past. air--_'loch errochside.'_ the dreary reign of winter 's past, the frost, the snow, the surly blast, to polar hills are scouring fast; for balmy spring 's returning. adown glen-garnock's lonely vale, the torrent's voice has ceased to wail; but soft low notes, borne on the gale, dispel dull gloom and mourning. with toil and long fatigue depress'd, exhausted nature sunk oppress'd, till waken'd from her slumbering rest, by balmy spring returning. now in flower'd vesture, green and gay, lovelier each succeeding day; soon from her face shall pass away, each trace of winter's mourning. lo, at her mild benign command, life rouses up on every hand; while bursts of joy o'er all the land, hail balmy spring returning. e'en murmuring stream and raving linn, and solemn wood in softened din, all join great nature's praise to hymn, that fled is winter's mourning. while all on earth, and in the skies, in transports fervently rejoice, shall man refuse to raise his voice, and welcome spring returning? if such ingrates exist below, they ne'er can feel the sacred glow, that nature and the muse bestow, to cheer the gloom of mourning. robert hendry, m.d. a man of unobtrusive literary merit, and no inconsiderable poetical ability, robert hendry was born at paisley on the 7th october 1791. descended from a respectable family in morayshire, his paternal great-grandfather fixed his residence in glasgow. his grandfather, after serving as a lieutenant under the duke of cumberland in holland, quitted the army, and settled as a silk manufacturer in paisley. under the name of "the hollander," this gentleman had the distinction of being lampooned by alexander wilson, during the days of his hot youth, prior to his embarkation for america. of his two sons, the elder removed to london, where he became senior alderman, and died on the eve of his nomination as lord mayor. the grandson of "the hollander," by his second son, the subject of this memoir, was, in his twelfth year, apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a medical practitioner. on the completion of a course of philosophical and medical study at the university of glasgow, he obtained his diploma, and settled as a surgeon in his native town. amidst due attention to his professional duties, he became ardently devoted to literary pursuits. besides conducting several local periodicals, he contributed to some of the more important serials. during the year 1826, which proved so disastrous to the manufacturing interests in paisley, he devised a scheme for the relief of the unemployed, and his services were appropriately acknowledged by the magistrates. he afterwards sought the general improvement of the burgh, and among many other fiscal and sanitary reforms, succeeded in introducing into the place a supply of excellent water. declining the provostship offered him by the town council, he retired a few years since to the village of helensburgh, where he continues to reside. dr hendry was an intimate acquaintance of tannahill; and afterwards ranked among his friends the poet motherwell and robert archibald smith. he has at various time contributed verses to the periodicals. latterly his attention has been more especially directed to scientific pursuits. oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie. oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie cam' to see you a' yestreen; a winning gate 's about that lassie, something mair than meets the een. had she na baked the christmas pasty, think ye it had been sae fine? or yet the biscuit sae delicious that we crumpit to the wine? her ringlets are the gift o' nature, flowing gracefu' o'er her brow; the turn, the hue o' ilka feature, form, and colour, nature drew. she 's meikle sought, and meikle thought o', lang unwedded canna be; wi' kindness court the comely creature, cast the glaumrie o'er her e'e. have ye an ear can be delighted? like a seraph she can sing, wi' charming grace and witching manner, thrilling o'er the music string. her tell the tale that moves to pity, but wi' heart and feeling speak; then watch the turn o' ilka feature, kiss the tear that weets her cheek. she sooms na aye in silk or satin, flaunting like a modern belle; her robe and plaid 's the simple tartan, sweet and modest like hersel'. the shapely robe adorns her person that her eident hand wad sew; the plaid sae graceful flung around her, 'twas her tastefu' manner threw. she 'll mak' a thrifty loving woman to a kind weel-doing man, forby a tender-hearted mother- win the lassie if ye can. for weel she 's worth your heart and treasure; may your bridal day be near- then half a score o' bairns hereafter- may ye live a hunder year. hew ainslie. hew ainslie was born on the 5th april 1792, at bargeny mains, in the parish of dailly, and county of ayr. receiving the rudiments of education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the parish school of ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a pupil in the academy of ayr. a period of bad health induced him to forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the academy, he accepted employment as an assistant landscape gardener on the estate of sir hew dalrymple hamilton. at the age of sixteen he entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in glasgow, but the confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at roslin, near edinburgh. his father's family soon after removed to roslin, and through the kindly interest of mr thomas thomson, deputy-clerk register, he procured a clerkship in the general register house, edinburgh. for some months he acted as amanuensis to professor dugald stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press. having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his office in the register house unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to the united states, in the hope of bettering his circumstances. arriving at new york in july 1822, he made purchase of a farm in that state, and there resided the three following years. he next made a trial of the social system of robert owen, at new harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. in 1827 he entered into partnership with messrs price & wood, brewers, in cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at louisville. removing to new albany, indiana, he there built a large brewery for a joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises on his own account. the former was ruined by the great ohio flood of 1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. he has since followed the occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories; and has latterly fixed his abode in jersey, a suburb of new york. early imbued with the love of song, mr ainslie composed verses when a youth on the mountains of carrick. a visit to his native country in 1820 revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to america, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "pilgrimage to the land of burns." a second volume from his pen, entitled, "scottish songs, ballads, and poems," was in 1855 published at new york. the hameward sang. each whirl of the wheel, each step brings me nearer the hame of my youth- every object grows dearer. thae hills and thae huts, and thae trees on that green, losh! they glower in my face like some kindly auld frien'. e'en the brutes they look social, as gif they would crack; and the sang o' the birds seems to welcome me back. oh, dear to our hearts is the hand that first fed us, and dear is the land and the cottage that bred us. and dear are the comrades with whom we once sported, and dearer the maiden whose love we first courted. joy's image may perish, e'en grief die away; but the scenes of our youth are recorded for aye. dowie in the hint o' hairst. its dowie in the hint o' hairst, at the wa'-gang o' the swallow, when the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld, and the wuds are hingin' yellow; but oh, its dowier far to see the wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi', the dead-set o' a shinin' e'e- that darkens the weary warld on thee. there was mickle love atween us twa- oh, twa could ne'er be fonder; and the thing on yird was never made, that could hae gart us sunder. but the way of heaven's aboon a' ken, and we maun bear what it likes to sen'- it's comfort, though, to weary men, that the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'. there's mony things that come and gae, just kent, and just forgotten; and the flowers that busk a bonnie brae, gin anither year lie rotten. but the last look o' that lovely e'e, and the dying grip she gae to me, they're settled like eternitie- oh, mary! that i were wi' thee. on wi' the tartan. can you lo'e, my dear lassie, the hills wild and free; whar' the sang o' the shepherd gars a' ring wi' glee? or the steep rocky glens, where the wild falcons bide? then on wi' the tartan, and, fy, let us ride! can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie, that ne'er war in rigs? or the bonnie loune lee, where the sweet robin bigs? or the sang o' the lintie, whan wooin' his bride? then on wi' the tartan, and, fy, let us ride! can ye lo'e the burn, lassie, that loups amang linns? or the bonnie green howmes, where it cannilie rins, wi' a cantie bit housie, sae snug by its side? then on wi' the tartan, and, fy, let us ride! the rover o' lochryan. the rover o' lochryan, he's gane, wi' his merry men sae brave; their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel ne'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave. its no when the loch lies dead in his trough when naething disturbs it ava; but the rack and the ride o' the restless tide, or the splash o' the gray sea-maw. its no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl owre the breast o' the siller sea; that i look to the west for the bark i lo'e best, an' the rover that's dear to me, but when that the clud lays its cheek to the flud, an' the sea lays its shouther to the shore; when the win' sings high, and the sea-whaup's cry, as they rise frae the whitening roar. its then that i look to the thickening rook, an' watch by the midnight tide; i ken the wind brings my rover hame, an' the sea that he glories to ride. oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crew, wi' the helm heft in his hand, an' he sings aloud to his boys in blue, as his e'e's upon galloway's land: "unstent and slack each reef an' tack, gae her sail, boys, while it may sit; she has roar'd through a heavier sea afore, an' she'll roar through a heavier yet. when landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep, in the tempest's angry moan, we dash through the drift, and sing to the lift o' the wave that heaves us on." the last look o' hame. bare was our burn brae, december's blast had blawn, the last flower was dead, an' the brown leaf had fa'n: it was dark in the deep glen, hoary was our hill; an' the win' frae the cauld north, cam' heavy and chill: when i said fare-ye-weel, to my kith and my kin; my barque it lay ahead, an' my cot-house ahin'; i had nought left to tine, i'd a wide warl' to try; but my heart it wadna lift, an' my e'e it wadna dry. i look'd lang at the ha', through the mist o' my tears, where the kind lassie lived, i had run wi' for years; e'en the glens where we sat, wi' their broom-covered knowes, took a haud on this heart that i ne'er can unloose. i hae wander'd sin' syne, by gay temples and towers, where the ungather'd spice scents the breeze in their bowers; oh! sic scenes i could leave without pain or regret; but the last look o' hame i ne'er can forget. the lads an' the land far awa'. air--_'my ain fireside.'_ when i think on the lads an' the land i hae left, an' how love has been lifted, an' friendship been reft; how the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga', then i sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'. when i think on the days o' delight we hae seen, when the flame o' the spirit would spark in the e'en; then i say, as in sorrow i think on ye a', where will i find hearts like the hearts far awa? when i think on the nights we hae spent hand in hand, wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band, this world gets dark; but ilk night has a daw', and i yet may rejoice in the land far awa'! my bonnie wee bell. my bonnie wee bell was a mitherless bairn, her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern; while her cousin was aft in a cankersome mood; but that hinder'd na bell growing bonnie and gude. when we ran to the schule, i was aye by her han', to wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran'; an' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee bell. thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest, in her silks and her satins, the brawest and best; but the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an e'e, are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gie. some goud, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left, an' in houses an' mailins i'll soon be infeft; i've a vow in the heaven, i've an aith wi' thysel', i'll make room in this world for thee, bonnie bell. william thomson. william thomson was born in 1797, in the village of kennoway, fifeshire. he has constantly resided in his native place. after obtaining an ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in the business of a manufacturer. relinquishing this occupation, he became a grocer and general merchant; and since 1824, he has held the office of postmaster. he composed verses at an early period. in 1825, some of his verses appeared in the _paisley advertiser_, and the favour with which they were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the _fife herald_, a newspaper which had just been established in the capital of his native county. under the signature of _theta_, he has since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. he has likewise contributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers and some of the periodicals. the maiden to her reaping hook. the soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook, the boatman plies the splashing oar, but well i love the hook. when swift i haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain, and view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain, and listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn, or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn; how sweet the friendly welcoming, how gladsome every look, ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the reaping hook. my reaping hook! my reaping hook! i love thee better far, than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war; as thee i grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee, when, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field i see; or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song, the hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng; with joy i see the well-fill'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook, as thee i ply with agile arm, my trusty reaping hook! they tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain! alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain; but thou, my shining reaping hook, the symbol art of peace, and fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness; while conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path, the emblem is of pain and woe, of man's destructive wrath. soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's crook, and the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a reaping hook! alexander smart. alexander smart was born at montrose on the 26th april 1798. his father was a respectable shoemaker in the place. a portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one norval, a teacher in the montrose academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirised in his poem, entitled "recollections of auld lang syne." norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past; and as an illustration of scottish school life fifty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. "gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the grim and tortuous aspects of his person. the recollection of his monstrous cruelties,--his cruel flagellations,--is still unaccountably depressing. one day of horrors i shall never cease to remember. every saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. on one of these days of extorted prayer, i was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. the school was dismissed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, i was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. despite of his every effort, i resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the times. so the punishment was commuted into 'palmies.' horrible commutation! sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. my pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if i continued to complain; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. the horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot." at another seminary smart completed his education. he was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the more distinguished british poets. it was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. in 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. but the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of the _montrose chronicle_, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. he thereafter held an appointment in the office of the _dundee courier_. returning to edinburgh, he accepted employment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city. in his twentieth year smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. he subsequently renewed his invocation of the muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled "rambling rhymes." this publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of lord jeffrey. he also received the commendation of thomas campbell, charles dickens, thomas babington macaulay, charles mackay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. a new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to lord jeffrey. smart was one of the principal contributors to "whistle binkie." at different periods he has composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared in _hogg's instructor_. those papers entitled "burns and his ancestors," "leaves from an autobiography," and "scenes from the life of a sufferer," may be especially enumerated. of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he has more than once experienced the miseries of mental aberration. latterly he has completely recovered his health, and living in edinburgh with his wife and family, he divides his time between the mechanical labours of the printing-office and the more congenial pursuits of literature. when the bee has left the blossom. when the bee has left the blossom, and the lark has closed his lay, and the daisy folds its bosom in the dews of gloaming gray; when the virgin rose is bending, wet with evening's pensive tear, and the purple light is blending with the soft moon rising clear; meet me then, my own true maiden, where the wild flowers shed their bloom and the air with fragrance laden, breathes around a rich perfume. with my true love as i wander, captive led by beauty's power, thoughts and feelings sweet and tender hallow that delightful hour. give ambition dreams of glory, give the poet laurell'd fame, let renown in song and story consecrate the hero's name; give the great their pomp and pleasure, give the courtier place and power; give to me my bosom's treasure, and the lonely gloaming hour. oh, leave me not. oh, leave me not! the evening hour, so soft, so still, is all our own; the dew descends on tree and flower, they breathe their sweets for thee alone. oh, go not yet! the evening star, the rising moon, all bid thee stay; and dying echoes, faint and far, invite our lingering steps to stray. far from the city's noisy din, beneath the pale moon's trembling light, that lip to press, those smiles to win, will lend a rapture to the night. let fortune fling her favours free to whom she will, i'll ne'er repine: oh, what is all the world to me, while thus i clasp and call thee mine! never despair. never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering, the sun, though obscured, never ceases to shine; above the black tempest his radiance is pouring while faithless and faint-hearted mortals repine. the journey of life has its lights and its shadows, and heaven in its wisdom to each sends a share; though rough be the road, yet with reason to guide us, and courage to conquer, we'll never despair! never despair! when with troubles contending, make labour and patience a sword and a shield, and win brighter laurels, with courage unbending, than ever were gained on the blood-tainted field. as gay as the lark in the beam of the morning, when young hearts spring upward to do and to dare, the bright star of promise their future adorning, will light them along, and they'll never despair! the oak in the tempest grows strong by resistance, the arm at the anvil gains muscular power, and firm self-reliance, that seeks no assistance, goes onward, rejoicing, through sunshine and shower; for life is a struggle, to try and to prove us, and true hearts grow stronger by labour and care, while hope, like a seraph, still whispers above us,- look upward and onward, and never despair! john dunlop. the author of some popular songs, and of four volumes of ms. poetry, john dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of caledonian lyrists. the younger son of colin dunlop of carmyle, he was born in november 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of old monkland, and county of lanark. commencing his career as a merchant in glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the lord provostship of the city. he afterwards accepted the office of collector of customs at borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of collector at port-glasgow. his death took place at port-glasgow, in october 1820. possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. his ms. volumes, which have been kindly submitted to our inspection by a descendant, and from which we have made some extracts, contain numerous poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. a vein of humour pervades the majority of his verses; in the elegiac strain he is eminently plaintive. he is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities: he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. his elder brother was proprietor of garnkirk, and his son, who bore the same christian name, became sheriff of renfrewshire. the latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of "the history of fiction." the year that's awa'. here's to the year that's awa'! we will drink it in strong and in sma'; and here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed, while swift flew the year that's awa'. and here's to ilk, &c. here's to the sodger who bled, and the sailor who bravely did fa'; their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled on the wings of the year that's awa'. their fame is alive, &c. here's to the friends we can trust when the storms of adversity blaw; may they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts, nor depart like the year that's awa'. may they live, &c. oh, dinna ask me. tune--_'comin' through the rye.'_ oh, dinna ask me gin i lo'e thee; troth, i daurna tell: dinna ask me gin i lo'e ye; ask it o' yoursel'. oh, dinna look sae sair at me, for weel ye ken me true; oh, gin ye look sae sair at me, i daurna look at you. when ye gang to yon braw, braw town, and bonnie lassies see, oh, dinna, jamie, look at them, lest you should mind na me. for i could never bide the lass that ye'd lo'e mair than me; and oh, i'm sure, my heart would break, gin ye'd prove false to me. love flies the haunts of pomp and power[9] love flies the haunts of pomp and power, to find the calm retreat; loathing he leaves the velvet couch, to seek the moss-grown seat. splendid attire and gilded crowns can ne'er with love accord; but russet robes, and rosy wreathes, his purest joys afford. from pride, from business, and from care, his greatest sorrows flow; when these usurp the heart of man, that heart he ne'er can know. footnotes: [9] this lyric and the following are printed from the author's mss. war. tune--_'where they go, where they go.'_ for twenty years and more, bloody war, bloody war; for twenty years and more, bloody war. for twenty years and more we heard the cannons roar to swell the tide of gore, bloody war! a tyrant on a throne we have seen, we have seen; a tyrant on a throne who thought the earth his own, but now is hardly known to have been. who rung the loud alarm to be free, to be free? who rung the loud alarm to be free? 'twas britain broke the charm, and with her red right arm she rung the loud alarm to be free. the battle van she led of the brave, of the brave; the battle van she led of the brave; the battle van she led, till tyranny lay dead, and glory crown'd the head of the brave. give honour to the brave where they lie, where they lie; give honour to the brave where they lie; give honour to the brave, and sacred be the grave, on land or in the wave, where they lie. william blair. william blair, author of "the highland maid," was, in the year 1800, born at dunfermline. the son of respectable parents of the industrial class, he received an ordinary education at the burgh school. apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a writer of verses; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. having made some progress in classical learning, he was recommended for educational employment in dollar academy; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. a settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. for a number of years blair has been an inmate of the dunfermline poor house. the highland maid. again the laverock seeks the sky, and warbles, dimly seen; and summer views, wi' sunny joy, her gowany robe o' green. but ah! the summer's blithe return, in flowery pride array'd, nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn, or charm the highland maid. my true love fell by charlie's side, wi' mony a clansman dear; that fatal day--oh, wae betide the cruel southron's spear! his bonnet blue is fallen now, and bluidy is the plaid, that aften on the mountain's brow, has wrapt his highland maid. my father's shieling on the hill is dowie now and sad; the breezes whisper round me still, i 've lost my highland lad. upon culloden's fatal heath, he spake o' me, they said, and falter'd, wi' his dying breath, "adieu, my highland maid!" the weary nicht for rest i seek, the langsome day i mourn; the smile upon my wither'd cheek can never mair return. but soon beneath the sod i 'll lie, in yonder lonely glade; and, haply, ilka passer by will mourn the highland maid. the neapolitan war song.[10] tune--_"brian the brave."_ your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, soon, soon will emblazon your plain; but, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield, and the song of the victory your strain. remember the fetters and chains that are wove, and fated by slavery's decree, are not like the fetters of union and love, that bind and encircle the free. though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom, with the glow of the patriot's fires; and the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom, and grow dark when your freedom expires. be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that 's meet, and your country, with laurels in store, each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet when the tumult of battle is o'er. footnotes: [10] here printed for the first time. archibald mackay. archibald mackay was born at kilmarnock in 1801. receiving a common school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to prosecute that trade. from his youth devoted to the muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled "drouthy tam," which, passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation to the writer. in 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, entitled "recreations of leisure hours." in 1848 appeared from his pen a "history of kilmarnock," in a well-written octavo volume. a collection of his best songs was published in 1855, under the title of "ingleside lilts." mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the benefit of his fellow-townsmen. our auld scots sangs. air--_"traveller's return."_ oh, weel i lo'e our auld scots sangs, the mournfu' and the gay; they charm'd me by a mither's knee, in bairnhood's happy day: and even yet, though owre my pow the snaws of age are flung, the bluid loups joyfu' in my veins whene'er i hear them sung. they bring the fond smile to the cheek, or tear-drap to the e'e; they bring to mind auld cronies kind, wha sung them aft wi' glee. we seem again to hear the voice of mony a lang-lost frien'; we seem again to grip the hand that lang in dust has been. and, oh, how true our auld scots sangs when nature they portray! we think we hear the wee bit burn gaun bickering doun the brae; we see the spot, though far awa', where first life's breath we drew, and a' the gowden scenes of youth seem rising to the view. and dear i lo'e the wild war strains our langsyne minstrels sung- they rouse wi' patriotic fires the hearts of auld and young; and even the dowie dirge that wails some brave but ruin'd band, inspires us wi' a warmer love for hame and fatherland. yes, leese me on our auld scots sangs- the sangs of love and glee, the sangs that tell of glorious deeds that made auld scotland free. what though they sprung frae simple bards, wha kent nae rules of art? they ever, ever yield a charm that lingers round the heart. my laddie lies low. alas! how true the boding voice that whisper'd aft to me, "thy bonnie lad will ne'er return to scotland or to thee!" oh! true it spoke, though hope the while shed forth its brightest beam; for low in death my laddie lies by alma's bloody stream. i heard the village bells proclaim that glorious deeds were done; i heard wi' joy the gladsome shout, "the field, the field is won!" and i thought my lad, wi' glory crown'd, might come to me again; but vain the thought! cold, cold he lies on alma's gory plain. oh! woe to him whose thirst for power has roll'd the bolts of war, and made my laddie bleed and die frae hame and friends afar. alas! his form i ne'er shall see, except in fancy's dream; for low he lies, where brave he fought, by alma's bloody stream. jouk and let the jaw gae by. air--_"jockie's gray breeks."_ oh! say not life is ever drear, for midst its scenes of toil and care there 's aye some joy the heart to cheer- there 's aye some spot that 's green and fair. to gain that spot the aim be ours, for nocht we 'll get unless we try; and when misfortune round us lours, we 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by. the wee bit flow'ret in the glen maun bend beneath the surly blast; the birdie seeks some leafy den, and shelters till the storm is past: the "owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell, to some lowne spot for refuge hie; and sae, frae ills we canna quell, we 'll jouk and let the jaw gae by. yet there are ills we a' should brave- the ills that man on man would throw; for oh! he 's but a thowless slave, that patient bears oppression's woe. but if 'tis but the taunts of pride, of envy's tongue that would annoy, 'tis nobler far to turn aside, and jouk and let the jaw gae by. in worldly gear we may be bare, we may hae mony a dreary hour; but never, never nurse despair, for ilka ane maun taste the sour: even kings themsels, wi' a' their power, wi' a' their pomp and honours high, 'neath adverse blasts are forced to cower, and jouk to let the jaw gae by. but mark this truth--the ills that blight are aft the fruits that folly brings; then shun the wrong, pursue the right- frae this the truest pleasure springs; and fret not though dark clouds should spread at times across life's troubled sky; sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed- sae jouk and let the jaw gae by. victorious be again, boys. hurrah! hurrah! we 've glory won, and brighter blazes freedom's sun; but daring deeds must yet be done to curb oppression's reign, boys. like wintry clouds in masses roll'd, our foes are thick'ning on the wold; then up! then up! be firm--be bold- victorious be again, boys. the hearts--the blessings of the brave- of those who scorn the name of slave, are with you on the ocean's wave, and on the battle-plain, boys: then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one, and gird your brightest armour on; complete the work so well begun- victorious be again, boys! though red with gore your path may be, it leads to glorious liberty; remember, god is with the free, the brave he will sustain, boys: the tyrant fears the coming fight, he fears the power of truth and right; then up! then up! in all your might- victorious be again, boys. william air foster. the author of some spirited effusions in scottish verse, william air foster, was born at coldstream on the 16th june 1801. he has followed the occupation of a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in glasgow. devoted to the border sports, in which he was formerly an active performer, he has celebrated them in animated verse. to "whistle binkie" he has contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and he has composed some volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript. fareweel to scotia. fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, to ilk bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, to the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, to the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin. fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang- for trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang; round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed, a dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled. the young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away, but its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray; the saplin transplanted may flourish a tree, whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee. they tell me i gang whar the tropic suns shine owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine; for the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind. no, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows! in the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, 'neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, 'mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin. the falcon's flight. air--_"there 's nae luck about the house."_ i sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well i love to rove, with the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove; for the noble bird which graced my hand i feel my spirit swell, array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell. i have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure, and have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure; while now to field or forest glade i can my falcon bring without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing. when drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright, and from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight; away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far, until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star. away, away, in farthest flight i feel no fear or dread, when a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head; while poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells, to speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells. 'tis rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise, and soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies, with outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh; but o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high. my falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride, her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side, when like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow, in meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe. the vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round, with wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground. away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings, while on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings. though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear, and reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near. no other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow, when flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow. who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child, and soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild; must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells for the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells. the salmon run. air--_"the brave old oak."_ oh! away to the tweed, to the beautiful tweed, my much-loved native stream; where the fish from his hold, 'neath some cataract bold, starts up like a quivering gleam. from his iron-bound keep, far down in the deep, he holds on his sovereign sway; or darts like a lance, or the meteor's glance, afar on his bright-wing'd prey. as he roves through the tide, then his clear glitt'ring side is burnish'd with silver and gold; and the sweep of his flight seems a rainbow of light, as again he sinks down in his hold. with a soft western breeze, that just thrills through the trees, and ripples the beautiful bay; throw the fly for a lure- that 's a rise! strike him sure- a clean fish--with a burst he 's away. hark! the ravel line sweel, from the fast-whirring reel, with a music that gladdens the ear; and the thrill of delight, in that glorious fight, to the heart of the angler is dear. hold him tight--for the leap; where the waters are deep, give out line in the far steady run; reel up quick, if he tire, though the wheel be on fire, for in earnest to work he 's begun. aroused up at length, how he rolls in his strength, and springs with a quivering bound; then away with a dash, like the lightning's flash, far o'er the smooth pebbly ground. though he strain on the thread, down the stream with his head, that burst from the run makes him cool; then spring out for the land, on the rod change the hand, and draw down for the deepening pool. mark the gleam of his side, as he shoots through the tide! are the dyes of the dolphin more fair? fatigue now begins, for his quivering fins on the shallows are spread in despair. charles marshall. the rev. charles marshall, author of "homely words and songs for working men and women," is a native of paisley. in early life he was engaged in mercantile concerns. at the university of glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the university of edinburgh. in the following year he was chosen governor of john watson's institution, edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. during that time the directors of the institution expressed their approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by increasing his official emoluments. in addition to these expressions of liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the divinity hall. in 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the established church. in 1841 he accepted a call to the north extension church, dunfermline. at the disruption in 1843, he adhered to the free church. he continues to labour as minister of the free north church, dunfermline. to the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, mr marshall has long been earnestly devoted. in 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, "lays and lectures to scotia's daughters of industry." this work rapidly passed through various editions. in 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, entitled "homely words and songs for working men and women," to which his former work has been added as a second part. for terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments, adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the scottish peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. mr marshall proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "husbands and fathers," and to "young men." the blessing on the wark. i like to spring in the morning bricht, before the mill bell rings; when waukening blithe in gowden licht, my joyfu' spirit sings. i like to hear, when the pearly tear gems morning's floweret cup, the trumpet summons of chanticleer pipe "drowsy mortals up." i tread as lightly as silent puss, while a' the household sleep; and gird me to clean and redd the house before the bairnies cheep. i like to dress and mak me clean as ony winsome bride; and think na shame, though my face be seen, at morn or eventide. i like to handle, before i rin, the word o' truth and love; and seek, or the daily wark begin, gude counsel from above. then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, i hie to earn my bit o' bread; the wark spins on, and the time rins by, wi' pleasant, blessed speed. jewel of a lad. air--_"fye, gae rub her owre wi' strae."_ as sunshine to the flowers in may, as wild flowers to the hinny bee, as fragrant scent o' new mown hay, so my true love is sweet to me. as costly jewels to the bride, as beauty to the bridegroom's e'e- to sailors, as fair wind and tide, so my true love is dear to me. as rain-draps to the thirsty earth, as waters to the willow-tree, as mother's joy at baby's birth, so my true love is dear to me. though owning neither wealth nor lan', he 's ane o' heaven's pedigree; his love to god, his love to man, his goodness makes him dear to me. the lass that weds a warly fool may laugh, and sing, and dance a wee; but earthly love soon waxes cool, and foolish fancies turn ajee. my laddie's heart is fu' o' grace, his loving e'e blinks bonnily, a heavenly licht illumes his face; nae wonder though he 's dear to me. twilight joys. musing, we sat in our garden bower, in the balmy month of june, enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour when our daily task was done. we spake of the friends of our early days, some living, some dead and gane, and fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes of our morning life again. a bless'd, a lightsome hour was that, and joyful were we to see the sunny face of ilk bonnie brat, so full of frolicsome glee. they ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell, whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring- our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well, and we bless'd each happy thing. in our wee dwelling the lamp of love, trimm'd daily by faith and prayer, flings light on earth, on heaven above, sheds glory everywhere. this golden lamp shines clear and bright, when the world looks dark and doure, it brightens our morning, noon, and night, and gladdens our gloamin' hour. william wilson. william wilson was born on the 25th december 1801, in the village of crieff, perthshire. his parents being of the industrial class and in indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour. while employed in a factory at dundee, some of his poetical compositions were brought under the notice of mrs grant, of laggan, who interested herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal merchant. he married early in life, and continued after marriage to write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. on her death, he married a lady of respectable connexions in the county of roxburgh. in december 1833, he emigrated to america, and has since been in business as a publisher at poughkeepsie, in the state of new york. he has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is well known to the higher class of literary men in america. many of his earlier poems were contributed to the _edinburgh literary journal_; and he has published several of his own and other songs, with music of his own composition. o blessing on her starlike e'en. o blessing on her starlike e'en, wi' their glance o' love divine; and blessing on the red, red lip, was press'd yestreen to mine! her braided locks that waved sae light, as she danced through the lofty ha', were like the cluds on the brow o' night, or the wing o' the hoodie craw. o mony a jimp an' gentle dame, in jewell'd pomp was there; but she was first among them a', in peerless beauty rare! her bosom is a holy shrine, unstain'd by mortal sin, an' spotless as the snaw-white foam, on the breast o' the siller linn. her voice--hae ye heard the goudspink's note, by bowery glen or brake? or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay, by sea or mountain lake? hae ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven, the angel's melodie? or fancied ye listen'd the sang o' the spheres as they swung on their path on hie? far sweeter to me was her lay o' love, at the gloamin' hour yestreen; an', oh! were i king o' the warld wide, i would mak' that maiden my queen. oh! blessing on thee, land. oh! blessing on thee, land of love and minstrel song; for freedom found a dwelling-place thy mountain cliffs among! and still she loves to roam among thy heath-clad hills; and blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain with the voice of mountain rills. her song is on the gale, her step upon the wold; and morning diamonds brightly gem her braided locks of gold. far up the pine-wood glen, her sylph-like form is seen, by hunter in the hazy dawn, or wandering bard at e'en. my own dear native home, the birthplace of the brave, o never may thy soil be trod by tyrant or by slave! then, blessing on thee, land of love and minstrel song; for freedom found a dwelling-place, thy mountain cliffs among! the faithless. we part,--yet wherefore should i weep, from faithless thing like thee to sever? or let one tear mine eyelids steep, while thus i cast thee off for ever? i loved thee--need i say how well? few, few have ever loved so dearly; as many a sleepless hour can tell, and many a vow breath'd too sincerely. but late, beneath its jetty lash, i loved to mark thy blue eyes' splendour, which wont, all witchingly, to flash on me its light so soft and tender; now, from that glance i turn away, as if its thrilling gaze could wound me; though not, as once, in love's young day, when thoughtless passion's fetters bound me. the dimpling smile, with sweetness fraught, the bosom, 'mid its snow, upheaving; who, that had seen them, could have thought that things so fair could be deceiving? the moon, the sky, the wave, the wind, in all their fitful moods of changing, are nought to wavering woman's mind, for ever shifting, ever ranging! farewell! i'd rather launch my bark upon the angry ocean billow, 'mid wintry winds, and tempests dark, than make thy faithless breast my pillow. thy broken vow now cannot bind, thy streaming tears no more can move me, and thus i turn from thee, to find a heart that may more truly love me. my soul is ever with thee. my soul is ever with thee, my thoughts are ever with thee, as the flower to the sun, as the lamb to the lea, so turns my fond spirit to thee. 'mid the cares of the lingering day, when troubles around me be, fond fancy for aye will be flitting away- away, my beloved, to thee. when the night-pall darkly spread o'er shadows, tower, and tree, then the visions of my restless bed are all, my beloved, of thee. when i greet the morning beams, when the midnight star i see, alone--in crowded halls--my dreams- my dreams are for ever of thee. as spring to the leafless spray, as calm to the surging sea, to the weary, rest--to the watcher, day- so art thou, loved mary, to me. auld johnny graham. dear aunty, what think ye o' auld johnny graham? the carle sae pawkie an' slee! he wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame, an' the body has ettled at me. wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean, an' ribbon that waved 'boon his bree, he cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen, an' rappit, an' soon speert for me. i bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang was birlin' her wheel eidentlie, an', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang, ere he tauld out his errand to me. "hech, tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land, wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, an' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command, gin' ye will look kindly on me. "yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen, sax naigies that nibble the lea; the kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen, i'se gie a', dear tibby, to thee. "an', lassie, i've goupins o' gowd in a stockin', an' pearlin's wad dazzle yer e'e; a mettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin', when ye wad gae jauntin' wi' me. "i 'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye, and mak' ye the licht o' my e'e; i 'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye, as couthy as couthy can be. "i 've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first, a bit bairn, ye ran up the knowe to meet me; an' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern, wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee. "an' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair, an' gracefu' as gracefu' can be- will ye tak' an' auld carle wha ne'er had a care for woman, dear tibby, but thee?" sae, aunty, ye see i 'm a' in a swither, what answer the bodie to gie- but aften i wish he wad tak' my auld mither, and let puir young tibby abee. jean linn. oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie! the days that hae been, may be yet again seen, sae look na sae lightly on me, ma doo! sae look na' sae lightly on me! oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray, jean linn! oh, geck na' at hame hodden gray! yer gutcher an mine wad thocht themsels fine, in cleedin' sae bein, bonnie may, bonnie may- in cleedin' sae bein, bonnie may. ye mind when we won in whinglen, jean linn- ye mind when we won in whinglen, your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine, an' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then, jean linn, an' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then. oh, then ye were a' thing to me, jean linn, oh, then ye were a' thing to me! an' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky, when tentin' the owsen wi' thee, jean linn, when tentin' the owsen wi' thee. i twined ye a bower by the burn, jean linn, i twined ye a bower by the burn, but dreamt na that hour, as we sat in that bower, that fortune wad tak' sic a turn, jean linn. that fortune wad tak' sic a turn. ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, jean linn! ye busk noo in satins fu' braw! yer daddy's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard, an' i 'm yer puir ploughman, jock law, jean linn, an' i 'm yer puir ploughman, jock law. bonnie mary. when the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, i 'll meet thee, bonnie mary, when the sun gaes down; i 'll row my apron up, an' i 'll leave the reeky town, and meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down. by the burnie there 's a bower, we will gently lean us there, an' forget in ither's arms every earthly care, for the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun', is the burnside wi' mary when the sun gaes down. when the sun gaes down, &c. there the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears, like a hoary auld warrior faded with years; an' the burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun', will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down. when the sun gaes down, &c. the burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower, but 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour; and with pity i would look on the king who wears the crown, when wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down. when the sun gaes down, &c. when the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, i 'll meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down; come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown, and i 'll meet thee, bonnie mary, when the sun gaes down. mrs mary macarthur. mrs mary waugh, the widow of mr james macarthur, merchant, glasgow, published in 1842 a duodecimo volume of verses, with the title, "the necropolis, and other poems." one of the compositions in that publication, entitled "the missionary," is inserted in the present work, as being worthy of a place among the productions of the national muse. in early life mrs macarthur lived in the south of scotland; she has for many years been resident in glasgow. the missionary. he left his native land, and, far away across the waters sought a world unknown, though well he knew that he in vain might stray in search of one so lovely as his own. he left his home, around whose humble hearth his parents, kindred, all he valued, smil'd- friends who had known and loved him from his birth, and who still loved him as a fav'rite child. he left the scenes by youthful hopes endear'd, the woods, the streams, that sooth'd his infant ear; the plants, the trees that he himself had rear'd, and every charm to love and fancy dear. all these he left, with sad but willing heart, though unallur'd by honours, wealth, or fame; in them not even his wishes claim'd a part, and the world knew not of his very name. canst thou not guess what taught his steps to stray? 'twas love, but not such love as worldlings own, that often smiles its sweetest to betray, and stabs the breast that offered it a throne! 'twas love to god, and love to all mankind! his master bade the obedient servant go, and try if he in distant realms could find some who his name and saving grace would know. 'twas this that nerved him when he saw the tears his aged mother at their parting shed; 'twas this that taught her how to calm her fears, and beg a heavenly blessing on his head. 'twas this that made his father calmly bear a godly sorrow, deep, but undismay'd, and bade him humbly ask of god in prayer, his virtuous son to counsel, guide, and aid. and when he rose to bless, and wish him well, and bent a head with age and sorrow gray- e'en when he breath'd a fond and last farewell, half sad, half joyful, dashed his tears away. "and go," he said, "though i with mortal eyes shall ne'er behold thy filial reverence more; but when from earth to heaven our spirits rise, the hand that gave him shall my child restore. "i bid thee go, though human tears will steal from eyes that see the course thou hast to run; and god forgive me if i wrongly feel, like abraham call'd to sacrifice his son!" and he is gone, with ardent steps he prest across the hills to where the vessel lay, and soon i ween upon the ocean's breast they saw the white sails bearing him away. and did he go unfriended, poor, alone? did none of those who, in a favour'd land the shelter of the gospel tree had known, desire to see its peaceful shade expand? 'tis not for me to answer questions here- let ev'ry heart its own responses give, and those to whom their fellow-men are dear, bestow the bread by which their souls may live! john ramsay. the author of "woodnotes of a wanderer," john ramsay, was born at kilmarnock in 1802. with a limited school education, he was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. he afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. during his connexion with the carpet factory, he composed some spirited verses, which were inserted in the _edinburgh literary journal_; and having subsequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publishing a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the sale. for the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of "woodnotes." this creditable enterprise has been rewarded by his appointment to the agency of a benevolent society in edinburgh. farewell to craufurdland. thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, by foliage oft hid from the bright eye of day, i 've view'd thee with pleasure, but now must with pain, farewell! for i never may see you again. ye woods, whence fond fancy a spirit would bring, that trimm'd the bright pinions of thought's hallow'd wing, your beauties will gladden some happier swain; farewell! for i never may see you again. i 've roam'd you, unknown to care's life-sapping sigh, when prospects seem'd fair and my young hopes were high; these prospects were false, and those hopes have proved vain; farewell! for i never may see you again. soon distance shall bid my reft heart undergo those pangs that alone the poor exile can know- away! like a craven why should i complain? farewell! for i never may see you again. james parker. james parker, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled "poems of past years," was born in glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. he now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. he has contributed verses to the periodicals. the mariner's song. oh merrily and gallantly we sweep across the seas, like the wild ocean birds which ply their pinions on the breeze; we quail not at the tempest's voice when the billow dashes o'er us, firm as a rock, we bear the shock, and join its dreadful chorus. across the foaming surge we glide with bosoms true and brave, it is our home--our throne of pride- it soon may be our grave; yet fearlessly we rush to meet the foe that comes before us; the fight begun, we man the gun, and join its thundering chorus. our lives may be as fierce and free as the waves o'er which we roam, but let not landsmen think that we forget our native home; and when the winds shall waft us back to the shores from which they bore us, amid the throng of mirth and song, we'll join the jovial chorus. her lip is o' the rose's hue. her lip is o' the rose's hue, like links o' goud her hair, her e'e is o' the azure blue, an' love beams ever there; her step is like the mountain goat's that climbs the stately ben, her voice sweet as the mavis' notes that haunt her native glen. there is a sweet wee hazel bower where woodbine blossoms twine, there jeanie, ae auspicious hour, consented to be mine; an' there we meet whene'er we hae an idle hour to spen', an' jeanie ne'er has rued the day she met me in the glen. oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams, an' sweet the pearly dew, an' lovely is the star that gleams in gloamin's dusky brow; but brichter, sweeter, lovelier far, aboon a' human ken, is my sweet pearl--my lovely star- my jeanie o' the glen. john hunter. the following compositions are, with permission, transcribed from a small volume of juvenile poems, with the title "miscellanies, by n. r.," which was printed many years ago, for private circulation only, by mr john hunter, now auditor of the court of session. the bower o' clyde. on fair clydeside thair wonnit ane dame, ane dame of wondrous courtesie, an' bonny was the kindly flame that stremit frae her saft blue e'e. her saft blue e'e, 'mid the hinney dew, that meltit to its tender licht, was bonnier far than the purest starre that sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht. if ony culd luke and safely see her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou, nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip, a lifeless lump was he, i trow. but it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht, if ae moment that wicht might see her bonny breast o' the purest snaw, that heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie. an' dear, dear was this bonny dame, dear, dear was she to me, an' my heart was tane, an' my sense was gane, at ae blink o' her bonny blue e'e. an' sair an' saft i pleadit my luve, tho' still she hardly wuld seem to hear, an' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame that i breathit so warmly in her ear. yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look, thair was kindness beamit in her e'e, an' aye as she drew back her lily han', i faund that it tremblit tenderlie. but the time sune cam, the waesome time, when i maun awa frae my dear, an' oh! that thocht, how aften it brocht the deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear! then socht i my luve, her cauld heart to muve, wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers, an' i gaed by her side doun the banks o' the clyde, an' the hours stal awa unawares. 'twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht, at the gloamin's saft an' schadowie hour, an' we wander'd alane till the daylicht was gane, an' we cam' to a sweet simmer bour. the mune was up i' the clear blue skye, the mune an' her single wee starre, the winds gaed gently whisperin' bye, thair was stillness near an' farre. alane we sat i' the green summer bour, i tauld her a' that was kind and dear, an' she did na blame the words o' flame that i breathit sae warmly in her ear. she listenit to the luve-sang warm, her breast it throbbit and heavit high; she culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm she lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh. then warmly i prest wi' my burning lips, ae kiss on her bonny red mow, an' aften i prest her form to my breast, an' fondly an' warmly i vowit to be true. an' oh! that hour, that hallowit hour, my fond heart will never forget; though drear is the dule i haif suffer'd sin syne, that hour gars my heart beat warmly yet. the parting time cam, an' the parting time past, an' it past nae without the saut tear, an' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land i gaed, an' i left my ain dear. i gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their e'e, i but thocht o' the sweet green hour by the clyde, an' that thocht was enough for me. mary. oh! mary, while thy gentle cheek is on my breast reclining, and while these arms around thy form are fondly thus entwining; it seems as if no earthly power our beating hearts could sever, and that in ecstasy of bliss we thus could hang for ever! yet ah! too well, too well we know, the fiat fate hath spoken- the spell that bound our souls in one, the world's cold breath hath broken. the hours--the days--whose heavenly light hath beam'd in beauty o'er us, when love his sunshine shed around, and strew'd his flowers before us, must now be but as golden dreams, whose loveliness hath perish'd; wild dreams of hope, in human hearts too heavenly to be cherish'd. yet, oh! where'er our lot is cast, the love that once hath bound us- the thought that looks to days long past, will breathe a halo round us. in distant years. in distant years! when other arms around thy form are prest, oh! heave one fond regretful sigh for him thy love once blest! oh! drop one tear from that dark eye, that was his guiding light, and cast the same deep tender glance, that thrills his soul to-night. and oh! believe, though dark his fate, and devious his career, the music of that gentle voice will tremble in his ear; and breathing o'er his troubled soul, storm-tost and tempest riven, will still fierce passion's wild control, and win him back to heaven. robert chambers. robert chambers, well known for his connexion with the publishing house of w. & r. chambers, edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious works of a national character, was born in 1802 at peebles, where his parents occupied a respectable position. robert was the second of a family of six children, his elder brother william being about two years his senior. in consequence of misfortunes in business, james chambers, the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to edinburgh with his family in 1813. while still in childhood robert manifested a remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and poetry--a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and science. before completing his twelfth year, he had passed through a complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had perused no small portion of the books within his reach including those of a circulating library, and mastered much of the general information contained in a copy of the "encyclopædia britannica," of which his father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. left very much to their own resources, william became an apprentice to a bookseller in 1814; and robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and which proved fortunate. how the two lads struggled on obscurely, but always improving their circumstances; how they were cheered onward by the counsels of their widowed mother; how they finally went into partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings--need not here be detailed. robert, in 1822-3, began to write the "traditions of edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. this amusing work was followed by the "popular rhymes of scotland." next came his "picture of scotland," an interesting topographical work in two volumes; "histories of the scottish rebellions;" three volumes of "scottish ballads and songs;" and "biography of distinguished scotsmen," in four volumes. besides various popular works, he produced, for private circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine taste and feeling. william having started _chambers's edinburgh journal_ in february 1832, robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly helped to give the work its extensive popularity. in the more early volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and pathetic, from his pen. besides these professional avocations, mr robert chambers takes part in the proceedings of the scientific and other learned bodies in edinburgh. among his latest detached works is a volume, of a geological character, on the "ancient sea margins of scotland;" also, "tracings of iceland," the result of a visit to that interesting island in the summer of 1855. living respected in edinburgh, in the bosom of his family, and essentially a self-made man, mr robert chambers is peculiarly distinguished for his kindly disposition and unobtrusive manners--for his enlightened love of country, and diligence in professional labours, uniting, in a singularly happy manner, the man of refined literary taste with the man of business and the useful citizen. young randal. tune--_'there grows a bonnie brier bush.'_ young randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', young randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa', 'twas in the sixteen hundred year o' grace and thritty-twa, that randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed awa'. it was to seek his fortune in the high germanie, to fecht the foreign loons in the high germanie, that he left his father's tower o' sweet willanslee, and monie mae friends in the north countrie. he left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', his brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa', and his bonnie cousin jean, that look'd owre the castle wa', and, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa'. "oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir, "oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?" "whenever i can win eneuch o' spanish gear, to dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear." oh, randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed awa'- oh, randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa', and in his bonnie e'e, a spark glintit high, like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky. oh, randal was an altert man whan he came hame- a sair altert man was he when he came hame; wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a sir at his name- and gray, gray cheeks did randal come hame. he lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring, and down came a ladye to see him come in, and after the ladye came bairns feifteen: "can this muckle wife be my true love jean?" "whatna stoure carl is this," quo' the dame, "sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?" "oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie jeanie graham?" "in troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same." he turned him about wi' a waefu' e'e, and a heart as sair as sair could be; he lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee, and never mair came back to sweet willanslee. oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie, and dule on the wars o' the high germanie, and dule on the love that forgetfu' can be, for they 've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie. the ladye that i love. were i a doughty cavalier on fire for high-born dame, with sword and lance i would not fear to win a warrior's fame. but since no more stern deeds of blood the gentle fair may move, i 'll woo in softer better mood the ladye that i love. for helmet bright with steel and gold, and plumes that flout the sky, i 'll wear a soul of hardier mould, and thoughts that sweep as high. for scarf athwart my corslet cast, with her fair name y-wove; i 'll have her pictured in my breast, the ladye that i love. no crested steed through battle throng shall bear me bravely on, but pride shall make my spirit strong, where honours may be won. amidst the great of mind and heart, my prowess i will prove, and thus i 'll win, by gentler art, the ladye that i love. thou gentle and kind one. thou gentle and kind one, who com'st o'er my dreams, like the gales of the west, or the music of streams; oh, softest and dearest, can that time e'er be, when i could be forgetful or scornful of thee? no! my soul might be dark, like a landscape in shade, and for thee not the half of its love be display'd, but one ray of thy kindness would banish my pain, and soon kiss every feature to brightness again. and if, in contending with men and the world, my eye might be fierce, or my brow might be curl'd; that brow on thy bosom all smooth'd would recline, and that eye melt in kindness when turn'd upon thine. if faithful in sorrow, more faithful in joy- thou shouldst find that no change could affection destroy; all profit, all pleasure, as nothing would be, and each triumph despised unpartaken by thee. lament for the old highland warriors. oh, where are the pretty men of yore? oh, where are the brave men gone? oh, where are the heroes of the north? each under his own gray stone. oh, where now the broad bright claymore? oh, where are the trews and plaid? oh, where now the merry highland heart? in silence for ever laid. och on a rie, och on a rie, och on a rie, all are gone; och on a rie, the heroes of yore, each under his own gray stone. the chiefs that were foremost of old, macdonald and brave lochiel, the gordon, the murray, and the graham, with their clansmen true as steel; who follow'd and fought with montrose, glencairn, and bold dundee; who to charlie gave their swords and their all, and would aye rather fa' than flee. och on a rie, &c. the hills that our brave fathers trod are now to the stranger a store; the voice of the pipe and the bard shall awaken never more. such things it is sad to think on- they come like the mist by day- and i wish i had less in this world to leave, and be with them that are away. och on a rie, &c. thomas aird. thomas aird, one of the most distinguished of the living scottish poets, was born in the parish of bowden, roxburghshire, in 1802. he received the rudiments of his education at bowden and melrose parish schools; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the university of edinburgh. in 1827 he published a little treatise, entitled "religious characteristics." after a residence of some years in edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to _blackwood's magazine_, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his steadfast friend professor wilson, appointed editor of the _dumfries herald_, a conservative journal newly started in dumfries. the paper has prospered under his management, and he is editor still. in 1845 he published "the old bachelor in the old scottish village," a collection of tales and sketches of scottish scenery, character, and life. in 1848 he collected and published his poems. in 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, david macbeth moir (the well-known "delta" of _blackwood's magazine_), and prefixed it to an edition of moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family, under the generous instructions of the messrs blackwood. in 1856 a new edition of mr aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised; messrs blackwood being the publishers. the swallow. the little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea, the comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be; how pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard- oh, swallow by the lattice! glad days be thy reward! thine be sweet morning, with the bee that 's out for honey-dew, and glowing be the noontide, for the grasshopper and you; and mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home- what can molest thy airy nest? sleep till the morrow come. the river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing, and murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light-dipping wing; the thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen, when quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen. the silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings of love, to haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, for here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves. genius. eye of the brain and heart, o genius, inner sight, wonders from thee familiar start, in thy decisive light. wide and deep the eye must go, the process of our world to know. old mountains grated to the sea, sow the young seed of isles to be. states dissolve, that nature's plan may bear the broadening type of man. passes ne'er the past away; child of the ages springs to-day. life, death, and life! but circling change, still working to a higher range! make thee all science, genius, clear our world; all muses, grace and cheer. and may the ideal thou hast shewn, with joy peculiar be thine own; for thee the starry belts of time, the inner laws, the heavenly chime; thine storm and rack--the forests crack, the sea gives up her secrets hoary; and beauty thine, on loom divine, weaving the rainbow's woof of glory. power of the civic heart, more than a power to know, genius, incarnated in art, by thee the nations grow. lawgiver thine, and priest, and sage, lit up the oriental age. persuasive groves, and musical, of love the illumined mountains all. eagles and rods, and axes clear, forum and amphitheatre; these in thy plastic forming hand, forth leapt to life the classic land. old and new, the worlds of light, who bridged the gulf of middle night? see the purple passage rise, many arch'd of centuries; genius built it long and vast, and o'er it social knowledge pass'd. far in the glad transmitted flame, shinar, knit to britain, came; their state by thee our fathers free, o genius, founded deep and wide, majestic towers the fabric ours, and awes the world from side to side. mart of the ties of blood, mart of the souls of men! o christ! to see thy brotherhood bought to be sold again, front of hell, to trade therein. genius face the giant sin; shafts of thought, truth-headed clear, temper'd all in pity's tear, every point and every tip, in the blood of jesus dip; pierce till the monster reel and cry, pierce him till he fall and die. yet cease not, rest not, onward quell, power divine and terrible! see where yon bastion'd midnight stands, on half the sunken central lands; shoot! let thy arrow heads of flame sing as they pierce the blot of shame, till all the dark economies become the light of blessed skies. for this, above in wondering love, to genius shall it first be given, to trace the lines of past designs, all confluent to the finish'd heaven. robert white. robert white, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing writer of lyric poetry, is a native of roxburghshire. his youth and early manhood were spent at otterburn, in redesdale, where his father rented a farm. possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the english poets, and himself tried metrical composition. while still a young man, he ranked among the poetical contributors to the _newcastle magazine_. in 1825 he accepted a situation as clerk to a respectable tradesman in newcastle, which he retained upwards of twenty years. latterly he has occupied a post of respectable emolument, and with sufficient leisure for the improvement of his literary tastes. besides contributing both in prose and verse to the local journals, and some of the periodicals, mr white is the author of several publications. in 1829 appeared from his pen "the tynemouth nun," an elegantly versified tale; in 1853, "the wind," a poem; and in 1856, "england," a poem. he has contributed songs to "whistle binkie," and "the book of scottish song." at present he has in the press a "history of the battle of otterburn," prepared from original sources of information. my native land. fair scotland! dear as life to me are thy majestic hills; and sweet as purest melody the music of thy rills. the wildest cairn, the darkest dell, within thy rocky strand, possess o'er me a living spell- thou art my native land. loved country, when i muse upon thy dauntless men of old, whose swords in battle foremost shone- thy wallace brave and bold; and bruce who, for our liberty, did england's sway withstand; i glory i was born in thee, mine own ennobled land! nor less thy martyrs i revere, who spent their latest breath to seal the cause they held so dear, and conquer'd even in death. their graves evince, o'er hill and plain, no bigot's stern command shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, my dear devoted land. and thou hast ties around my heart, attraction deeper still- the gifted poet's sacred art, the minstrel's matchless skill. yea; every scene that burns and scott have touch'd with magic hand is in my sight a hallow'd spot, mine own distinguish'd land! oh! when i wander'd far from thee, i saw thee in my dreams; i mark'd thy forests waving free, i heard thy rushing streams. thy mighty dead in life came forth, i knew the honour'd band; we spoke of thee--thy fame--thy worth- my high exalted land! now if the lonely home be mine in which my fathers dwelt, and i can worship at the shrine where they in fervour knelt; no glare of wealth, or honour high, shall lure me from thy strand; oh, i would yield my parting sigh in thee, my native land! a shepherd's life. eliza fair, the mirth of may resounds from glen and tree; yet thy mild voice, i need not say, is dearer far to me. and while i thus a garland cull, to grace that brow of thine, my cup of pure delight is full- a shepherd's life be mine! believe me, maid, the means of wealth, howe'er profuse they be, produce not pleasure that in health is shared by you and me! 'tis when elate with thoughts of joy we find a heart like thine, that objects grateful glad the eye- a shepherd's life be mine! o mark, eliza, how the flowers around us sweetly spring; and list how in these woodland bowers the birds with rapture sing; behold that vale whose streamlet clear flows on in waving line; can paradise more bright appear? a shepherd's life be mine! now, dearest, not the morning bright, that dawns o'er hill and lea, nor eve, with all its golden light, can charm me without thee. to feel the magic of thy smile- to catch that glance of thine- to talk to thee of love the while, a shepherd's life be mine! her i love best. thou morn full of beauty that chases the night, and wakens all nature with gladness and light, when warbles the linnet aloof from its nest, o scatter thy fragrance round her i love best! ye hills, dark and lofty, that near her ascend, if she in her pastime across thee shall wend, let every lone pathway in wild flowers be drest, to welcome the footsteps of her i love best! thou sun, proudly sailing o'er depths of the sky, dispensing beneath thee profusion and joy, until in thy splendour thou sink'st to the west, oh, gaze not too boldly on her i love best! ye wild roving breezes, i charge you, forbear to wantonly tangle the braids of her hair; breathe not o'er her rudely, nor sigh on her breast, nor kiss you the sweet lip of her i love best! thou evening, that gently steals after the day, to robe with thy shadow the landscape in gray, o fan with soft pinion my dearest to rest! and calm be the slumber of her i love best! ye angels of goodness, that shield us from ill, the purest of pleasures awarding us still, as near her you hover, oh, hear my request! pour blessings unnumber'd on her i love best! the knight's return. fair ellen, here again i stand- all dangers now are o'er; no sigh to reach my native land shall rend my bosom more. ah! oft, beyond the heaving main, i mourn'd at fate's decree; i wish'd but to be back again to scotland and to thee. o ellen, how i prized thy love in foreign lands afar! upon my helm i bore thy glove through thickest ranks of war: and as a pledge, in battle-field, recall'd thy charms to me; i breath'd a prayer behind my shield for scotland and for thee. i scarce can tell how eagerly my eyes were hither cast, when, faintly rising o'er the sea, these hills appear'd at last. my very breast, as on the shore i bounded light and free, declared by throbs the love i bore to scotland and to thee. oh, long, long has the doom been mine in other climes to roam; yet have i seen no form like thine, no sweeter spot than home; nor ask'd i e'er another heart to feel alone for me: o ellen, never more i'll part from scotland and from thee! the bonnie redesdale lassie. the breath o' spring is gratefu', as mild it sweeps alang, awakening bud an' blossom the broomy braes amang, and wafting notes o' gladness frae ilka bower and tree; yet the bonnie redesdale lassie is sweeter still to me. how bright is summer's beauty! when, smilin' far an' near, the wildest spots o' nature their gayest livery wear; and yellow cups an' daisies are spread on ilka lea; but the bonnie redesdale lassie mair charming is to me. oh! sweet is mellow autumn! when, wide oure a' the plain, slow waves in rustlin' motion the heavy-headed grain; or in the sunshine glancin', and rowin' like the sea; yet the bonnie redesdale lassie is dearer far to me! as heaven itsel', her bosom is free o' fraud or guile; what hope o' future pleasure is centred in her smile! i wadna lose for kingdoms the love-glance o' her e'e; oh! the bonnie redesdale lassie is life and a' to me! the mountaineer's death. i pray for you, of your courtesy, before we further move, let me look back and see the place that i so dearly love. i am not old in years, yet still, where'er i chanced to roam, the strongest impulse of my heart was ever link'd with home: there saw i first the light of heaven--there, by a mother's knee, in time of infancy and youth, her love supported me: all that i prize on earth is now my aching sight before, and glen and brae, and moorland gray, i'll witness never more. beneath yon trees, that o'er the cot their deep'ning shadows fling, my father first reveal'd to me the exile of our king; upon yon seat beside the door he gave to me his sword, with charge to draw it only for our just and rightful lord. and i remember when i went, unfriended and alone, amidst a world i never loved--ay! yonder is the stone at which my mother, bending low, for me did heaven implore- stone, seat and tree are dear to me--i'll see them never more! yon hawthorn bower beside the burn i never shall forget; ah! there my dear departed maid and i in rapture met: what tender aspirations we breathed for other's weal! how glow'd our hearts with sympathy which none but lovers feel! and when above our hapless prince the milk-white flag was flung, while hamlet, mountain, rock, and glen with martial music rung, we parted there; from her embrace myself i wildly tore; our hopes were vain--i came again, but found her never more. oh! thank you for your gentleness--now stay one minute still; there is a lone and quiet spot on yonder rising hill; i mark it, and the sight revives emotions strong and deep- there, lowly laid, my parents in the dust together sleep. and must i in a land afar from home and kindred lie? forbid it, heaven! and hear my prayer--'tis better now to die! my limbs grow faint--i fain would rest--my eyes are darkening o'er; slow flags my breath; now, this is death--adieu, for evermore! william cameron. william cameron was born on the 3d december 1801, in the parish of dunipace, and county of stirling. his father was employed successively in woollen factories at dumfries, dalmellington, and dunipace. he subsequently became proprietor of woollen manufactories at slamannan, stirlingshire, and at blackburn and torphichen, in the county of linlithgow. while receiving an education with a view to the ministry, the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his prospects, and he was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster at the village of armadale, parish of bathgate. in 1836 he resigned this situation, and removed to glasgow, where he has since prosperously engaged in mercantile concerns. of the various lyrics which have proceeded from his pen, "jessie o' the dell" is an especial favourite. the greater number of his songs, arranged with music, appear in the "lyric gems of scotland," a respectable collection of minstrelsy published in glasgow. sweet jessie o' the dell. o bright the beaming queen o' night shines in yon flow'ry vale, and softly sheds her silver light o'er mountain, path, and dale. short is the way, when light 's the heart that 's bound in love's soft spell; sae i 'll awa' to armadale, to jessie o' the dell, to jessie o' the dell, sweet jessie o' the dell; the bonnie lass o' armadale, sweet jessie o' the dell. we 've pu'd the primrose on the braes beside my jessie's cot, we 've gather'd nuts, we 've gather'd slaes, in that sweet rural spot. the wee short hours danced merrily, like lambkins on the fell; as if they join'd in joy wi' me and jessie o' the dell. there's nane to me wi' her can vie, i 'll love her till i dee; for she's sae sweet and bonnie aye, and kind as kind can be. this night in mutual kind embrace, oh, wha our joys may tell; then i 'll awa' to armadale, to jessie o' the dell. meet me on the gowan lea. meet me on the gowan lea, bonnie mary, sweetest mary; meet me on the gowan lea, my ain, my artless mary. before the sun sink in the west, and nature a' hae gane to rest, there to my fond, my faithful breast, oh, let me clasp my mary. meet me on the gowan lea, bonnie mary, sweetest mary; meet me on the gowan lea, my ain, my artless mary. the gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, the lintie in the bosky dell, nae blyther than your bonnie sel', my ain, my artless mary. meet me, &c. we 'll join our love notes to the breeze that sighs in whispers through the trees, and a' that twa fond hearts can please will be our sang, dear mary. meet me, &c. there ye shall sing the sun to rest, while to my faithfu' bosom prest; then wha sae happy, wha sae blest, as me and my dear mary. meet me, &c. morag's fairy glen. ye ken whar yon wee burnie, love, rins roarin' to the sea, and tumbles o'er it's rocky bed, like spirit wild and free. the mellow mavis tunes his lay, the blackbird swells his note, and little robin sweetly sings above the woody grot. there meet me, love, by a' unseen, beside yon mossy den, oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve, in morag's fairy glen; oh, meet me, love, at dewy eve, in morag's fairy glen. come when the sun, in robes of gold, sinks o'er yon hills to rest, an' fragrance floating in the breeze comes frae the dewy west. and i will pu' a garland gay, to deck thy brow sae fair; for many a woodbine cover'd glade an' sweet wild flower is there. there 's music in the wild cascade, there 's love amang the trees, there 's beauty in ilk bank and brae, an' balm upon the breeze; there 's a' of nature and of art, that maistly weel could be; an' oh, my love, when thou art there, there 's bliss in store for me. oh! dinna cross the burn, willie. oh! dinna cross the burn, willie, dinna cross the burn, for big 's the spate, and loud it roars; oh, dinna cross the burn. your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht, and sair they wad you blame; sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht- indeed, you 're no gaun hame. the thunder-storm howls in the glen, the burn is rising fast; bide only twa-three hours, and then the storm 'll a' be past. oh, dinna cross, &c. then bide, dear willie, here the nicht, oh, bide till mornin' here; my faither, he 'll see a' things richt, and ye 'll hae nocht to fear. see, dark 's the lift, no moon is there, the rains in torrents pour; and see the lightning's dreadful glare, hear how the thunders roar! oh, dinna cross, &c. away he rode, no kind words could his mad resolve o'erturn; he plunged into the foaming flood, but never cross'd the burn! and now though ten long years have pass'd since that wild storm blew by- oh! still the maniac hears the blast, and still her crazy cry, oh, dinna cross, &c. alexander tait. alexander tait is a native of peebles. abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. he has taught successively in the parishes of lasswade, tweedsmuir, meggat, pennycuick, yarrow, and peebles. to the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor. e'ening's dewy hour. air--_'roslin castle.'_ when rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene, and gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green; when yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower, how dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour! when down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade, the robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade; when bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower, be 't mine to meet the lass i lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour! when owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray, and maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray; then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower, to meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour! the ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky, the sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye; but, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power, which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour! charles fleming. a handloom weaver in paisley, of which place he is a native, charles fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits of elegant literature. he has long been a contributor to the public journals. watty m'neil. when others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades, whar silken hose shine, and glitter cockades, in the low-thatched cot mair pleasure i feel to discourse wi' the aul'-farint watty m'neil. the gentles may hoot, and slip by his door; his mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor: aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal- far, far will ye ride for a watty m'neil. his welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun- a warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han'; his cog and his bed, or ought in his biel, the lonely will share frae kind watty m'neil. he kens a' 'bout scotland, its friends and its foes, how leslie did triumph o'er gallant montrose; and the covenant's banner ower philiphaugh's fiel' waved glorious--'twas noble, says watty m'neil. then gang and see watty ere laid in the mools, he 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools; contentment and innocence mingle sae weel mid the braw lyart haffits o' watty m'neil. william ferguson. the author of several esteemed and popular songs, william ferguson, follows the avocation of a master plumber in nicolson street, edinburgh. born within the shadow of the pentlands, near the scene of ramsay's "gentle shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. he has contributed copiously to "whistle binkie," and "the book of scottish song." i 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may. i 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may, in spring time o' the year; when saft'ning winds begin to woo the primrose to appear; when daffodils begin to dance, and streams again flow free; and little birds are heard to pipe, on the sprouting forest tree. i 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may, when summer days are lang, when nature's heart is big wi' joy, her voice laden wi' sang; when shepherds pipe on sunny braes, and flocks roam at their will, and auld and young, in cot an' ha', o' pleasure drink their fill. i 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may, when autumn's yellow fields, that wave like seas o' gowd, before the glancin' sickle yields; when ilka bough is bent wi' fruit- a glorious sight to see!- and showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep out owre the withering lea. i 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may, when, through the naked trees, cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side, sweeps wild the frosty breeze; when tempests roar, and billows rise, till nature quakes wi' fear, and on the land, and on the sea, wild winter rules the year. wooing song. the spring comes back to woo the earth, wi' a' a lover's speed; the wee birds woo their lovin' mates, around our very head! but i 've nae skill in lover-craft- for till i met wi' you, i never sought a maiden's love, i never tried to woo. i 've gazed on many a comely face, and thought it sweet an' fair; but wi' the face the charm would flee, and never move me mair. but miles away, your bonnie face is ever in my view, wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me, half daurin' me to woo. at hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme; i doat my time away; i dream o'er a' your charms by night, and worship them by day. but when they glad my langin' e'en, as they are gladden'd now, my courage flees like frighted bird; i daurna mint to woo. my head thus lying on your lap, your hand aneath my cheek; love stounds my bosom through and through, but yet i canna speak. my coward heart wi' happiness, wi' bliss is brimin' fu'; but, oh! its fu'ness mars my tongue, i haena power to woo. i prize your smile, as husbandman the summer's opening bloom, and could you frown, i dread it mair, than he the autumn's gloom. my life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip, on that calm, sunny brow; and, oh! my dead hangs on them baith, unless you let me woo. oh! lift me to your bosom, then, lay your warm cheek to mine; and let me round that lovesome waist my arms enraptured twine; that i may breathe my very soul, in ae lang lovin' vow; and a' the while in whispers low, you 'll learn me, love, to woo! i 'm wandering wide. i 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, but yet my heart 's at hame, fu' cozie by my ain fire-cheek, beside my winsome dame. the weary winds howl lang an' loud; but 'mid their howling drear, words sweeter far than honey blabs fa' saftly on my ear. i 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, i 'm wand'ring wide an' far; but love, to guide me back again, lights up a kindly star. the lift glooms black aboon my head, nae friendly blink i see; but let it gloom--twa bonnie e'en glance bright to gladden me. i 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, i 'm wand'ring wide and late, and ridgy wreaths afore me rise, as if to bar my gate; around me swirls the sleety drift, the frost bites dour an' keen; but breathings warm, frae lovin' lips, come ilka gust atween. i 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, i 'm wand'ring wide an' wild, alang a steep and eerie track, where hills on hills are piled; the torrent roars in wrath below, the tempest roars aboon; but fancy broods on brighter scenes, and soughs a cheerin' tune. i 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, i 'm wand'ring wide my lane, and mony a langsome, lanesome mile, i 'll measure e'er it 's gane; but lanesome roads or langsome miles, can never daunton me, when i think on the welcome warm that waits me, love, frae thee. thomas dick. a native of paisley, thomas dick was originally engaged as a weaver in that town. he afterwards became a bookseller, and has since been employed in teaching and other avocations. he is the author of a number of songs which appear in "whistle binkie," and "the book of scottish song;" and also of several tales which have been published separately, and in various periodicals. how early i woo'd thee. air--_'neil gow's lament for his brother.'_ how early i woo'd thee, how dearly i lo'ed thee; how sweet was thy voice, how enchanting thy smile; the joy 'twas to see thee, the bliss to be wi' thee, i mind, but to feel now their power to beguile. i gazed on thy beauty, and a' things about thee, seem'd too fair for earth, as i bent at thy shrine; but fortune and fashion, mair powerfu' than passion, could alter the bosom that seem'd sae divine! anither may praise thee, may fondle and fraize thee; and win thee wi' words, when his heart's far awa'; but, oh, when sincerest, when warmest, and dearest, his vows--will my truth be forgot by thee a'? 'midst pleasure and splendour thy fancy may wander, but moments o' solitude ilk ane maun dree; then feeling will find thee, and mem'ry remind thee, o' him wha through life gaes heart-broken for thee. hugh miller. the celebrated geologist, and editor of the _witness_ newspaper, hugh miller, was born at cromarty on the 10th october 1802. in his fifth year he had the misfortune to lose his father, who, being the captain of a small trading vessel, perished in a storm at sea. his widowed mother was aided by two industrious unmarried brothers in providing for her family, consisting of two daughters, and the subject of this memoir. with a rudimentary training in a private school, taught by a female, he became a pupil in the grammar school. perceiving his strong aptitude for learning, and vigorous native talent, his maternal uncles strongly urged him to study for one of the liberal professions; but, diffident of success in more ambitious walks, he resolved to follow the steps of his progenitors in a life of manual labour. in his sixteenth year he apprenticed himself to a stone-mason. the profession thus chosen proved the pathway to his future eminence; for it was while engaged as an operative stone-hewer in the old red sandstone quarries of cromarty, that he achieved those discoveries in that formation which fixed a new epoch in geological science. poetical composition in evening hours relieved the toils of labour, and varied the routine of geological inquiry. in the prosecution of an ornamental branch of his profession--that of cutting and lettering grave-stones--he in 1828 proceeded to inverness. obtaining the friendship of mr robert carruthers, the ingenious editor of the _inverness courier_, the columns of that journal were adorned by his poetical contributions. in 1829 these were issued from the _courier_ office, in a duodecimo volume, with the title, "poems written in the leisure hours of a journeyman mason." by the press the work was received with general favour; and the author, in evidence that his powers as a prose-writer were not inferior to his efforts as a poet, soon re-appeared in the columns of the _courier_, as the contributor of various letters on the northern fisheries. these letters proved so attractive that their republication in the form of a pamphlet was forthwith demanded. the merits of the cromarty stone-mason began to attract some general attention. sir thomas dick lauder, who had an occasional residence in morayshire, afforded him patronage; and the venerable principal baird of edinburgh, to whom he was introduced, recommended him to quit the mallet, and seek literary employment in the capital. such gratifying encouragement and friendly counsel, though not immediately acted upon, were not without advantage in stimulating his enterprise. before relinquishing, however, a craft at which he could at least earn a sufficiency for his immediate wants, he resolved to test his capabilities as a writer by a further literary attempt. cromarty and its vicinity abounded in legends of curious interest, respecting the times of religious persecutions, and of the rebellions in the cause of the stuarts, and these miller had carefully stored up from the recitations of the aged. the pen of scott had imparted a deep interest to the traditions of other localities; and it seemed not unlikely that the legends of cromarty, well told, would attract some share of attention. success attended this further adventure, proportioned to its unquestionable merit--the "scenes and legends of the north of scotland," which emanated from the publishing house of the messrs black of edinburgh, confirmed and widely extended the reputation of the author. from handling the workman's tools, a sudden transition to the constant use of the pen of the _litterateur_ is, under the most favourable circumstances, not to be desired. it was the lot of hugh miller to engage in an intermediate employment, and to acquire, in a manner peculiarly appropriate, that knowledge of business, and acquaintance with the transactions of life, which are so necessary to those who, through the medium of the press, seek to direct public opinion. shortly after the publication of his "scenes and legends," a branch of the commercial bank was opened at cromarty, and the accountantship was offered to him by the agent. entering on the duties, after a short preliminary training in the bank's offices at edinburgh and linlithgow, he subsequently added to his domestic comfort by uniting himself in marriage with miss lydia fraser, a young lady of literary tastes, to whom he had for some time borne an attachment. his official emoluments amounted to nearly a hundred pounds a-year; these were considerably augmented by his contributing legendary tales for _the tales of the border_, and writing occasional articles to _chambers' edinburgh journal_. the _veto_ controversy was now extensively agitating the established church, and, having long supported the popular view, he at length resolved to come forward more conspicuously as the advocate of what he strongly regarded as the rights of the people. he embodied his sentiments in the shape of a letter to lord brougham, and, having transmitted his ms. to mr robert paul, the manager of the commercial bank, it was by that gentleman submitted to dr candlish. perceiving the consummate ability of the writer, that able divine not only urged the publication of his letter, but recommended his immediate nomination as the editor of the _witness_ newspaper, which had just been projected by some of the edinburgh clergy. the offer of the editorship was accordingly made, and, being accepted, the first number of the newspaper was, early in 1840, issued under his superintendence. as a controversial writer, and the able exponent of his peculiar views of ecclesiastical polity, hugh miller at once attained a first rank among contemporary editors. many persons who were unconcerned about the scottish church question, or by whom his sentiments on that subject were disapproved, could not withhold an expressed admiration of the singular power with which his views were supported, and of the classic style in which they were conveyed. for some years prior to undertaking the editorship, he had devoted much of his spare time to the preparation of a geological work; and he now, in the columns of his newspaper, in a series of chapters, presented to the public that valuable contribution to geological science, since so well known as his work on "the old red sandstone." to the scientific world, by opening up the fossil treasures of a formation hitherto understood to be peculiarly destitute of organic remains, this publication claimed an especial interest, which was enhanced by the elegance of the diction. his subsequent publications fully sustained his fame. a work on the physical and social aspects of the sister kingdom, entitled "first impressions of england and its people," was followed by "the footprints of the creator," the latter being a powerful reply to the work entitled "vestiges of the natural history of creation." in 1854 he published a most interesting narrative of his early struggles and experiences, with the title, "my schools and schoolmasters." "the testimony of the rocks," a work on which he bestowed intense labour, and which may be regarded as his masterpiece, was published in march 1857, about three months subsequent to his demise; but all the sheets had undergone his final revision. for some years his health had been declining; in early manhood he suffered severely from a pulmonary affection, known as the "mason's disease," and he never thoroughly recovered. a singular apprehension of personal danger, inconsistent with the general manliness of his character, induced him for many years never to go abroad without fire-arms. he studied with pertinacious constancy, seldom enjoying the salutary relaxations of society. he complained latterly that his sleep was distracted by unpleasant dreams, while he was otherwise a prey to painful delusions. the eye of affection discovered that the system had been overtaxed; but eminent medical counsel deemed that cessation from literary toil would produce an effectual cure. the case was much more serious; a noble intellect was on the very brink of ruin. on the night of the 24th december 1856, he retired to rest sooner than was his usual, as the physician had prescribed. with redoubled vehemence he had experienced the distractions of disordered reason; he rose in a frenzy from his bed, and, having written a short affectionate letter to his wife, pointed his revolver pistol to his breast. he fired in the region of the heart, and his death must have been instantaneous. the melancholy event took place in his residence of shrub mount, portobello, and his remains now rest in the grange cemetery, edinburgh. as a geologist it is not our province to pronounce his eulogy; he was one of the most elegant and powerful prose-writers of the century, and he has some claims, as the following specimens attest, to a place among the national poets. sister jeanie, haste, we 'll go.[11] sister jeanie, haste, we 'll go to where the white-starr'd gowans grow, wi' the puddock-flower, o' gowden hue, the snawdrap white, and the bonnie vi'let blue. sister jeanie, haste, we 'll go to where the blossom'd lilacs grow, to where the pine-tree, dark an' high, is pointing its tap at the cloudless sky. jeanie, mony a merry lay is sung in the young-leaved woods to-day; flits on light wing the dragon-flee, and hums on the flowerie the big red bee. down the burnie wirks its way aneath the bending birken spray, an' wimples roun' the green moss-stane, an' mourns, i kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane. jeanie, come! thy days o' play wi' autumn tide shall pass away; sune shall these scenes, in darkness cast, be ravaged wild by the wild winter blast. though to thee a spring shall rise, an' scenes as fair salute thine eyes; an' though, through many a cloudless day, my winsome jean shall be heartsome and gay; he wha grasps thy little hand nae langer at thy side shall stand, nor o'er the flower-besprinkled brae lead thee the lounnest an' the bonniest way. dost thou see yon yard sae green, speckled wi' mony a mossy stane? a few short weeks o' pain shall fly, an' asleep in that bed shall thy puir brother lie. then thy mither's tears awhile may chide thy joy an' damp thy smile; but soon ilk grief shall wear awa', and i 'll be forgotten by ane an' by a'. dinna think the thought is sad; life vex'd me aft, but this maks glad; when cauld my heart and closed my e'e, bonnie shall the dreams o' my slumbers be. footnotes: [11] these verses were composed when the author was suffering from a severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early grave. they were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at this period was his companion in his walks. oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze. oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze through floweries pearl'd wi' dew; an' brightly lemes the gowden sky, that skirts the mountain blue. an' sweet the birken trees amang, swells many a blithesome lay; an' loud the bratlin burnie's voice comes soundin' up the brae. but, ah! nae mair the sweets o' spring can glad my wearied e'e; nae mair the summer's op'ning bloom gies ought o' joy to me. dark, dark to me the pearly flowers, an' sad the mavis sang, an' little heart hae i to roam these leafy groves amang. she 's gane! she 's gane! the loveliest maid! an' wae o'erpress'd i pine; the grass waves o'er my myra's grave! ah! ance i ca'd her mine. what ither choice does fate afford, than just to mourn and dee, sin' gane the star that cheer'd my sky, the beam that bless'd my e'e? at gloamin' hour alang the burn, alane she lo'ed to stray, to pu' the rose o' crimson bloom, an' haw-flower purple gray. their siller leaves the willows waved as pass'd that maiden by; an' sweeter burst the burdies' sang frae poplar straight an' high. fu' aften have i watch'd at e'en these birken trees amang, to bless the bonnie face that turn'd to where the mavis sang; an' aft i 've cross'd that grassy path, to catch my myra's e'e; oh, soon this winding dell became a blissful haunt to me. nae mair a wasting form within, a wretched heart i bore; nae mair unkent, unloved, and lone, the warl' i wander'd o'er. not then like now my life was wae, not then this heart repined, nor aught of coming ill i thought, nor sigh'd to look behind. cheer'd by gay hope's enliv'ning ray, an' warm'd wi' minstrel fire, th' expected meed that maiden's smile, i strung my rustic lyre. that lyre a pitying muse had given to me, for, wrought wi' toil, she bade, wi' its simple tones, the weary hours beguile. lang had it been my secret pride, though nane its strains might hear; for ne'er till then trembled its chords to woo a list'ning ear. the forest echoes to its voice fu' sad, had aft complain'd, whan, mingling wi' its wayward strain, murmur'd the midnight wind. harsh were its tones, yet myra praised the wild and artless strain; in pride i strung my lyre anew, an' waked its chords again. the sound was sad, the sparkling tear arose in myra's e'e, an' mair i lo'ed that artless drap, than a' the warl' could gie. to wean the heart frae warldly grief, frae warldly moil an' care, could maiden smile a lovelier smile, or drap a tend'rer tear? but now she 's gane,--dark, dark an' drear, her lang, lang sleep maun be; but, ah! mair drear the years o' life that still remain to me! whan o'er the raging ocean wave the gloom o' night is spread, if lemes the twinkling beacon-light, the sailor's heart is glad; in hope he steers, but, 'mid the storm, if sinks the waning ray, dees a' that hope, an' fails his saul, o'erpress'd wi' loads o' wae. alexander macansh. the author of "the social curse, and other poems," alexander macansh, was born at dunfermline in 1803. at the age of eleven apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty-eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in harribrae factory, in his native town. during the intervals of his occupation, which demanded his attention about fourteen hours daily, he contrived to become familiar with british and continental authors, and with the more esteemed latin classics. he likewise formed an intimate acquaintance with mathematical science. of decided poetical tastes, he contributed verses to _tait's magazine_, the _edinburgh literary journal_, and the _scotsman_ newspaper. in 1850, he published, by subscription, his volume of poems, entitled "the social curse, and other poems," which has secured him a local reputation. continuing to reside in dunfermline, he has, for several years, possessed a literary connexion with some of the provincial newspapers, and has delivered lectures on science to the district institutions. to mr joseph paton, of dunfermline, so well known for his antiquarian pursuits, he has been indebted for generous support and kindly encouragement. mr macansh labours under severe physical debility. the mother and child. the mother, with her blooming child, sat by the river pool, deep in whose waters lay the sky, so stilly beautiful. she held her babe aloft, to see its infant image look up joyous, laughing, leaping from the bosom of the brook. and as it gazed upon the stream, the wondering infant smiled, and stretched its little hands, and tried to clasp the shadow'd child, which, in that silent underwold, with eager gesture strove to meet it with a brother-kiss, a brother-clasp of love. laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, ('twas thus the mother sung;) the shrew, experience, has not yet with envious gesture flung aside the enchanted veil which hides life's pale and dreary look; an angel lurks in every stream, a heaven in every brook. laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, ere drop the tears of woe upon that mirror, scattering all those glorious shapes, and show a fleeting shadow, which thou think'st an angel, breathing, living- a shallow pebbly brook which thou hast fondly deem'd a heaven. change. change! change! the mournful story of all that 's been before; the wrecks of perish'd glory bestrewing every shore: the shatter'd tower and palace, in every vale and glen, in broken language tell us of the fleeting power of men. change! change! the plough is sweeping o'er some scene of household mirth, the sickle hand is reaping o'er some ancient rural hearth- where the mother and the daughter in the evenings used to spin, and where little feet went patter, full often out and in. change! change! for all things human, thrones, powers of amplest wing, have their flight, and fall in common with the meanest mortal thing- with beauty, love, and passion, with all of earthly trust, with life's tiniest wavelet dashing, curling, breaking into dust. where arose in marble grandeur the wall'd cities of the past, the sullen winds now wander o'er a ruin-mounded waste. low lies each lofty column; the owl in silence wings o'er floors, where, slow and solemn, paced the sandal'd feet of kings. still change! go thou and view it, all desolately sunk, the circle of the druid, the cloister of the monk; the abbey boled and squalid, with its bush-maned, staggering wall; ask by whom these were unhallow'd- change, change hath done it all. the tomb of the bruce. yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes o'er gray roof, tall window, sloped buttress, and base, o'erarches the ashes, the now silent ashes, of the noblest, the bravest, of scotia's race. how hallow'd yon spot where a hero is lying, embalm'd in the holiness worship bedews, the lamb watching over the sleep of the lion, religion enthroned on the tomb of the bruce! far other and fiercer the moments that crown'd him, than those that now creep o'er yon old temple pile, and sterner the music that storm'd around him, than the anthem that peals through the long-sounding aisle, when his bugle's fierce tones with the war-hum was blending, and, with claymores engirdled, and banners all loose, his rough-footed warriors, to battle descending, peal'd up to the heavens the war-cry of bruce. i hear him again, with deep voice proclaiming- let our country be free, or with freedom expire; i see him again, with his great sword o'erflaming the plume-nodding field, like a banner of fire. still onward it blazes, that red constellation, in its passage no pause, to its flashing no truce: oh, the pillar of glory that led forth our nation from shackles and chains, was the sword of the bruce. but now he is sleeping in darkness; the thunder of battle to him is now silent and o'er, and the sword, that, like threads, sever'd shackles asunder, shall gleam in the vanguard of scotland no more. yet, oh, though his banner for ever be furled, though his great sword be rusted and red with disuse, can freemen, when tyrants would handcuff the world- can freemen be mute at the tomb of the bruce? james pringle. james pringle was born in the parish of collessie, fifeshire, on the 11th december 1803. at the parochial school of kettle having received an ordinary education, he was in his seventeenth year apprenticed to a mill-wright. for many years he has prosecuted this occupation in the district of his nativity. his present residence is in the den of lindores, in the parish of abdie. from his youth he has cherished an enthusiastic love of poetry, and composed verses. in 1853, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled "poems and songs on various subjects." the ploughman. blithe be the mind of the ploughman, unruffled by passion or guile; and fair be the face of the woman who blesses his love with a smile. his clothing, though russet and homely, with royalty's robe may compare; his cottage, though simple, is comely, for peace and contentment are there. let monarchs exult in their splendour, when courtiers obsequiously bow; but are not their greatness and grandeur sustain'd by the toils of the plough? the soldier may glory discover in havock which warfare hath made; for the shout of his fame rises over the vanquish'd, the bleeding, the dead. though pride, in her trappings so dainty, may sneer with contemptuous air; fertility, pleasure, and plenty, still follow the track of the share. and long may the heart of the ploughman in virtue and vigour beat high; his calling, though simple and common, our wants and our comforts supply. william anderson. william anderson, an accomplished biographical and genealogical writer, and author of "landscape lyrics," a volume of descriptive poetry, was born at edinburgh on the 10th december 1805. his father, james anderson, supervisor of excise at oban, argyleshire, died there in 1812. his mother was the daughter of john williams, author of "the mineral kingdom," a work much valued by geologists. his brother, mr john anderson, surgeon, royal lanarkshire militia, was the author of the "historical and genealogical memoirs of the house of hamilton." mr anderson received his education at edinburgh, and in 1820 was apprenticed to a merchant in leith; but not liking the employment, he was afterwards placed in the office of a writer in edinburgh, with the view of studying the law. having a strong bent towards literature, he began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the press. in 1830 he published a volume of poems designated, "poetical aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse, entitled, "odd sketches." proceeding to london in 1831, he formed the acquaintance of maginn, allan cunningham, and other eminent men of letters. towards the close of that year he joined the _aberdeen journal_, and in 1835 edited for a short time the _advertiser_, another newspaper published in that city. he returned to london in 1836, and resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals. his "landscape lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume. in 1840 he commenced writing the lives of distinguished scotsmen, and the result of his researches appeared in 1842, in a valuable work, entitled, "the popular scottish biography." previous to the appearance of this volume, he published at london, "the gift for all seasons," an annual, which contained contributions from campbell, sheridan knowles, the countess of blessington, miss pardoe, and other writers of reputation. in 1842 he returned to scotland, to edit _the western watchman_, a weekly journal published at ayr. in 1844 he became connected with the _witness_ newspaper; but in the following year removed to glasgow, to assist in the establishment of the first scottish daily newspaper. with that journal, the _daily mail_, he continued two years, till severe nocturnal labour much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon literary pursuits. he has been a contributor to _tait's magazine_, and was intrusted with the literary superintendence of major de renzy's "poetical illustrations and achievements of the duke of wellington," a work to which he contributed several poems. he has edited lord byron's works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious memoir of the poet. besides a number of smaller works, he is the editor of five volumes, forming a series, entitled, "treasury of discovery, enterprise, and adventure;" "treasury of the animal world;" "treasury of ceremonies, manners, and customs;" "treasury of nature, science, and art;" and "treasury of history and biography." "the young voyager," a poem descriptive of the search after franklin, with illustrations, intended for children, appeared in 1855. he contributed the greater number of the biographical notices of scotsmen inserted in "the men of the time" for 1856. a large and important national work, devoted to the biography, history, and antiquities of scotland, has engaged his attention for some years, and is in a forward state for publication. as a writer of verses, mr anderson is possessed of considerable power of fancy, and a correct taste. his song, beginning "i'm naebody noo," has been translated into the german language. woodland song. will you go to the woodlands with me, with me, will you go to the woodlands with me- when the sun 's on the hill, and all nature is still, save the sound of the far dashing sea? for i love to lie lone on the hill, on the hill, i love to lie lone on the hill, when earth, sea, and sky, in loveliness vie, and all nature around me is still. then my fancy is ever awake, awake, my fancy is never asleep; like a bird on the wing, like a swan on the lake, like a ship far away on the deep. and i love 'neath the green boughs to lie, to lie; i love 'neath the green boughs to lie; and see far above, like the smiling of love, a glimpse now and then of the sky. when the hum of the forest i hear, i hear, when the hum of the forest i hear,- 'tis solitude's prayer, pure devotion is there, and its breathings i ever revere. i kneel myself down on the sod, the sod, i kneel myself down on the sod, 'mong the flowers and wild heath, and an orison breathe in lowliness up to my god. then peace doth descend on my mind, my mind, then peace doth descend on my mind; and i gain greater scope to my spirit and hope, for both then become more refined. oh! whatever my fate chance to be, to be, my spirit shall never repine, if a stroll on the hill, if a glimpse of the sea, if the hum of the forest be mine. the wells o' weary. down in the valley lone, far in the wild wood, bubble forth springs, each one weeping like childhood; bright on their rushy banks, like joys among sadness, little flowers bloom in ranks- glimpses of gladness. sweet 'tis to wander forth, like pilgrims at even; lifting our souls from earth to fix them on heaven; then in our transport deep, this world forsaking: sleeping as angels sleep, mortals awaking! i 'm naebody noo. i 'm naebody noo; though in days that are gane, when i 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o' my ain, ther war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise- and wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days! ah! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang, wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang, though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee; but, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me! whan i 'd plenty to gie, o' my cheer and my crack, ther war' plenty to come, and wi' joy to partak'; but whanever the water grew scant at the well, i was welcome to drink all alane by mysel'! whan i 'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer; and noo whan i want it, i ne'er get the offer; i could greet whan i think hoo my siller decreast, in the feasting o' those who came only to feast. the fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gie, i thoucht a' the time was intended for me; but whanever the end o' my money they saw, their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'. my advice ance was sought for by folks far and near, sic great wisdom i had ere i tint a' my gear; i 'm as weel able yet to gie counsel, that 's true, but i may jist haud my wheesht, for i 'm naebody noo. i canna sleep. i canna sleep a wink, lassie, when i gang to bed at night, but still o' thee i think, lassie, till morning sheds its light. i lie an' think o' thee, lassie, and i toss frae side to side, like a vessel on the sea, lassie, when stormy is the tide. my heart is no my ain, lassie, it winna bide wi' me; like a birdie it has gane, lassie, to nestle saft wi' thee. i canna lure it back, lassie, sae keep it to yoursel'; but oh! it sune will break, lassie, if you dinna use it well. where the treasure is, they say, lassie, the spirit lingers there; an' mine has fled away, lassie- you needna ask me where. i marvel oft if rest, lassie, on my eyes and heart would bide, if i thy troth possess'd, lassie, and thou wert at my side. william m. hetherington, d.d., ll.d. an accomplished theologian and historical writer, william hetherington was born on the galloway side of the valley of the nith, about the year 1805. with an average education at the parish school, he entered the university of edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. amidst studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of his nativity. these appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "twelve dramatic sketches, founded on the pastoral poetry of scotland." having obtained licence as a probationer of the established church, he was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of torphichen in the presbytery of linlithgow. he joined the free church in 1843, and was afterwards translated to st andrews. in 1848 he became minister of free st paul's church, edinburgh. besides his poetical work, dr hetherington has published, "the fulness of time," "history of the church of scotland," "the minister's family," and several separate lectures on different subjects. he was, during the first four years of its existence, editor of the _free church magazine_. formerly a frequent contributor to the more esteemed religious periodicals, he has latterly written chiefly for the _british and foreign evangelical review_. 'tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray. 'tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray, in the blushing dawn o' infant day; but sweeter than dewy morn can be, is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; an hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; the half o' my life i 'd gladly gie for an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee. the garish sun has sunk to rest; the star o' gloaming gilds the west; the gentle moon comes smiling on, and her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown: then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me! the whispering night-breeze calls on thee; oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea, an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' me. for wealth let warldlings cark and moil, let pride for empty honours toil, i 'd a' their wealth and honours gie for ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee. an hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee; earth's stores and titles a' i 'd gie for an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee. o sweet is the blossom. o sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree, the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree, when the saft westlin wind, as it wanders o'er the lea, comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree. lovely is the rose in the dewy month o' june, an' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon; but dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me, as the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree. oh, blithe at fair an' market fu' aften i hae been, an' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours i 've seen; but the happiest hours i ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee, in the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree. sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen, and fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain; but thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me, while whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree. old time may wave his dusky wing, an' chance may cast his die, and the rainbow hues of flatterin' hope may darken in the sky; gay summer pass, an' winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea, nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree: but still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine, for me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine, an' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere i be false to thee, or forget the vows i breathed beneath the hawthorn tree. thomas watson. thomas watson, author of "the rhymer's family," a small volume of poems, published in 1847, was born at arbroath about the year 1807. he some time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a house-painter. he continues to reside in his native place. the squire o' low degree. my luve 's a flower in garden fair, her beauty charms the sicht o' men; and i 'm a weed upon the wolde, for nane reck how i fare or fen'. she blooms in beild o' castle wa', i bide the blast o' povertie; my covert looks are treasures stown- sae how culd my luve think o' me? my luve is like the dawn o' day, she wears a veil o' woven mist; and hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd, lies paling on her maiden breast; her kirtle at her jimpy waist, has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi' she decks her hair wi' pearlis rare- and how culd my luve think o' me? my cloak is o' the friesland gray, my doublet o' the gay walloon, i wear the spurs o' siller sheen, and yet i am a landless loon; i ride a steed o' flanders breed, i beare a sword upon my theigh, and that is a' my graith and gear- sae how culd my luve think o' me? my luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume, twa pearlie raws pure faire atween, the happie dimples dent her cheeks, and diamonds low in her dark e'en; her haire is o' the gowden licht, but dark the fringes o' her bree; her smile wuld warm cauld winter's heart- but how culd my luve think o' me? my luve is tended like a queen, she sits among her maidens fair; there 's ane to send, and ane to sew, and ane to kame her gowden hair; the lutestrings luve her fingers sma', her lips are steept in melodie; my heart is fu'--my e'en rin ower- oh, how culd my luve think o' me? my luve she sits her palfrey white, mair fair to see than makar's dream o' faery queen on moonbeam bricht, or mermaid on the saut sea faem. a belted knicht is by her side, i 'm but a squire o' low degree; a baron halds her bridle-rein- and how culd my luve think o' me? but i will don the pilgrim's weeds, and boune me till the holy land, a' for the sake o' my dear luve, to keep unstain'd my heart and hand. and when this world is gane to wreck, wi' a' its pride and vanitie, within the blessed bouris o' heaven, we then may meet--my luve and me. james macdonald. a respectable writer of lyric poetry, james macdonald was born in september 1807, in the parish of fintry, and county of stirling. his father was employed in the cotton factory of culcruich. of unwonted juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles, whose circumstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal education. acquiring the rudiments of learning at culcruich, he afterwards studied at the grammar school of stirling, and proceeded, in 1822, to the university of glasgow. intended by his relations for the ministry of the established church, he attended the divinity hall during three sessions. preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. after teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the press in the printing-office of messrs blackie of glasgow. having suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the appointment of free church schoolmaster at blairgowrie. his health continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of catrine, in ayrshire: he died there on the 27th may 1848. macdonald was a devoted teacher of sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two collections of hymns for their use. bonnie aggie lang. or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling aggie lang; it is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose, it is na that her brow is white as stainless alpine snows, it is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing, nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing. but, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free o' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be; though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream, the carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream, i 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae aggie's angel tongue, for weel i ken her heart is mine--the fountain whar it sprung. yestreen i met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour; the moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower, the weary wind was hush'd asleep, an' no a sough cam' nigh, e'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by; i press'd her milk-white han' in mine--she smiled as angels smile, but ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld manna wile. i saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow, an' glitter on the honey-blabs upon her cherry mou'; i saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose, an' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose. the moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me, an' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' here e'e. i 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay, i 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in may, i 've been in joyous companies, the wale o' mirth an' glee, an' danced in nature's fairy bowers by mountain, lake, and lea; but never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride, as in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' aggie by my side. the pride o' the glen. oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley, and fair is the cherry that grows on the tree; the primrose smiles sweet as it welcomes the simmer, and modest 's the wee gowan's love-talking e'e; mair dear to my heart is that lown cosy dingle, whar late i' the gloamin', by the lanely "ha' den," i met with the fairest ere bounded in beauty, by the banks o' the endrick, the pride o' the glen. she 's pure as the spring cloud that smiles in the welkin, an blithe as the lambkin that sports on the lea; her heart is a fount rinnin' owre wi' affection, and a warld o' feeling is the love o' her e'e. the prince may be proud o' his vast hoarded treasures, the heir o' his grandeur and high pedigree; they kenna the happiness dwalt in my bosom, when alane wi' the angel o' luve and o' le. i 've seen the day dawn in a shower-drappin' goud, the grass spread wi' dew, like a wide siller sea; the clouds shinin' bricht in a deep amber licht, and the earth blushin' back to the glad lift on hie. i 've dream'd o' a palace wi' gem-spangled ha's, and proud wa's a' glitterin' in rich diamond sheen wi' towers shinin' fair, through the rose-tinted air, and domes o' rare pearls and rubies atween. i 've sat in a garden, 'mid earth's gayest flowers, a' gaudily shawin' their beauteous dyes, and breathin' in calm the air's fragrant balm, like angels asleep on the plains o' the skies; yet the garden, and palace, and day's rosy dawning, though in bless'd morning dreams they should aft come again, can ne'er be sae sweet as the bonnie young lassie, that bloom'd by the endrick, the pride of the glen. the exile, in sleep, haunts the land o' his fathers, the captive's ae dream is his hour to be free; the weary heart langs for the morning rays comin', the oppress'd, for his sabbath o' sweet liberty. but my life's only hope, my heart's only prayer, is the day that i 'll ca' the young lassie my ain; though a' should forsake me, wi' her i 'll be happy, on the banks o' the endrick, the pride o' the glen. mary. the winter's cauld and cheerless blast may rob the feckless tree, mary, and lay the young flowers in the dust, whar' ance they bloom'd in glee, mary. it canna chill my bosom's hopes- it canna alter thee, mary; the summer o' thy winsome face is aye the same to me, mary. the gloom o' life, its cruel strife, may wear me fast awa', mary; an' lea'e me like a cauld, cauld corpse, amang the drifting snaw, mary. yet 'mid the drift, wert thou but nigh, i 'd fauld my weary e'e, mary; and deem the wild and raging storm, a laverock's sang o' glee, mary. my heart can lie in ruin's dust, and fortune's winter dree, mary; while o'er it shines the diamond ray, that glances frae thine e'e, mary. the rending pangs and waes o' life, the dreary din o' care, mary, i 'll welcome, gin they lea'e but thee, my lanely lot to share, mary. as o'er yon hill the evening star is wilin' day awa', mary; sae sweet and fair art thou to me, at life's sad gloamin' fa', mary. it gars me greet wi' vera joy, whene'er i think on thee, mary, that sic a heart sae true as thine, should e'er ha'e cared for me, mary. james ballantine. james ballantine, one of the most successful of living scottish song writers, was born in 1808 at the west port of edinburgh. of this locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has given a graphic description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished recollections of the days when amid its "howffs," and "laigh" half-doored shops he "gat schulin' and sport." he lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her children the advantage of an ordinary education. james ballantine must, however, be considered as a self-taught man. beyond the training which he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own indefatigable exertions. by his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy, to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. he was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. on growing up to manhood, he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the university of edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. at a subsequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he has long been well-known as one of the most distinguished of british artists in that department. at the period mr ballantine began his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in character; and the position to which it has of late years attained is chiefly owing to his good taste and archæological researches. when the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the house of lords were publicly competed for, the royal commissioners of the fine arts adjudged those produced by mr ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. a few years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been translated and published in germany, where it retains its popularity. mr ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere with the exercise of his chosen avocations; "he has," in the words of lord cockburn, "made the business feed the muses, and the muses grace the business." although mr ballantine began at a very early age to woo the muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of "whistle binkie." in 1843 his well-known work, "the gaberlunzie's wallet," was published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late alexander ritchie. this production was enriched with some of his best lyrics. his second work, "the miller of deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. in 1856 messrs constable & co., of edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. this volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and will procure him a prominent place in his country's literature. mr ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character. naebody's bairn. she was naebody's bairn, she was naebody's bairn, she had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn, afore a kind word or kind look she could earn, for naebody cared about naebody's bairn. though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava, though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma', she grew in the shade like a young lady-fern, for nature was bounteous to naebody's bairn. though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair, she never compleened, though her young heart was sair, and warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn whiles glist in the blue e'e o' naebody's bairn. though nane cheer'd her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth, heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth; and when the earth doom'd her in laigh nook to dern, heaven couldna but tak again naebody's bairn. she cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' daw, like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa, and lo! how serenely that lone e'ening starn shines on the greensward that haps naebody's bairn! castles in the air. the bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase, glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face; laughin' at the fuffin low--what sees he there? ha! the young dreamer 's biggin' castles in the air! his wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow, are laughin' an noddin' to the dancin' lowe, he 'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air. he sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, he sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun; warlds whomlin' up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare, losh! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air. for a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? he 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men, a wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,- there are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air. sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld; his chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld; his brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that daddy care wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. he 'll glower at the fire, an' he 'll keek at the light; but mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; aulder e'en than his are glamour'd by a glare, hearts are broken--heads are turn'd--wi' castles in the air. ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. confide ye aye in providence, for providence is kind, an' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye 'll win through, for ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye 've been, grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your e'en, believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you, for ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. in lang, lang days o' simmer when the clear and cludless sky refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parch'd and dry, the genial night, wi balmy breath, gaurs verdure spring anew, an' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie, an' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e, some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, but ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. wifie, come hame. wifie, come hame, my couthie wee dame! oh, but ye 're far awa, wifie, come hame! come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo, come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e, come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou', a' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea. come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair, come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee, come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air, oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me! wifie, come hame, my couthie wee dame! oh, my heart wearies sair, wifie, come hame! come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie, clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee; come let me nestle and press the wee pettie, gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee. oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye, lanely and eerie 's the life that i dree; oh, come awa', an' i 'll dance round about ye, ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till i dee. the birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken, for he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben; and whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest, the birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. the cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day, the trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay; the heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test- the birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. the wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun, though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun; the humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest- the birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow, and dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low; the hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best- the birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. creep afore ye gang. creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang; cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang; gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang, creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang. creep awa', my bairnie, ye 're ower young to learn to tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn; better creepin' cannie, as fa'in' wi' a bang, duntin' a' your wee brow--creep afore ye gang. ye 'll creep, an' ye 'll hotch, an' ye 'll nod to your mither, watchin' ilka stap o' your wee donsy brither; rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, an' ye 'll be a braw cheil' yet--creep afore ye gang. the wee burdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee; folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie; they wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang- creep awa', my bairnie--creep afore ye gang. ae gude turn deserves anither. ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, the puirest bodie is still your brither; the king may come in the cadger's gate- ae gude turn deserves anither. the hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay, ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither; let ilk help ither to climb the brae- ae gude turn deserves anither. the highest among us are unco wee, frae heaven we get a' our gifts thegither; hoard na, man, what ye get sae free!- ae gude turn deserves anither. life is a weary journey alane, blithe 's the road when we wend wi' ither; mutual gi'ing is mutual gain- ae gude turn deserves anither. the nameless lassie. there 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name, there 's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame; yet though my lassie's nameless, an' her kin o' low degree, her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and, oh! she 's dear to me. she 's gentle as she 's bonnie, an' she 's modest as she 's fair, her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare; while she is light an' merry as the lammie on the lea- for happiness an' innocence thegither aye maun be! whene'er she shews her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, an' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a'; but when wi' ither's sorrows touch'd, the tear starts to her e'e, oh! that 's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl to me. within my soul her form 's enshrined, her heart is a' my ain, an' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain; the darkest paths o' life i tread wi' steps o' bounding glee, cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's e'e. bonnie bonaly. bonnie bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream; falling where silver light gleams on its breast, gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest, flooding with music its own tiny valley, dances in gladness the stream o' bonaly. proudly bonaly's gray-brow'd castle towers, bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers; here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom; nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom; heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally, playing amang the green knolls o' bonaly. pentland's high hills raise their heather-crown'd crest, peerless edina expands her white breast, beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene, bonnie bonaly lies smiling between; nature and art, like fair twins, wander gaily; friendship and love dwell in bonnie bonaly. saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie. oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, saft is the blink o' thine e'e; an' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb, as kindly it glints upon me. the ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie, are gowden, as gowden may be; like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun, when he 's just going to drap in the sea. thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie, as sweet as a body may pree; and fondly i 'll pree that wee hinny mou', e'en though thou shouldst frown upon me. thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie, as fair as a body may see; an' saft is the touch o' that wee genty hand, at e'en when thou partest wi' me. thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie, thy heart is sae kind and sae free; my bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy, wi' ilka blithe blink o' thine e'e. the mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone; to stand idle by is a profitless sin: the mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. the earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, the wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, the stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn: the mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. there 's nought got by idling, there 's nought got for nought, health, wealth, and contentment, by labour are bought; in raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin: the mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. let every man aim in his heart to excel, let every man ettle to fend for himsel'; aye nourish ye stern independence within: the mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. the widow. the widow is feckless, the widow 's alane, yet nae ane e'er hears the puir widow complain; for, ah! there 's a friend that the world wots na o', wha brightens her ken, and wha lightens her wo. she looks a' around her, and what sees she there but quarrels and cavils, but sorrow and care? she looks in within, and she feels in her breast a dawning o' glory, a foretaste o' rest. the hope o' hereafter her lane bosom cheers, she langs sair to meet him wha left her in tears; and life's flickerin' licht, as it wanes fast awa', but fades to gie place to a far brichter daw. the god o' high heaven is her comfort and guide, when earthly friends leave her, he stands by her side; he soothes a' her sorrows, an' hushes her fears, an' fountains o' joy rise frae well-springs o' tears. then, oh! shew the widow the smile on your face, she 's aft puir in gear, but she 's aft rich in grace; be kind to the widow, her friend is on high, you 'll meet wi' the widow again in the sky. mrs eliza a. h. ogilvy. the accomplished author of some poetical works, mrs eliza a. h. ogilvy, is the daughter of abercromby dick, esq., who for many years held an appointment in the civil service of the honourable east india company. her childhood was passed in scotland, under the care of her paternal uncle, sir robert dick of tullymett, who, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of sobraon. after a period of residence in india, to which she had gone in early youth, she returned to britain. in 1843, she was united in marriage to david ogilvy, esq., a cadet of the old scottish family of inverquharity. several years of her married life have been spent in italy; at present she resides with her husband and children at sydenham, kent. "a book of scottish minstrelsy," being a series of ballads founded on legendary tales of the scottish highlands, appeared from her pen in 1846, and was well received by the press. she has since published "traditions of tuscany," and "poems of ten years." craig elachie. blue are the hills above the spey, the rocks are red that line his way; green is the strath his waters lave, and fresh the turf upon the grave where sleep my sire and sisters three, where none are left to mourn for me: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! the roofs that shelter'd me and mine hold strangers of a sassenach line; our hamlet thresholds ne'er can shew the friendly forms of long ago; the rooks upon the old yew-tree would e'en have stranger notes to me: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! the cattle feeding on the hills, we tended once o'er moors and rills, like us have gone; the silly sheep now fleck the brown sides of the steep, and southern eyes their watchers be, and gael and sassenach ne'er agree: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! where are the elders of our glen, wise arbiters for meaner men? where are the sportsmen, keen of eye, who track'd the roe against the sky; the quick of hand, of spirit free? pass'd, like a harper's melody: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! where are the maidens of our vale, those fair, frank daughters of the gael? changed are they all, and changed the wife, who dared, for love, the indian's life; the little child she bore to me sunk in the vast atlantic sea: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! bare are the moors of broad strathspey, shaggy the western forests gray; wild is the corri's autumn roar, wilder the floods of this far shore; dark are the crags of rushing dee, darker the shades of tennessee: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! great rock, by which the grant hath sworn, since first amid the mountains born; great rock, whose sterile granite heart knows not, like us, misfortune's smart, the river sporting at thy knee, on thy stern brow no change can see: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! stand fast on thine own scottish ground, by scottish mountains flank'd around, though we uprooted, cast away from the warm bosom of strathspey, flung pining by this western sea, the exile's hopeless lot must dree: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! yet strong as thou the grant shall rise, cleft from his clansmen's sympathies; in these grim wastes new homes we 'll rear, new scenes shall wear old names so dear; and while our axes fell the tree, resound old scotia's minstrelsy: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! here can no treacherous chief betray for sordid gain our new strathspey; no fearful king, no statesmen pale, wrench the strong claymore from the gael. with arm'd wrist and kilted knee, no prairie indian half so free: stand fast, stand fast, craig elachie! john finlay. john finlay was born at glasgow in 1808, and is one of the partners in the respectable firm of r. g. finlay & co., manufacturers in that city. amidst due attention to the active prosecution of business, he has long been keenly devoted to the principal national games--curling, angling, bowling, quoiting, and archery--in all of which he has frequently carried off prizes at the various competitions throughout the country. to impart humorous sociality to the friendly meetings of the different societies of which he is a member, mr finlay was led to become a song-writer. there is scarcely a characteristic of any of his favourite games which he has not celebrated in racy verse. some of his songs have obtained celebrity in certain counties where the national sports are peculiarly cultivated. the noble scottish game. air--_"castles in the air."_ the king is on the throne wi' his sceptre an' his croon, the elements o' cauld are the courtiers staunin' roun'; he lifts his icy haun', an' he speaks wi' awe profound, he chills the balmy air, and he binds the yielding ground; he calms the raging winds when they moan and loudly rave, he stops the rinnin' stream, and he stills the dancin' wave; he calls the curlers on to the field of hope and fame, an' the spreading lake resounds wi' the noble scottish game! the hedges an' the trees are a' hung wi' pearls braw, an' the rinks are glancing clear 'mang the heaps o' shinin' snaw; the wee birds in the blast are a' tremblin' wi' the cauld; the sheep are lyin' close in the safely guarded fauld; the farmer leaves the plough, an' the weaver leaves the loom, auld age gangs totterin' by wi' the youth in manhood's bloom; the miseries o' life are a' banish'd far frae hame, when the curlers meet to play at the brave old scottish game! it makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow, it gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow; the rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power, when the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour. the wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom at the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom; the melody to charm is the sport we love to name, ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old scottish game! the warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form; the curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm, where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway, an' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array, till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa', to woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw. when the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame- there 's naething warms the heart like the noble scottish game! the merry bowling-green. air--_"castles in the air."_ the gloomy days are gone with the blasts o' winter keen; the flowers are blooming fair, and the trees are budding green; the lark is in the sky, with his music ringing loud, raining notes of joy from the sunny summer cloud- springing at the dawn with the blushing light of day, and quivering with delight in the morning's golden ray; but there 's rapture dearer far in the warm and social power of the merry bowling-green, in the happy evening hour! the lights and shades of life, like an april day, are seen, 'mid the melting sunny showers, on the lively bowling-green. the spring and autumn meet when the old and young are there, and mirth and wisdom chase from the heart the thoughts of care. when the creaking wheels of life are revolving weak and slow, and the dashing tide of hope may be ebbing dark and low, the sons of wealth and toil feel the sweet and soothing power of the merry bowling-green, in the charming leisure hour! the streams of life run on till they fall into the sea; and the flowers are left behind, with their fragrance on the lea. the circling flight of time will soon make the young folk old; and pleasure dances on till the springs of life grow cold. we 'll taste the joys of life as the hours are gliding fast, and learn to live and love from the follies of the past; and remember with delight, when misfortunes intervene, the happy days we 've spent on the merry bowling-green. thomas tod stoddart. thomas tod stoddart, well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th february 1810 in argyle square, edinburgh. in the chamber of his birth dr robertson is said to have written the "history of scotland." his father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished services: he was present at lord howe's victory at the landing in egypt; at the battles of the nile and copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between russia and sweden. young stoddart was educated at a moravian establishment at fairfield, near manchester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the university of edinburgh. early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in professor wilson's class, for a poem on "idolatry." he was an early contributor to the _edinburgh literary journal_. mr stoddart studied for the bar, and passed advocate in 1833. finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at kelso. for many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. in 1831, he published "the deathwake, or lunacy, a poem;" in 1834, "the art of angling;" in 1836, "angling reminiscences;" in 1839, "songs and poems;" and in 1844, "abel massinger; or the aëronaut, a romance." the second of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of "the angler's companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. the volume of "songs" having been sold out, a new edition, along with a tragedy, entitled "the crown jewel," and "the aëronaut," both still in ms., may be expected. living at kelso, mr stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament. angling song. bring the rod, the line, the reel! bring, oh, bring the osier creel! bring me flies of fifty kinds, bring me showers, and clouds, and winds, all things right and tight, all things well and proper, trailer red and bright, dark and wily dropper; casts of midges bring, made of plover hackle, with a gaudy wing, and a cobweb tackle. lead me where the river flows, shew me where the alder grows, reel and rushes, moss and mead, to them lead me--quickly lead, where the roving trout watches round an eddy, with his eager snout pointed up and ready, till a careless fly, on the surface wheeling, tempts him, rising sly from his safe concealing. there, as with a pleasant friend, i the happy hours will spend, urging on the subtle hook, o'er the dark and chancy nook, with a hand expert every motion swaying, and on the alert when the trout are playing; bring me rod and reel, flies of every feather, bring the osier creel, send me glorious weather! let ither anglers. let ither anglers choose their ain, an' ither waters tak' the lead; o' hieland streams we covet nane, but gie to us the bonnie tweed! an' gie to us the cheerfu' burn that steals into its valley fair- the streamlets that at ilka turn, sae saftly meet an' mingle there. the lanesome tala and the lyne, an' manor wi' its mountain rills, an' etterick, whose waters twine wi' yarrow, frae the forest hills; an' gala, too, an' teviot bright, an' mony a stream o' playfu' speed; their kindred valleys a' unite amang the braes o' bonnie tweed. there 's no a hole abune the crook, nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, nor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook, that daunders through the flowrie heath, but ye may fin' a subtle troot, a' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, an' mony a sawmon sooms aboot, below the bields o' bonnie tweed. frae holylee to clovenford, a chancier bit ye canna hae, so gin ye tak' an' angler's word, ye 'd through the whins an' ower the brae, an' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand yer birzy hackles black and reid; the saft sough o' a slender wand is meetest music for the tweed! the british oak. the oak is britain's pride! the lordliest of trees, the glory of her forest side, the guardian of her seas! its hundred arms are brandish'd wide, to brave the wintry breeze. our hearts shall never quail below the servile yoke, long as our seamen trim the sail, and wake the battle smoke- long as they stem the stormy gale, on planks of british oak! then in its native mead, the golden acorn lay; and watch with care the bursting seed, and guard the tender spray; england will bless us for the deed, in some far future day! oh! plant the acorn tree upon each briton's grave; so shall our island ever be, the island of the brave- the mother-nurse of liberty, and empress o'er the wave! peace in war. peace be upon their banners! when our war-ships leave the bay- when the anchor is weigh'd, and the gales fill the sails, as they stray- when the signals are made, and the anchor is weigh'd, and the shores of england fade fast away! peace be upon their banners, as they cross the stormy main! may they no aggressors prove, but unite, britain's right to maintain; and, unconquer'd, as they move, may they no aggressors prove; but to guard the land we love, come again! long flourish england's commerce! may her navies ever glide, with concord in their lead, ranging free every sea, far and wide; and at their country's need, with thunders in their lead, may the ocean eagles speed to her side! alexander maclagan.[12] alexander maclagan was born at bridgend, perth, on the 3d of april 1811. his father, thomas maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning this occupation, he settled in perth as a manufacturer. unfortunate in business, he removed to edinburgh, with a young family of three children; the subject of the present memoir being the eldest. catherine stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the stuarts of breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. at the period of his father's removal to edinburgh, alexander was only in his fifth year. not more successful in his pursuits in edinburgh, where three additional children were born to him, thomas maclagan was unable to bestow upon his son alexander the liberal education which his strong natural capacity demanded; but acquiring the common rudiments of knowledge at several schools in the old town, he was at the early age of ten years taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained two years. being naturally strong, and now of an age to undertake more laborious employment, his father, rather against the son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in edinburgh, with whom he served six years. about this time he produced many excellent drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the edinburgh school of design, but the arduous duties of his occupation precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. his leisure time was chiefly devoted to the cultivation of literature. so early as his thirteenth year he entered the edinburgh mechanics' library as a member; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry. in 1829, while yet an apprentice, maclagan became connected with the _edinburgh literary journal_, edited by mr glassford bell. as a contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the ettrick shepherd, professor wilson, william tennant, and william motherwell, who severally commended his verses. on the expiry of his apprenticeship he worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. he was married in his eighteenth year; and he has three surviving children. in 1831, he commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the mound, edinburgh; but finding he had inadequate capital, he proceeded to london in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. in the metropolis he was well received by allan cunningham, and was, through his recommendation, offered an appointment under mr cubitt, the well known builder. a strike among mr cubitt's workmen unfortunately interfered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much disappointed, returned to edinburgh. he now accepted an engagement as manager of a plumbery establishment in dunfermline, where he continued two years. he afterwards devoted himself to literary and educational pursuits. in 1841, maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which immediately attracted the favourable notice of lord jeffrey. he invited the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor. on the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, "sketches from nature, and other poems," the critic wrote to the poet in these words, "i can remember when the appearance of such a work would have produced a great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more solid advantages." among the last written of lord jeffrey's letters, was one addressed to mr maclagan in regard to the second edition of his poems. shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in lord cockburn, who procured for him a junior clerkship in the office of the inland revenue, edinburgh. this situation proved, however, most uncongenial; he found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of being transferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. in 1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner in the hall attached to burns' cottage, and more lately he received a similar compliment in his native town. considerate attentions have been shewn him by the duchess of sutherland, the duke of argyle, the rev. dr guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. in the autumn of 1856 he had conferred on him by the queen a small civil list pension. mr maclagan's latest publication, entitled, "ragged and industrial school rhymes," appeared in 1854, and has well sustained his reputation. imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. in social life he delights to depict the praises of virtue. the lover's tale he has told with singular simplicity and tenderness. footnotes: [12] to mr disseret of edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of mr maclagan's personal history. curling song. hurrah for scotland's worth and fame, a health to a' that love the name; hurrah for scotland's darling game, the pastime o' the free, boys. while head, an' heart, an' arm are strang, we 'll a' join in a patriot's sang, and sing its praises loud and lang- the roarin' rink for me, boys. hurrah, hurrah, for scotland's fame, a health to a' that love the name; hurrah for scotland's darling game; the roarin' rink for me, boys. gie hunter chaps their break-neck hours, their slaughtering guns amang the muirs; let wily fisher prove his powers at the flinging o' the flee, boys. but let us pledge ilk hardy chiel, wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal, wha's glory 's on a brave bonspiel- the roarin' rink for me, boys. in ancient days--fame tells the fact- that scotland's heroes werena slack the heads o' stubborn foes to crack, and mak' the feckless flee, boys. wi' brave hearts, beating true and warm, they aften tried the curlin' charm to cheer the heart and nerve the arm- the roarin' rink for me, boys. may love and friendship crown our cheer wi' a' the joys to curlers dear; we hae this nicht some heroes here, we aye are blythe to see, boys. a' brithers brave are they, i ween, may fickle fortune, slippery queen, aye keep their ice baith clear and clean- the roarin' rink for me, boys. may health an' strength their toils reward, and should misfortune's gales blow hard, our task will be to plant a guard or guide them to the tee, boys. here 's three times three for curlin' scenes, here 's three times three for curlin' freen's, here 's three times three for beef an' greens- the roarin' rink for me, boys. a' ye that love auld scotland's name, a' ye that love auld scotland's fame, a' ye that love auld scotland's game, a glorious sicht to see, boys- up, brothers, up, drive care awa'; up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw; up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah- the roarin' rink for me, boys. the auld meal mill. the auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill, like a dream o' my schule-days, it haunts me still; like the sun's simmer blink on the face o' a hill, stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill. the stream frae the mountain, rock-ribbit and brown, like a peal o' loud laughter, comes rattlin' down; tak' my word for 't, my friend, 'tis na puny rill that ca's the big wheel o' the auld meal mill. when flashin' and dashin' the paddles flee round, the miller's blythe whistle aye blends wi' the sound; the spray, like the bricht draps whilk rainbows distil, fa' in showers o' red gowd round the auld meal mill. the wild hielan' heather grows thick on its thack, the ivy and apple-tree creep up its back; the lightning-wing'd swallow, wi' nature's ain skill, builds its nest 'neath the eaves o' the auld meal mill. keep your e'e on the watch-dog, for cæsar kens weel when the wild gipsy laddies are tryin' to steal; but he lies like a lamb, and licks wi' good will the hard, horny hand that brings grist to the mill. there are mony queer jokes 'bout the auld meal mill- they are noo sober folks 'bout the auld meal mill- but ance it was said that a het hielan' still was aften at wark near the auld meal mill. when the plough 's at its rest, the sheep i' the fauld, sic' gatherin's are there, baith o' young folk and auld; the herd blaws his horn, richt bauldly and shrill, a' to bring doon his clan to the auld meal mill. then sic jumpin' o'er barrows, o'er hedges and harrows, the men o' the mill can scarce fin' their marrows; their lang-barrell'd guns wad an armory fill- there 's some capital shots near the auld meal mill. at blithe penny-weddin' or christ'nin' a wee ane, sic' ribbons, sic' ringlets, sic feather's are fleein'; sic' laughin', sic' daffin', sic dancin', until the laft near comes doon o' the auld meal mill. i hae listen'd to music--ilk varying tone, frae the harp's deein' fa' to the bagpipe's drone; but nane stirs my heart wi' sae happy a thrill as the sound o' the wheel o' the auld meal mill. success to the mill and the merry mill-wheel! lang, lang may it grind aye the wee bairnies' meal! bless the miller--wha often, wi' heart and good-will, fills the widow's toom pock at the auld meal mill. the auld meal mill--oh, the auld meal mill, like a dream o' my schule days it haunts me still; like the sun's summer blink on the face o' a hill, stands the love o' my boyhood, the auld meal mill. the thistle. hurrah for the thistle! the brave scottish thistle, the evergreen thistle of scotland for me! a fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers- the strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me! 'tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight, when he shadows the stars with the wings of his might; 'tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows, for the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows! hurrah for the thistle, &c. round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land- on the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand- on the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free, may the thistle be seen where the thistle should be! hurrah for the thistle, &c. hale hearts we hae yet to bleed in its cause; bold harps we hae yet to sound its applause; how, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer, and sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here? then hurrah for the thistle! the brave scottish thistle, the evergreen thistle of scotland for me! a fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers- the strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me! the scotch blue bell. the scotch blue-bell, the scotch blue-bell, the dear blue-bell for me! oh! i wadna gie the scotch blue-bell for a' the flowers i see. i lo'e thee weel, thou scotch blue-bell, i hail thee, floweret fair; whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell, or wavest mid mountain air- blithe springing frae our bare, rough rocks, or fountain's flowery brink: where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks, the deer descend to drink. the scotch blue-bell, &c. sweet flower! thou deck'st the sacred nook beside love's trystin' tree; i see thee bend to kiss the brook, that kindly kisseth thee. 'mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen, blithe noddin' o'er her brow, meet marrows to her lovely een o' deep endearin' blue! the scotch blue-bell, &c. when e'enin's gowden curtains hing o'er moor and mountain gray, methinks i hear the blue-bells ring a dirge to deein' day; but when the licht o' mornin' wakes the young dew-drooket flowers, i hear amid their merry peals, the mirth o' bridal hours! the scotch blue-bell, &c. how oft wi' rapture hae i stray'd, the mountain's heather crest, there aft wi' thee hae i array'd my mary's maiden breast; oft tremblin' mark'd amang thy bells, her bosom fa' and rise, like snawy cloud that sinks and swells, 'neath summer's deep blue skies. the scotch blue-bell, &c. oh! weel ye guess when morning daws, i seek the blue-bell grot; an' weel ye guess, when e'enin' fa's sae sweet, i leave it not; an' when upon my tremblin' breast, reclines my maiden fair, thou know'st full well that i am blest, and free frae ilka care. the scotch blue-bell, the scotch blue-bell, the dear blue-bell for me! oh! i wadna gie the scotch blue-bell, for a' the flowers i see. the rockin'. the ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht, the croozie sheds a cheerfu' licht, an' happy hearts are here the nicht, to haud a rantin' rockin'! there 's laughin' lizzie, free o' care; there 's mary, wi' the modest air; an' kitty, wi' the gowden hair, will a' be at the rockin'. there 's bessie, wi' her spinnin' wheel; there 's jeanie deans, wha sings sae weel; an' meg, sae daft about a reel, will a' be at the rockin'. the ploughman, brave as wallace wicht; the weaver, wi' his wit sae bricht; the vulcan, wi' his arm o' micht, will a' be at the rockin'. the shepherd, wi' his eagle e'e, kindly heart an' rattlin' glee; the wonder-workin' dominie, will a' be at the rockin'. the miller, wi' his mealy mou', wha kens sae weel the way to woo- his faither's pipes frae waterloo he 'll bring to cheer our rockin'. the souter, wi' his bristly chin, frae whilk the lasses screechin' rin; the curly-headed whupper-in, will a' be at the rockin'. there 's merry jokes to cheer the auld, there 's love an' joy to warm the cauld, there 's sangs o' weir to fire the bauld; sae prove our merry rockin'. the tales they tell, the sangs they sing, will gar the auld clay biggin' ring, and some will dance the highland fling, right blithely at the rockin'. wi' wit, an' love, an' fun, an' fire, fond friendship will each soul inspire, an' mirth will get her heart's desire o' rantin', at the rockin'. when sair foredung wi' crabbit care, when days come dark whilk promised fair, to cheer the gloom, just come an' share the pleasures o' our rockin'. the widow. oh, there 's naebody hears widow miller complain, oh, there 's naebody hears widow miller complain; though the heart o' this warld 's as hard as a stane, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain. though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel, her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel; though sighs tak' the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! though humble her biggin', and scanty her store, the beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door; though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill-drifted snaw, ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw; though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! the sang o' the lark finds the widow asteer, the birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear; the tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes, that auld widow miller has seen better days, ere her auld robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain'- yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! oh, sad was the hour when the brave forty-twa, wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa'; though she schules, feeds, an' cleeds his wee orphan wean, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair, on the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare; when care counts the links o' life's heavy chain, the poor heart is hopeless that winna complain. the sabbath-day comes, and the widow is seen, i' the aisle o' the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean; though she aft sits for hours on the mossy grave-stane, yet there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! an' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod, to breathe out her soul in the ear of her god, what she utters to him is no kent to ane, but there 's naebody hears widow miller complain! ye wealthy an' wise in this fair world o' ours, when your fields wave wi' gowd, your gardens wi' flowers; when ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains, to the heart-broken widow wha never complains. the highland plaid. what though ye hae nor kith nor kin', an' few to tak' your part, love; a happy hame ye'll ever fin' within my glowing heart, love. so! while i breathe the breath o' life, misfortune ne'er shall steer ye; my highland plaid is warm an' wide- creep closer, my wee dearie! the thunder loud, the burstin' cloud, may speak o' ghaists an' witches, an' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts through bogs an' droonin' ditches; there's no ae imp in a' the host this nicht will daur come near ye; my highland plaid is warm an' wide- creep closer, my wee dearie! why do you heave sic heavy sighs, why do ye sab sae sair, love? altho' beneath my rustic plaid an earl's star i wear love, i woo'd ye as a shepherd youth, and as a queen revere thee; my highland plaid is warm an' wide- creep closer, my wee deerie! the flower o' glencoe. oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains, an' the echoes that burst from their caverns below, the wild woods that darken the face of their fountains- the haunts of the wild deer an' fleet-footed roe; but dearer to me is the bower o' green bushes that flowers the green bank where the tay gladly gushes, for there, all in tears, an' deep crimson'd wi' blushes, i won the young heart o' the flower o' glencoe. contented i lived in my canty auld biggin', 'till britain grew wud wi' the threats o' a foe; then i drew my claymore frae the heather-clad riggin', my forefathers wielded some cent'ries ago. an' though mary kent weel that my heart was nae ranger, yet the thoughts o' my wa'-gaun, the dread an' the danger o' famine and death in the land o' the stranger, drave the bloom frae the cheek o' the flower o' glencoe. but success crown'd our toils--ye hae a' heard the story, how we beat the proud french, an' their eagles laid low- i've walth o' war's wounds, an' a share o' its glory, an' the love o' auld scotland wherever i go. come, now fill the wine cup! let love tell the measure; toast the maid of your heart, an' i'll pledge you with pleasure; then a bumper i claim to my heart's dearest treasure- the fair-bosom'd, warm-hearted flower o' glencoe. mrs jane c. simpson. jane cross bell, better known by her assumed name of "gertrude," is the daughter of the late james bell, esq., advocate, and was born in glasgow. her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in the _greenock advertiser_, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the magistrates. to the pages of the _edinburgh literary journal_ she afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to the _scottish christian herald_, then under the able editorship of the rev. dr gardner. in 1836, "gertrude" published a small volume of tales and sketches, entitled, "the piety of daily life;" and, in 1838, a duodecimo volume of lyric poetry, named, "april hours." her latest work, "woman's history," appeared in 1848. in july 1837, miss bell was married to her cousin, mr j. b. simpson, and has since resided chiefly in glasgow. amidst numerous domestic avocations in which she has latterly been involved, mrs simpson continues to devote a considerable portion of her time to literary pursuits. she is at present engaged in a poetical work of a more ambitious description than any she has yet offered to the public. gentleness. oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me, 'tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee; the gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue, in every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through! what though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire, and wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire; 'tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love, and falls upon the ear, like dew on flowers, from heaven above! ah! many a day has pass'd since then, yet i remember well, once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell; a word of wrath i utter'd, in a light and wayward mood- of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good! no answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now, thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow, and then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face, and thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace. an instant mute and motionless, before thee did i stand, and gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand- ah! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men, look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then! i long'd to weep--i strove to speak--no words came from my tongue, then silently to thy embrace, i wildly, fondly sprung; the sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'd mind; i could have borne to meet thy wrath--'twas death to see thee kind! 'tis ever thus! when anger wins but anger in return, a trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn; but when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past, the proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last! o gentleness! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me! it will ever bind my heart in love and tenderness to thee; i bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine, but most, i bless thee for that gift of gentleness divine! he loved her for her merry eye. he loved her for her merry eye, that, like the vesper star, in evening's blue and deepening sky, shed light and joy afar! he loved her for her golden hair, that o'er her shoulders hung; he loved her for her happy voice, the music of her tongue. he loved her for her airy form of animated grace; he loved her for the light of soul, that brighten'd in her face. he loved her for her simple heart, a shrine of gentle things; he loved her for her sunny hopes, her gay imaginings. but not for him that bosom beat, or glanced that merry eye, beneath whose diamond light he felt it would be heaven to die. he never told her of his love, he breathed no prayer--no vow; but sat in silence by her side, and gazed upon her brow. and when, at length, she pass'd away, another's smiling bride, he made his home 'mid ocean's waves- he died upon its tide. life and death. to live in cities--and to join the loud and busy throng, who press with mad and giddy haste, in pleasure's chase along; to yield the soul to fashion's rules, ambition's varied strife; borne like a leaf upon the stream- oh! no--this is not life! to pass the calm and pleasant hours, by wild wood, hill, and grove, and find a heaven in solitude, with one we deeply love; to know the wealth of happiness, that each to each can give, and feel no power can sever us- ah! this it is to live! it is not death, when on the couch of sickness we are laid, with all our spirit wasted, and the bloom of youth decay'd; to feel the shadow dim our eyes, and pant for failing breath; then break at length life's feeble hain- oh, no! this is not death! to part from one beneath whose smiles we long were used to dwell, to hear the lips we love pronounce a passionate farewell; to catch the last _too_ tender glance of an adoring eye, and weep in solitude of heart- ah! this it is to die! good night. good night! the silver stars are clear, on evening's placid brow; we have been long together, love- we must part now. good night! i never can forget this long bright summer day, we pass'd among the woods and streams, far, far away! good night! we have had happy smiles, fond dreams, and wishes true, and holier thoughts and communings, and weeping too. good night! perchance i ne'er may spend again so sweet a time, alone with nature and with thee, in my life's prime! good night! yet e'er we sever, love, take thou this faded flower, and lay it next thy heart, against our meeting hour. good night! the silver stars are clear, thy homeward way to light; remember this long summer day- good night! good night! andrew park. the author of numerous poetical works, andrew park was born at renfrew, on the 7th march 1811. after an ordinary education at the parish school, he attended during two sessions the university of glasgow. in his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the "vision of mankind." about the age of twenty he went to glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory; and shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. at this period he published several additional volumes of poems. his business falling off in consequence of a visitation of cholera in the city, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to london, to follow the career of a man of letters. after some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to glasgow in 1841; and having purchased the stock of the poet dugald moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in ingram street. the speculation proved unfortunate, and he finally retired from the concerns of business. he has since lived principally in glasgow, but occasionally in london. in 1856 he visited egypt and other eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of his travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, "egypt and the east." of the twelve volumes of poems which mr park has given to the public, that entitled "silent love" has been the most popular. it has appeared in a handsome form, with illustrations by j. noel paton, r.s.a. in one of his poems, entitled "veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. of his numerous songs, several have obtained a wide popularity. the whole of his poetical works were published in 1854, by bogue of london, in a handsome volume, royal octavo. hurrah for the highlands. hurrah for the highlands! the stern scottish highlands, the home of the clansmen, the brave and the free; where the clouds love to rest, on the mountain's rough breast ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea. 'tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze, as it dashes in foam like a spirit of light; and 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas, in his fleet tiny bark, through the perilous night. 'tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower, where the hurricane revels in madness on high; for there it has might that can war with its power, in the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky. i have trod merry england, and dwelt on its charms; i have wander'd through erin, that gem of the sea; but the highlands alone the true scottish heart warms- her heather is blooming, her eagles are free! old scotland, i love thee! old scotland, i love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war! thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas, wave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze; where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high, through regions of cloud in its wild native sky! for, old scotland, i love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war! o name not the land where the olive-tree grows, nor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose; but shew me the thistle that waves its proud head, o'er heroes whose blood for their country was shed. for, old scotland, i love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war! then tell me of bards and of warriors bold, who wielded their brands in the battles of old, who conquer'd and died for their loved native land, with its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand! for, old scotland, i love thee! thou 'rt dearer to me than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, yet thou 'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war! flowers of summer. flowers of summer, sweetly springing, deck the dewy lap of earth; birds of love are fondly singing in their gay and jocund mirth: streams are pouring from their fountains, echoing through each rugged dell; heather bells adorn the mountains, bid the city, love! farewell. see the boughs are rich in blossom, through each sunlit, silent grove; cast all sorrow from thy bosom- freedom is the soul of love! let us o'er the valleys wander, nor a frown within us dwell, and in joy see nature's grandeur- bid the city, love! farewell. morning's sun shall then invite us by the ever sparkling streams; evening's fall again delight us with its crimson-coloured beams. flowers of summer sweetly springing, deck the dewy lap of earth; birds of love are loudly singing, in their gay and jocund mirth. home of my fathers. home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur, in joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee; in visions of night o'er thy loved scenes i wander, and dwell with those friends that are dearest to me! i see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping, where springs the loud cascade to caverns below; the clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping, thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow. home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow- home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee! warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly; rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay! cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly, surrounded by mountains gigantic and gray! thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory, and sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves, thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story, of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves! home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow- home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee! land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather, the lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen, the green thoughts of youth do not easily wither, but dwell on thy charms, and thy bravest of men! both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee, and wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea- till nations afar have bent low to adore thee, home of my fathers! my heart turns to thee! home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow- home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee! what ails my heart? what ails my heart--what dims my e'e? what maks you seem sae wae, jamie? ye werena aye sae cauld to me; ye ance were blythe and gay, jamie. i 'm wae to see you, like a flower kill'd by the winter's snaw, jamie, droop farer down frae hour to hour, an' waste sae fast awa, jamie. i 'm sure your jeanie's kind and true, she loves nae ane but thee, jamie; she ne'er has gien thee cause to rue; if sae--ye still are free, jamie. i winna tak your hand and heart, if there is ane mair dear, jamie; i 'd sooner far for ever part with thee--though wi' a tear, jamie. then tell me your doubts and your fears, keep naething hid frae me, jamie; are ye afraid o' coming years, o' darker days to me, jamie? i 'll share your grief, i 'll share your joy, they 'll come alike to me, jamie; misfortune's hand may all destroy, except my love for thee, jamie. away to the highlands. away to the highlands, where lomond is flowing, where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, and where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, and cataracts foam, as they came from the sky! though scenes of the fairest are windsor adorning, though england's proud structures enrapture the view; yet nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning, is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue. then away to the hills where loch lomond is flowing, where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, and where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, and cataracts foam, as they came from the sky! benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory, his foot in the sea and his head in the sky; his broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary, and round him, and round him the elements fly. the winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing, the sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by; when once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring 'mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh! then away to the hills where loch lomond is flowing, where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, and where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, and cataracts foam, as they came from the sky! i 'm away. i 'm away, i 'm away, like a thing that is wild, with heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream, to revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam. i leave care behind me, i throw to the wind all sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind; the music of birds and the murmur of rills, shall be my companions o'er scotia's loved hills. how lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell! who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; i 'm away, i 'm away, like a thing that is wild, with heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! oh, land of my fathers! oh, home of my birth! no spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth! thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high, seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky! thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod, which minstrels of yore often made their abode- where ossian and fingal rehearsed runic tales, that echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales. how lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell! who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; i 'm away, i 'm away, like a thing that is wild, with heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! there is a bonnie, blushing flower. there is a bonnie, blushing flower- but ah! i darena breathe the name; i fain would steal it frae its bower, though a' should think me sair to blame. it smiles sae sweet amang the rest, like brightest star where ither's shine; fain would i place it in my breast, and make this bonnie blossom mine. at morn, at sunny noon, whene'er i see this fair, this fav'rite flower, my heart beats high with wish sincere, to wile it frae its bonnie bower! but oh! i fear to own its charms, or tear it frae its parent stem; for should it wither in mine arms, what would revive my bonnie gem? awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'- that flower can never fade with me, that frae the wintry winds that blaw round each neglected bud is free! no, it shall only bloom more fair, when cherished and adored by me; and a' my joy, and a' my care, this bonnie, blushing flower shall be! the maid of glencoe. tune--_"come under my plaidie."_ once more in the highlands i wander alone, where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown; by mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen, where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again. give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur, give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know; but let me meet flora, while pensive i wander- fair flora, dear flora! the maid of glencoe! oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay, i felt she had stole my affections away; the mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree, but her voice was more sweet and endearing to me. the sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain, the hours glided by without languor or woe, as we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains- my blessings attend thee, sweet maid of glencoe! the glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime, now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time! and fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart, untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art. and lo! as i gaze on the charms of my childhood, where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow, a fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood- 'tis flora, fair flora! the maid of glencoe. marion paul aird. the accomplished and amiable author of "heart histories" and other poems, marion paul aird, is a native of glasgow. her paternal ancestors were respectable yeomen in the carrick district of ayrshire. her mother, a niece of hamilton paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of cunningham. in her youth, miss aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at govan hill, in the vicinity of glasgow. for a number of years she has resided in kilmarnock. she early studied the british poets, and herself wrote verses. in 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, entitled "the home of the heart, and other poems;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of "heart histories." she has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. her poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness. footnotes: [13] see vol. ii., p. 120. the fa' o' the leaf. 'tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin', the wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae; the green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in', wan nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay. noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters, no a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea; her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters the wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee. the green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie, when bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray; but dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie sigh, "life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay." how waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather, like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';" an' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither, like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw: but waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely, man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast; the last o' his kin, sighin', "autumn is gane by," an' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past." the fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted, an' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn; an' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted, an' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return: but dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin', an' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night! when no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin', through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light. the spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie, though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa', an' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie, may spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw. kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer," its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath; but when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death? how kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en, when sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa'; when life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'- but simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'! the auld kirk-yard. calm sleep the village dead in the auld kirk-yard; but softly, slowly tread in the auld kirk-yard; for the weary, weary rest, wi' the green turf on their breast, and the ashes o' the blest flower the auld kirk-yard. oh! many a tale it hath, the auld kirk-yard, of life's crooked thorny path to the auld kirk-yard. but mortality's thick gloom clouds the sunny world's bloom, veils the mystery of doom, in the auld kirk-yard. a thousand memories spring in the auld kirk-yard, though time's death-brooding wing shade the auld kirk-yard. the light of many a hearth, its music and its mirth, sleep in the deep dark earth of the auld kirk-yard. nae dreams disturb their sleep in the auld kirk-yard; they hear nae kindred weep in the auld kirk-yard. the sire, with silver hair, the mother's heart of care, the young, the gay, the fair, crowd the auld kirk-yard. so live that ye may lie in the auld kirk-yard, wi' a passport to the sky frae the auld kirk-yard; that when thy sand is run, and life's weary warfare done, ye may sing o' victory won where there 's nae kirk-yard. far, far away. tune--_"long, long ago."_ had i the wings of a dove, i would fly far, far away; far, far away; where not a cloud ever darkens the sky, far, far away; far, far away; fadeless the flowers in yon eden that blow, green, green the bowers where the still waters flow, hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow, far, far away; far away. there never trembles a sigh of regret, far, far away; far, far away; stars of the morning in glory ne'er set, far, far away; far, far away; there i from sorrow for ever would rest, leaning in joy on immanuel's breast; tears never fall in the homes of the blest, far, far away; far away. friends, there united in glory, ne'er part, far, far away; far, far away; one is their temple, their home, and their heart, far, far away; far, far away; the river of crystal, the city of gold, the portals of pearl, such glory unfold, thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told, far, far away; far away. list! what yon harpers on golden harps play; come, come away; come, come away; falling and frail is your cottage of clay; come, come away; come, come away: come to these mansions, there 's room yet for you, dwell with the friend ever faithful and true; sing ye the song, ever old, ever new; come, come away; come away. william sinclair. a pleasing lyric poet, william sinclair, was born at edinburgh in 1811. his father was a trader in the city. receiving an ordinary education, he became in his fourteenth year apprentice to a bookseller in frederick street. a large circulating library connected with the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of strong literary tastes. quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. he afterwards accepted a situation in the customs at liverpool. his official services were subsequently transferred to leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets moir, gilfillan, and vedder. early devoted to song-writing, mr sinclair, while the bookseller's apprentice, contributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. some of his poetical compositions have appeared in _blackwood's magazine_. the poet robert nicoll submitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. in 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with the title "poems of the fancy and the affections." to major de renzy's "poetical illustrations of the achievements of the duke of wellington," published in 1852, he was a conspicuous contributor. several of his songs have been set to music. mr sinclair has latterly resided in stirling, where he holds the situation of reporter to one of the local journals. the royal breadalbane oak. thy queenly hand, victoria, by the mountain and the rock, hath planted 'midst the highland hills a royal british oak; oh, thou guardian of the free! oh, thou mistress of the sea! trebly dear shall be the ties that shall bind us to thy name, ere this royal oak shall rise to thy fame, to thy fame! the oak hath scatter'd terror o'er our foemen from our ships, they have given the voice of england's fame in thunders from their lips; 'twill be mirror'd in the rills! it shall wave among the hills! and the rallying cry shall wake nigh the planted of thy hand, that the loud acclaim may break o'er the land, o'er the land! while it waves unto the tempest, it shall call thy name to mind, and the "gathering" 'mong the hills shall be like the rushing of the wind! arise! ye gaels, arise! let the echoes ring your cries, by our mountain's rocky throne, by victoria's name adored- we shall reap her enemies down with the sword, with the sword! oh, dear among the mountains shall thy kindly blessing be; though rough may be our mien we bear a loyal heart to thee! 'neath its widely spreading shade shall the gentle highland maid teach the youths, who stand around, like brave slips from freedom's tree, that thrice sacred is the ground unto thee, unto thee! in the bosom of the highlands thou hast left a glorious pledge, to the honour of our native land, in every coming age: by thy royal voice that spoke on the soil where springs the oak- by the freedom of the land that can never bear a slave- the breadalbane oak shall stand with the brave, with the brave! evening. oh, how i love the evening hour, its calm and tranquil sky, when the parting sun from a sea of gold is passing silently; and the western clouds--bright robes of heaven- rest gently on the breast of even! how calm, how gorgeous, and how pure, how peaceful and serene! there is a promise and a hope enthroned o'er all the scene; while, blushing, with resplendent pride, the bright sun lingers on the tide. the zephyrs on the waveless sea are wrapt in silent sleep, and there is not a breath to wake the slumbers of the deep- peace sits on her imperial throne, and sounds of sadness there are none! methinks i hear in distance harps by heavenly seraphs strung, and in the concave of the sky the holy vespers sung! oh, thou great source of light and power, we bless thee for the evening hour! mary. if there 's a word that whispers love in gentlest tones to hearts of woe, if there 's a name more prized above, and loved with deeper love below, 'tis mary. if there 's a healing sound beneath to soothe the heart in sorrow's hour, if there 's a name that angels breathe in silence with a deeper power, 'tis mary. it softly hangs on many a tongue in ladies' bower and sacred fane, the sweetest name by poets sung- the high and consecrated strain- is mary. and scotia's bard--life's holiest dream was his, the silent heavens above, when on the bible o'er the stream he vowed his early vows of love to mary. oh, with the sweet repose of even, by forest lone, by fragrant lea, and by thy beauties all, loch leven, how dear shall the remembrance be of mary! scotland and mary are entwined with blooming wreath of fadeless green, and printed on the undying mind; for, oh! her fair, though fated queen, was mary. by the lone forest and the lea, when smiles the thoughtful evening star, though other names may dearer be, the sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far, is mary. absence. the fields, the streams, the skies are fair, there 's freshness in the balmy air, a grandeur crowns thine ancient woods, and pleasure fills thy solitudes, and sweets are strewn where'er we rove- but thou art not the land we love. how glorious, from the eastern heaven, the fulness of the dawn is given! how fair on ocean's glowing breast sleeps the soft twilight of the west! all radiant are thy stars above- but thou art not the land we love. fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam, hang their bright tresses o'er the stream; from morn to noon, from noon to even, sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven, from field and forest, vale and grove- but thou art not the land we love. to high and free imaginings thy master minstrels swept the strings, the brave thy sons to triumph led, thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead, and liberty thy chaplet wove- but thou art not the land we love. from the far bosom of the sea a flood of brightness rests on thee, and stately to the bending skies thy temples, domes, and turrets rise: thy heavens--how fair they smile above! but thou art not the land we love. oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand, the mountains of our native land! oh, for the torrents, wild, and free, and their rejoicing minstrelsy! the heath below, the blue above, the altars of the land we love! is not the earth. is not the earth a burial place where countless millions sleep, the entrance to the abode of death, where waiting mourners weep, and myriads at his silent gates a constant vigil keep? the sculptor lifts his chisel, and the final stroke is come, but, dull as the marble lip he hews, his stiffened lip is dumb; though the spoiler hath cast a holier work, he hath called to a holier home! the soldier bends his gleaming steel, he counts his laurels o'er, and speaks of the wreaths he yet may win on many a foreign shore; but his master declares with a sterner voice, he shall break a lance no more! the mariner braved the deluge long, he bow'd to the sweeping blast, and smiled when the frowning heavens above were the deepest overcast; he hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky- he hath laid him down at last. far in the sea's mysterious depths the lowly dead are laid, hath not the ocean's dreadful voice their burial service said? have not the quiring tempests rung the dirges of the dead? the vales of our native land are strewn with a thousand pleasant things; the uplands rejoicing in the light of the morning's flashing wings; even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns- the resting-place of kings! and man outpours his heart to heaven, and "chants his holiest hymn," but anon his frame is still and cold, and his sparkling eyes are dim- and who can tell but the home of death is a happier home to him? oh, love the soldier's daughter dear![14] oh, love the soldier's daughter dear- he fell on balaklava's plain, yet ere he found a soldier's bier he blest his beauteous child again; though o'er the light brigade like rain, war's deadly lightning swiftly fell, on--on the squadron charged amain amidst that storm of shot and shell! oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, a jewel in his heart was she, whose noble form disdain'd the storm, and, freedom, fought and died for thee! oh, love the soldier's daughter dear- even like a knight of old romance, brave cardigan, disdaining fear, heard but the bugle sound--advance! and paler droops the flower of france, and brighter glows proud england's rose, as charge they on with sabre-glance, and thunders thickening as they close! oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c. oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, and be thy grateful kindness shewn; and still her father's name revere, for, oh, 'tis dearer than her own; and tell his deeds in battle done, and how he fearless faced the foe, and urged the snorting war-horse on with death above, around, below! oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c. oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine; her father's glorious deeds appear, and laurels round her brow entwine; in that full eye, that seems divine, her sire's commanding ardour glows; his blood, that flow'd for thee and thine, within his daughter's bosom flows! oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, a jewel in his heart was she, whose noble form disdain'd the storm, and, freedom, fought and died for thee! footnotes: [14] this song, and the following, have been contributed by mr sinclair to the present work. the battle of stirling. to scotland's ancient realm proud edward's armies came, to sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm our martial force in shame: "it shall not be!" brave wallace cried; "it shall not be!" his chiefs replied; "by the name our fathers gave her, our steel shall drink the crimson stream, we 'll all her dearest rights redeem- our own broadswords shall save her!" with hopes of triumph flush'd, the squadrons hurried o'er thy bridge, kildean, and heaving rush'd like wild waves to the shore: "they come--they come!" was the gallant cry; "they come--they come!" was the loud reply; "o strength, thou gracious giver! by love and freedom's stainless faith, we 'll dare the darkest night of death- we 'll drive them back for ever!" all o'er the waving broom, in chivalry and grace, shone england's radiant spear and plume, by stirling's rocky base: and, stretching far beneath the view, proud cressingham! thy banners flew, when, like a torrent rushing, o god! from right and left the flame of scottish swords like lightning came, great edward's legions crushing! high praise, ye gallant band, who, in the face of day, with a daring heart and a fearless hand, have cast your chains away! the foemen fell on every side- in crimson hues the forth was dyed- bedew'd with blood the heather, while cries triumphal shook the air- "thus shall they do, thus shall they dare, wherever scotsmen gather!" though years like shadows fleet o'er the dial-stone of time, thy pulse, o freedom! still shall beat with the throb of manhood's prime! still shall the valour, love, and truth, that shone on scotland's early youth, from scotland ne'er dissever; the shamrock, rose, and thistle stern shall wave around her wallace cairn, and bless the brave for ever! william miller. the writer of nursery songs in "whistle binkie," william miller, was born at parkhead, glasgow, about the year 1812. he follows the profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "ye cowe a'," which we subjoin, amply entitles him to a place among the minstrels of his country. ye cowe a'. air--_"comin' through the rye."_ i wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to kelvin's leafy shade and a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, i said; but nae reply my lassie gied--i blamed the waterfa'; its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "oh, it cowes a'! oh, it cowes a'!" quo' i; "oh, it cowes a'! i wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!" i wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to kelvin's solemn grove, where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love; still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa'; nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "oh, this cowes a'! oh, this cowes a'!" quo' i; "oh, this cowes a'!" to woo i 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!" i wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell, upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well; say, modest moon, did i do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma', and steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "oh, ye cowe a'! oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'! ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!" "i 'll to the clerk," quo' i, "sweet lass; on sunday we 'll be cried, and frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride." quo' she, "i 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;" "the gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "oh, ye cowe a'! oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'! but wilfu' folk maun hae their way--oh, ye cowe a'!" alexander hume. alexander hume was born at edinburgh on the 17th february 1811. he is employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. as a musical composer he has attained considerable eminence. the following popular songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition. my ain dear nell. oh, bonnie nelly brown, i will sing a song to thee; though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me; though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in linton's dell, i took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear nell. oh, tell me, nelly brown, do you mind our youthfu' days, when we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes; when i pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell, to twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear nell! how often, nelly brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea, where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree; or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell- oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear nell! and in winter, nelly brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear, we would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear; we cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell, for we lived but for each other then, my ain dear nell! they tell me, nelly brown, that your bonnie raven hair is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair, looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but i heed na what they tell, for i ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear nell! ance mair then, nelly brown, i hae sung o' love and thee, though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me, as when i sigh'd my last farewell in linton's flowery dell- oh, i ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear nell! the pairtin'. mary, dearest maid, i leave thee, hame, and frien's, and country dear; oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee, happier days may soon be here. see yon bark, sae proudly bounding, soon shall bear me o'er the sea, hark! the trumpet loudly sounding calls me far frae love and thee. summer flowers shall cease to blossom; streams run backward frae the sea; cauld in death maun be this bosom, ere it cease to throb for thee. fare-thee-weel! may every blessin', shed by heaven, around thee fa'; ae last time thy loved form pressin'- think o' me when far awa'. metrical translations from the modern gaelic minstrelsy. john macdonald, d.d. the rev. john macdonald, d.d., one of the most popular of gaelic preachers, was born in 1778. he was ordained minister of the gaelic church, edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish of urquhart, in ross-shire. while at urquhart, he began a career of remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or visitor of other highland districts, that he established his professional fame. his powerful voice is said to have reached and moved thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. a long-expected volume of gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. dr macdonald died in 1849. at the disruption in 1843, he had joined the free church. the missionary of st kilda. the descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by dr macdonald on the occasion of his first visit to st kilda, often called "_the hirt_" or "_hirta_," after the gaelic. his missionary enterprise was blessed, we believe, with remarkable success. i see, i see the hirta, the land of my desire, and the missionary spirit within me is on fire; but needs it all--for, bristling from the bosom of the sea, those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me; the eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare, where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair. and how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near, where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear? it seems as, like a rocking hull, that island of the main were shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain! but the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant hirt the grim, save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim. oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say, 'twere better than that brow to face that i were leagues away. but no, not so! what fears should daunt,--for what welcomes e'er outran the welcome that i bring with me, my call from god and man? nor vain my trust! my helmsman, he who sent me, now is steering, and, by his power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing, and scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spake their welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take. and he, believe me, has his best protection by his side who bears the call of god and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide; and, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd, when i told the men of hirt the news i brought them from their god! duncan kennedy. duncan kennedy was born about the year 1758. his father was gardener to mr m'lachlan of kilanahanach, in the parish of glassary, argyleshire. in his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which was then conducted by an able classical scholar. at an early age he was qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming acquainted with "iain bàn maor" the gaelic poet, and enjoyed the privilege of listening to the eminent daniel campbell and other pious ministers in the surrounding parishes. he was promoted to the parish school of kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published his collection of "hymns and spiritual songs." during his summer vacations he travelled over the districts of kintyre, argyle, and lorn, in search of legends concerning the fingalians, and was successful in collecting a mass of information, which in gaelic verse he styled "sean dana." the ms. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical order. from kilmelford parish school, kennedy in 1790 removed to glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in mercantile pursuits. at one period he realised about £10,000, but he was latterly unfortunate and indigent. during his old age he was allowed a small pension from "the glasgow merchants' home." several years subsequent to 1830 he resided at ardrisaig in argyleshire. his death took place at glasgow in 1836. he has left a ms. ready for publication, entitled "the ark of ancient knowledge." his volume of hymns has passed into a second edition. the return of peace. with a breezy burst of singing blow we out the flames of rage! europe's peace, through europe ringing, is, of peace, our lifetime pledge. faldar, aldar, aldar, ari, faldar, aldar, aldar, e'; faldar, aldar, aldar, ari, faldar, ari, faldar, e'. every musket to the guard-house, and its lead to furlough send- to the tilling of the meadows every gallant bayonet bend. see, a lusty fleet is steering homewards, to the shore of peace; and brave hearts, a host, are nearing to the expectant dear's embrace. see the kilted highlander as from egypt's battles come- westlander and norlander, eager for the sight of home. seven years orphan'd of their fathers, shelterless and sad no more, quite a little army gathers, shouting welcomes from the shore. all the echoes are in motion, all the sheilings ring with glee, since, of peace, the paths of ocean give the news a passage free. the birds the dash of oars was scaring- hush'd their note, but soon they raise, to their wonted branch repairing, sweetest numbers on the sprays. seem the woods to dance a measure, nodding as the notes inspire- and their branches, as with pleasure, add their music to the choir. of the streamlet, every murmur sweetly swells the song of peace, chanting, with each vocal charmer, joys that bloom and wars that cease. allan m'dougall. allan m'dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of glencoe, argyleshire. while employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. about the year 1790 he removed to inverlochy, in the vicinity of fort-william. composing verses in the vernacular gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. in preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet evan maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. latterly, m'dougall became family bard to colonel ronaldson macdonell of glengarry, who provided for him on his estate. his death took place in 1829. shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. his poetry is popular in the highlands. footnotes: [15] see minstrel, vol. iv. p. 279. the song of the carline. o hi, o hu, she 's sad for scolding, o hi, o hu, she 's too mad for holding, o hi, o hu, her arms i 'm cold in, and but a poor wittol to see. if i go to fair, or feast, or waddin', the crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin', a wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin', she 's a shame and sorrow to me. if i stop at the hostel to buy me a gill, or with a good fellow a moment sit still, her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill, and the talk of the clachan are we. she 's ailing for ever--my welcome is small, if i bring for her nonsense no cordial at all; contention and strife, in the but and the hall, are ready to greet my return. oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever, i would cry, be on death benedictions for ever, i would jump it so high, and i 'd jig it so clever- short while would suffice me to mourn. it was not her face, or dress, or riches, it was not a heart pierced through with stitches- 'twas the glamour of more than a hundred witches that brought me a bargain like janet. o when, in the spring i return from the plough, and fain at the ingle would bask at its low, her bauchle is off, and i 'm sure of a blow, or a kick, if her foot is within it. no thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing, no babe of her bosom in fondness caressing; be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressing the core of my heart with her bother. for a groat, for a groat with goodwill i would sell her, as the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather, and a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her, for a hag can you shew such another? no tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye, at the dusk of the day, when her choler is high, the bairns, nay, the team i 've unhalter'd, they fly, and leave the reception for me. o hi, o hu, she 's sad for scolding, o hi, o hu, she 's too mad for holding, o hi, o hu, her arms i 'm cold in, and but a poor wittol to see! kenneth mackenzie. kenneth mackenzie was born in 1758, at caisteal leanir, near inverness. by his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. he became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. in 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. through the influence of the earl of buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th highland regiment. he latterly accepted the situation of postmaster in a provincial town in ireland. the date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. his habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality. the song of the kilt. my darling is the philabeg, with scarlet hosen for the leg, and the spotted curtal coat so trig, and the head blue-bonneted. the wimpled kilt be mine to wear, confusion take the breechen gear, my limbs be fetterless and bare, and not like saxon donnot-led.[16] oh, well i love the _eididh_[17] free, when it sends me bounding on the lea, or up the brae so merrily, there's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed. give me the plaid, and on the hill i 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell, and not a shiver from the chill shall pierce my trusty coverlet. and for the tartan's lively flame, in glen or clachan 'tis the same, alike it pleases lass and dame- unmatched its glories ever yet. be mine in highland graith array'd, with weapon trim the glens to tread, and rise a stag of foremost head, then let him tent my culiver. and when i marshal to the feast, with deer-skin belt around my waist, and in its fold a dirk embraced, then roland match shall oliver. footnotes: [16] hen-pecked (sc.), from _donned_, silly woman. [17] highland garb. john campbell. john campbell (ian bàn), overseer on the estate of shirvain, argyleshire, was born about the year 1705, in the parish of glassary, in the same county. he was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the english language. becoming intimately acquainted with the scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet duncan kennedy, the whole have perished. the hymns of john campbell retain much popularity among the gael. the storm blast. oh, say not 'tis the march wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives the clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives the image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls. it is the boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm, and creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm. woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere, and what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near? that airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires? the king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires. come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain; a bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein! thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all the ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the fall. james m'gregor, d.d. the rev. james macgregor, d.d., presbyterian minister at nova scotia, was born in 1762, in the vicinity of comrie, perthshire. he entered on ministerial duty in nova scotia shortly after becoming a probationer, and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close of his life. he died at pictou on the 1st of march 1830, in his 68th year. dr macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in gaelic. his general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his receiving the degree of doctor of divinity from the university of glasgow. light in the highlands.[18] of learning long a scantling was the portion of the gael, untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil, though well was seen the saxon's power their interest to betray; but now, to knowledge thanks, the gael are letter-wise as they. well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground, even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around; now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire, to all her native darkness she must in despair retire. each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scale will mount the inspirations of the language of the gael. * * * * * yes! now the trusty highlander aloft shall raise his head, as large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread; inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom, and well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home. no more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud- no more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud. o, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold, when he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old, in iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear; delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear, that sympathy or fondness ask,--and the sad world is fain to welcome its return to love and innocence again. footnotes: [18] composed on hearing of the late principal baird's successful expedition to the highlands, for the purpose of establishing the general assembly's schools. end of vol. v. edinburgh: printed by ballantyne and company. [illustration: the modern scottish minstrel; by charles rogers, ll.d. f.s.a. scot. vol. iv. campbell edinburgh: adam & charles black, north bridge, booksellers and publishers to the queen.] * * * * * [illustration: henry scott riddell. lithographed for the modern scottish minstrel, by schenck & mcfarlane.] * * * * * the modern scottish minstrel; or, the songs of scotland of the past half century. with memoirs of the poets, and sketches and specimens in english verse of the most celebrated modern gaelic bards. by charles rogers, ll.d., f.s.a. scot. in six volumes. vol iv. edinburgh: adam & charles black, north bridge, booksellers and publishers to her majesty. mdccclvii. edinburgh: printed by ballantyne and company, paul's work. to francis bennoch, esq., f.s.a., one of the most accomplished of living scottish song-writers, and the munificent patron of men of letters, this fourth volume of the modern scottish minstrel is dedicated, with sincere regard and esteem, by his very faithful servant, charles rogers. the influence of burns on scottish poetry and song: an essay. by the rev. george gilfillan. it is exceedingly difficult to settle the exact place of, as well as to compute the varied influences wielded by, a great original genius. every such mind borrows so much from his age and from the past, as well as communicates so much from his own native stores, that it is difficult to determine whether he be more the creature or the creator of his period. but, ere determining the influence exerted by burns on scottish song and poetry, it is necessary first to inquire what he owed to his predecessors in the art, as well as to the general scottish atmosphere of thought, feeling, scenery and manners. first of all, burns felt, in common with his _forbears_ in the genealogy of scottish song, the inspiring influences breathing from our mountain-land, and from the peculiar habits and customs of a "people dwelling alone, and not reckoned among the nations." he was not born in a district peculiarly distinguished for romantic beauty--we mean, in comparison with some other regions of scotland. the whole course of the ayr, as currie remarks, is beautiful; and beautiful exceedingly the brig of doon, especially as it now shines through the magic of the master's poetry. but it yields to many other parts of scotland, some of which burns indeed afterwards saw, although his matured genius was not much profited by the sight. ayrshire--even with the peaks of arran bounding the view seaward--cannot vie with the scenery around edinburgh; with stirling--its links and blue mountains; with "gowrie's carse, beloved of ceres, and clydesdale to pomona dear;" with straths tay and earn, with their two fine rivers flowing from finer lakes, through corn-fields, woods, and rocks, to melt into each other's arms in music, near the fair city of perth; with the wilder and stormier courses of the spey, the findhorn, and the dee; with the romantic and song-consecrated precincts of the border; with the "bonnie hills o' gallowa" and dumfriesshire; or with that transcendent mountain region stretching up along lochs linnhe, etive, and leven--between the wild, torn ridges of morven and appin--uniting ben cruachan to ben nevis, and including in its sweep the lonely and magnificent glencoe--a region unparalleled in wide britain for its quantity and variety of desolate grandeur, where every shape is bold, every shape blasted, but all blasted at such different angles as to produce endless diversity, and yet where the whole seems twisted into a certain terrible harmony; not to speak of the glorious isles "placed far amid the melancholy main," iona, which, being interpreted, means the "island of the waves," the rocky cradle of scotland's christianity; staffa with grass growing above the unspeakable grandeur which lurks in the cathedral-cave below, and cows peacefully feeding over the tumultuous surge which forms the organ of the eternal service; and skye, with its loch coriskin, piercing like a bright arrow the black breast of the shaggy hills of cuchullin. burns had around him only the features of ordinary scottish scenery, but from these he drank in no common draught of inspiration; and how admirably has he reproduced such simple objects as the "burn stealing under the lang yellow broom," and the "milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale," the "burnie wimplin' in its glen," and the "rough bur-thistle spreadin' wide amang the bearded bear." these objects constituted the poetry of his own fields; they were linked with his own joys, loves, memories, and sorrows, and these he felt impelled to enshrine in song. it may, indeed, be doubted if his cast of mind would have led him to sympathise with bold and savage scenery. in proof of this, we remember that, although he often had seen the gigantic ridges of arran looming through the purple evening air, or with the "morning suddenly spread" upon their summer summits, or with premature snow tinging their autumnal tops, he never once alludes to them, so far as we remember, either in his poetry or prose; and that although he spent a part of his youth on the wild smuggling coast of carrick, he has borrowed little of his imagery from the sea--none, we think, except the two lines in the "vision"- "i saw thee seek the sounding shore, delighted with the dashing roar." his descriptions are almost all of inland scenery. yet, that there was a strong sense of the sublime in his mind is manifest from the lines succeeding the above- "and when the north his fleecy store drove through the sky, i saw grim nature's visage hoar struck thy young eye;" as well as from the delight he expresses in walking beside a planting in a windy day, and listening to the blast howling through the trees and raving over the plain. perhaps his mind was most alive to the sublimity of _motion_, of agitation, of tumultuous energy, as exhibited in a snow-storm, or in the "torrent rapture" of winds and waters, because they seemed to sympathise with his own tempestuous passions, even as the fierce zanga, in the "revenge," during a storm, exclaims-- "i like this rocking of the battlements. rage on, ye winds; burst clouds, and waters roar! you bear a just resemblance of my fortune, and suit the gloomy habit of my soul." probably burns felt little admiration of the calm, colossal grandeur of mountain-scenery, where there are indeed vestiges of convulsion and agony, but where age has softened the storm into stillness, and where the memory of former strife and upheaving only serves to deepen the feeling of repose--vestiges which, like the wrinkles on the stern brow of the corsair, "speak of passion, but of passion past." with these records of bygone "majestic pains," on the other hand, the genius of milton and wordsworth seemed made to sympathise; and the former is never greater than standing on niphates mount with satan, or upon the "hill of paradise the highest" with michael, or upon the "specular mount" with the tempter and the saviour; and the latter is always most himself beside skiddaw or helvellyn. byron professes vast admiration for lochnagar and the alps; but the former is seen through the enchanting medium of distance and childish memory; and among the latter, his rhapsodies on mont blanc, and the cold "thrones of eternity" around him, are nothing to his pictures of torrents, cataracts, thunderstorms; in short, of all objects where unrest--the leading feeling in _his_ bosom--constitutes the principal element in _their_ grandeur. it is curious, by the way, how few good descriptions there exist in poetry of views _from_ mountains. milton has, indeed, some incomparable ones, but all imaginary--such, at least, as no actual mountain on earth can command; but, in other poets, we at this moment remember no good one. they seem always looking up _to_, not down from, mountains. wordsworth has given us, for example, no description of the view from skiddaw; and there does not exist, in any scottish poetical author, a first-rate picture of the view either from ben lomond, schehallion, ben cruachan, or ben nevis. after all, burns was more influenced by some other characteristics of scotland than he was by its scenery. there was, first, its romantic history. _that_ had not then been separated, as it has since been, from the mists of fable, but lay exactly in that twilight point of view best adapted for arousing the imagination. to the eye of burns, as it glared back into the past, the history of his country seemed intensely poetical--including the line of early kings who pass over the stage of boece' and buchanan's story as their brethren over the magic glass of macbeth's witches--equally fantastic and equally false--the dark tragedy of that terrible thane of glammis and cawdor--the deeds of wallace and bruce--the battle of flodden--and the sad fate of queen mary; and from most of these themes he drew an inspiration which could scarcely have been conceived to reside even in them. on wallace, bruce, and queen mary, his mind seems to have brooded with peculiar intensity--on the two former, because they were patriots; and on the latter, because she was a beautiful woman; and his allusions to them rank with the finest parts in his or any poetry. he seemed especially adapted to be the poet-laureate of wallace--a modern edition, somewhat improved, of the broad, brawny, ragged bard who actually, it is probable, attended in the train of scotland's patriot hero, and whose constant occupation it was to change the gold of his achievements into the silver of song. scottish manners, too, as well as history, exerted a powerful influence on scotland's peasant-poet. they were then far more peculiar than now, and had only been faintly or partially represented by previous poets. thus, the christening of the _wean_, with all its ceremony and all its mirth--hallowe'en, with its "rude awe and laughter"--the "rockin'"--the "brooze"--the bridal--and a hundred other intensely scottish and very old customs, were all ripe and ready for the poet, and many of them he has treated, accordingly, with consummate felicity and genius. it seems almost as if the _final cause_ of their long-continued existence were connected with the appearance, in due time, of one who was to extract their finest essence, and to embalm them for ever in his own form of ideal representation. burns, too, doubtless derived much from previous poets. this is a common case, as we have before hinted, with even the most original. had not shakspeare and milton been "celestial thieves," their writings would have been far less rich and brilliant than they are; although, had they not possessed true originality, they would not have taken their present lofty position in the world of letters. so, to say that burns was much indebted to his predecessors, and that he often imitated ramsay and fergusson, and borrowed liberally from the old ballads, is by no means to derogate from his genius. if he took, he gave with interest. the most commonplace songs, after they had, as he said, "got a brushing" from his hands, assumed a totally different aspect. each ballad was merely a piece of canvas, on which he inscribed his inimitable paintings. sometimes even by a single word he proclaimed the presence of the master-poet, and by a single stroke exalted a daub into a picture. his imitations of ramsay and fergusson far surpass the originals, and remind you of landseer's dogs, which seem better than the models from which he drew. when a king accepts a fashion from a subject, he glorifies it, and renders it the rage. it was in this royal style that burns treated the inferior writers who had gone before him; and although he highly admired and warmly praised them, he must have felt a secret sense of his own vast superiority. we come now shortly to speak of the influence he has exerted on scottish poetry. this was manifold. in the first place, a number were encouraged by his success to collect and publish their poems, although few of them possessed much merit; and he complained that some were a wretched "spawn" of mediocrity, which the sunshine of his fame had warmed and brought forth prematurely. lapraik, for instance, was induced by the praise of burns to print an edition of his poems, which turned out a total failure. there was only one good piece in it all, and _that_ was pilfered from an old magazine. secondly, burns exerted an inspiring influence on some men of real genius, who, we verily believe, would, but for burns, have never written, or, at least, written so well--such as alexander wilson, tannahill, macneil, hogg, and the numerous members of the "whistle-binkie" school. in all these writers we trace the influence of the large "lingering star" of the genius of burns. "wattie and meg," by wilson, when it first appeared anonymously, was attributed to burns. tannahill is, in much of his poetry, an echo of burns, although in song-writing he is a real original. macneil was roused by burns' praises of whisky to give a _per contra_, in his "scotland's scaith; or, the history of will and jean." and although the most of hogg's poetry is entirely original, we find the influence of burns distinctly marked in some of his songs--such as the "kye come hame." but there is a wider and more important light in which to regard the influence of our great national bard. he first fully revealed the interest and the beauty which lie in the simpler forms of scottish scenery, he darted light upon the peculiarities of scottish manners, and he opened the warm heart of his native land. scotland, previous to burns' poetry, was a spring shut up and a fountain sealed. "she lay like some unkenned-of isle ayont new holland." the glories of her lakes, her glens, her streams, her mountains, the hardy courage, the burning patriotism, the trusty attachments, the loves, the games, the superstitions, and the devotion of her inhabitants, were all unknown and unsuspected as themes for song till burns took them up, and less added glory than shewed the glory that was in them, and shewed also that they opened up a field nearly inexhaustible. writers of a very high order were thus attracted to scotland, not merely as their native country, but as a theme for poetry; and, while disdaining to imitate burns' poetry slavishly, and some of them not writing in verse at all, they found in scottish subjects ample scope for the exercise of their genius; and in some measure to his influence we may attribute the fictions of mrs hamilton and miss ferrier, scott's poems and novels, galt's, lockhart's, wilson's, delta's, and aird's tales and poetry, and much of the poetry of campbell, who, although he never writes in scotch, has embalmed, in his "lochiel's warning," "glenara," "lord ullin's daughter," some interesting subjects connected with scotland, and has, in "gertrude of wyoming," and in the "pilgrim of glencoe," made striking allusions to scottish scenery. that the progress of civilisation, apart from burns, would have ultimately directed the attention of cultivated men to a country so peculiar and poetical as scotland cannot be doubted; but the rise of burns hastened the result, as being itself a main element in propelling civilisation and diffusing genuine taste. his dazzling success, too, excited emulation in the breasts of our men of genius, as well as tended to exalt in their eyes a country which had produced such a stalwart and gifted son. we may, indeed, apply to the feeling of pride which animates scotchmen, and particularly scotchmen in other lands, at the thought of burns being their countryman, the famous lines of dryden- "men met each other with erected look, the steps were higher that they took; each to congratulate his friends made haste, and long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd." the poor man, says wilson, as he speaks of burns, always holds up his head and regards you with an elated look. scotland has become more venerable, more beautiful, more glorious in the eyes of her children, and a fitter theme for poetry, since the feet of burns rested on her fields, and since his ardent eyes glowed with enthusiasm as he saw her scenery, and as he sung her praise; while to many in foreign parts she is chiefly interesting as being (what a portion of her has long been called) the land of burns. the real successors of burns, it is thus manifest, were not tannahill or macneil, but sir walter scott, campbell, aird, delta, galt, allan cunningham, and professor wilson. to all of these, burns, along with nature, united in teaching the lessons of simplicity, of brawny strength, of clear common sense, and of the propriety of staying at home instead of gadding abroad in search of inspiration. all of these have been, like burns, more or less intensely scottish in their subjects and in their spirit. that burns' errors as a man have exerted a pernicious influence on many since, is, we fear, undeniable. he had been taught, by the lives of the "wits," to consider aberration, eccentricity, and "devil-may-careism" as prime badges of genius, and he proceeded accordingly to astonish the natives, many of whom, in their turn, set themselves to copy his faults. but when we subtract some half-dozen pieces, either coarse in language or equivocal in purpose, the influence of his poetry may be considered good. (we of course say nothing here of the volume called the "merry muses," still extant to disgrace his memory.) it is doubtful if his "willie brew'd a peck o' maut" ever made a drunkard, but it is certain that his "cottar's saturday night" has converted sinners, edified the godly, and made some erect family altars. it has been worth a thousand homilies. and, taking his songs as a whole, they have done much to stir the flames of pure love, of patriotism, of genuine sentiment, and of a taste for the beauties of nature. and it is remarkable that all his followers and imitators have, almost without exception, avoided his faults while emulating his beauties; and there is not a sentence in scott, or campbell, or aird, or delta, and not many in wilson or galt, that can be charged with indelicacy, or even coarseness. so that, on the whole, we may assert that, whatever evil he did by the example of his life, he has done very little--but, on the contrary, much good, both artistically and morally, by the influence of his poetry. contents. page henry scott riddell, 1 the wild glen sae green, 49 scotia's thistle, 50 the land of gallant hearts, 51 the yellow locks o' charlie, 52 we 'll meet yet again, 53 our ain native land, 54 the grecian war-song, 56 flora's lament, 57 when the glen all is still, 58 scotland yet, 58 the minstrel's grave, 60 my own land and loved one, 61 the bower of the wild, 62 the crook and plaid, 63 the minstrel's bower, 65 when the star of the morning, 66 though all fair was that bosom, 67 would that i were where wild-woods wave, 68 o tell me what sound, 69 our mary, 70 mrs margaret m. inglis, 73 sweet bard of ettrick's glen, 75 young jamie, 76 charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, 77 heard ye the bagpipe? 78 bruce's address, 79 removed from vain fashion, 80 when shall we meet again? 81 james king, 83 the lake is at rest, 85 life 's like the dew, 86 isobel pagan, 88 ca' the yowes to the knowes, 89 john mitchell, 90 beauty, 91 to the evening star, 92 o waft me to the fairy clime, 92 the love-sick maid, 93 alexander jamieson, 95 the maid who wove, 96 a sigh and a smile, 97 john goldie, 98 and can thy bosom, 100 sweet 's the dew, 101 robert pollok, 103 the african maid, 105 j. c. denovan, 106 oh! dermot, dear loved one, 107 john imlah, 108 kathleen, 109 hielan' heather, 110 farewell to scotland, 111 the rose of seaton vale, 112 katherine and donald, 113 guid nicht, and joy be wi' you a', 114 the gathering, 115 mary, 116 oh! gin i were where gadie rins, 117 john tweedie, 120 saw ye my annie? 121 thomas atkinson, 122 mary shearer, 124 william gardiner, 126 oh! scotland's hills for me, 127 robert hogg, 129 queen of fairy's song, 131 when autumn comes, 132 bonnie peggie, o! 133 a wish burst, 133 i love the merry moonlight, 135 oh, what are the chains of love made of? 136 john wright, 137 an autumnal cloud, 139 the maiden fair, 140 the old blighted thorn, 141 the wrecked mariner, 141 joseph grant, 143 the blackbird's hymn is sweet, 145 love's adieu, 146 dugald moore, 147 rise, my love, 149 julia, 150 lucy's grave, 152 the forgotten brave, 153 the first ship, 154 weep not, 155 to the clyde, 156 rev. t. g. torry anderson, 158 the araby maid, 160 the maiden's vow, 160 i love the sea, 162 george allan, 163 is your war-pipe asleep? 166 i will think of thee yet, 167 lassie, dear lassie, 168 when i look far down on the valley below me, 169 i will wake my harp when the shades of even, 170 thomas brydson, 172 all lovely and bright, 173 charles doyne sillery, 174 she died in beauty, 177 the scottish blue bells, 177 robert miller, 179 where are they? 179 lay of the hopeless, 180 alexander hume, 182 my wee, wee wife, 187 o, poverty! 187 nanny, 188 my bessie, 189 menie hay, 190 i 've wander'd on the sunny hill, 192 oh! years hae come, 193 my mountain hame, 194 thomas smibert, 195 the scottish widow's lament, 197 the hero of st. john d'acre, 199 oh! bonnie are the howes, 200 oh! say na you maun gang awa, 201 john bethune, 203 withered flowers, 207 a spring song, 208 allan stewart, 211 the sea boy, 212 menie lorn, 213 the young soldier, 214 the land i love, 215 robert l. malone, 216 the thistle of scotland, 217 hame is aye hamely, 218 peter still, 220 jeanie's lament, 221 ye needna be courtin' at me, 222 the bucket for me, 223 robert nicoll, 225 ordã© braes, 228 the muir o' gorse and broom, 229 the bonnie hieland hills, 230 the bonnie rowan bush, 231 bonnie bessie lee, 233 archibald stirling irving, 235 the wild rose blooms, 236 alexander a. ritchie, 237 the wells o' wearie, 239 alexander laing, 241 ae happy hour, 243 lass gin ye wad lo'e me, 244 lass of logie, 245 my ain wife, 246 the maid o' montrose, 247 jean of aberdeen, 249 the hopeless exile, 250 glen-na-h'albyn, 250 alexander carlile, 252 wha 's at the window, 253 my brothers are the stately trees, 254 the vale of killean, 255 john nevay, 257 the emigrant's love-letter, 259 thomas lyle, 261 kelvin grove, 264 the trysting hour, 265 harvest song, 266 james home, 267 mary steel, 268 oh, hast thou forgotten? 269 the maid of my heart, 270 song of the emigrant, 271 this lassie o' mine, 272 james telfer, 273 oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me? 273 i maun gae over the sea, 275 metrical translations from the modern gaelic minstrelsy. page evan maclachlan, 279 a melody of love, 281 the mavis of the clan, 282 john brown, 286 the sisters of dunolly, 287 charles stewart, d.d., 289 luineag--a love carol, 290 angus fletcher, 292 the clachan of glendaruel, 292 the lassie of the glen, 294 * * * * * glossary, 295 the modern scottish minstrel. henry scott riddell. henry scott riddell, one of the most powerful and pleasing of the living national song-writers, was born on the 23d september 1798, at sorbie, in the vale of ewes--a valley remarkable for its pastoral beauty, lying in the south-east of dumfriesshire. his father was a shepherd, well acquainted with the duties of his profession, and a man of strong though uneducated mind. "my father, while i was yet a child," writes mr riddell, in a ms. autobiography, "left sorbie; but when i had become able to traverse both _burn_ and _brae_, hill and glen, i frequently returned to, and spent many weeks together in, the vale of my nativity. we had gone, under the same employer, to what pastoral phraseology terms '_an out-bye herding_,' in the wilds of eskdalemuir, called langshawburn. here we continued for a number of years, and had, in this remote, but most friendly and hospitable district, many visitors, ranging from sir pulteney malcolm down to jock gray, whom sir walter scott, through one of his strange mistakes, called davy gellatly.... among others who constituted a part of the company of these days, was one whom i have good reason to remember--the ettrick shepherd. nor can i forbear observing that his seemed one of those hearts that do not become older in proportion as the head grows gray. cheerful as the splendour of heaven, he carried the feelings, and, it may be said, the simplicity and pursuits of youth, into his maturer years; and if few of the sons of men naturally possessed such generous influence in promoting, so likewise few enjoyed so much pleasure in participating in the expedients of recreation, and the harmless glee of those who meet under the rural roof--the shepherd's _bien_ and happy home. this was about the time when hogg began to write, or at least to publish: as i can remember from the circumstance of my being able to repeat the most part of the pieces in his first publication by hearing them read by others before i could read them myself. it may, perhaps, be worth while to state that at these meetings the sons of farmers, and even of lairds, did not disdain to make their appearance, and mingle delightedly with the lads that wore the crook and plaid. where pride does not come to chill nor foppery to deform homely and open-hearted kindness, yet where native modesty and self-respect induce propriety of conduct, society possesses its own attractions, and can subsist on its own resources. "at these happy meetings i treasured up a goodly store of old border ballads, as well as modern songs; for in those years of unencumbered and careless existence, i could, on hearing a song, or even a ballad, sung twice, have fixed it on my mind word for word. my father, with his family, leaving langshawburn, went to capplefoot, on the water of milk, and there for one year occupied a farm belonging to thomas beattie, esq. of muckledale, and who, when my father was in ewes, had been his friend. my employment here was, along with a younger brother, to tend the cows. in the winter season we entered the corrie school, but had only attended a short while when we both took fever, and our attendance was not resumed. at langshawburn, my father for several winters hired a person into his house, who taught his family and that of a neighbouring shepherd. in consequence of our distance from any place of regular education, i had also been boarded at several schools--at devington in eskdale, roberton on borthwick water, and newmill on the teviot, at each of which, however, i only remained a short time, making, i suppose, such progress as do other boys who love the football better than the spelling-book. "at the whitsunday term my father relinquished his farm, and returned to his former employment in the forest of ettrick, under mr scott of deloraine, to whom he had been a shepherd in his younger days. with this family, indeed, and that of mr borthwick, then of sorbie, and late of hopesrigg, all his years since he could wear the plaid were passed, with the exception of the one just mentioned. it was at deloraine that i commenced the shepherd's life in good earnest. through the friendly partiality of our employer, i was made principal shepherd at an age considerably younger than it is usual for most others to be intrusted with so extensive a _hirsel_[1] as was committed to my care. i had by this time, however, served what might be regarded as a regular apprenticeship to the employment, which almost all sons of shepherds do, whether they adhere to herding sheep in after-life or not. seasons and emergencies not seldom occur when the aid which the little boy can lend often proves not much less availing than that of the grown-up man. education in this line consequently commences early. a knowledge of the habits, together with the proper treatment of sheep, and therefore of pastoral affairs in general, 'grows with the growth' of the individual, and becomes, as it were, a portion of his nature. i had thus assisted my father more or less all along; and when a little older, though still a mere boy, i went for a year to a friend at glencotha, in holmswater, as assistant shepherd or lamb-herd. another year in the same capacity i was with a shepherd in wester buccleuch. it was at glencotha that i first made a sustained attempt to compose in rhyme. when in wester buccleuch my life was much more lonely, and became more tinged with thoughts and feelings of a romantic cast. owing to the nature of the stock kept on the farm, it was my destiny day after day to be out among the mountains during the whole summer season from early morn till the fall of even. but the long summer days, whether clear or cloudy, never seemed long to me--i never wearied among the wilds. my flocks being _hirsled_, as it is expressed, required vigilance: but, if this was judiciously maintained, the task was for the most part an easy and pleasant one. i know not if it be worth while to mention that the hills and glens on which my charge pastured at this period formed a portion of what in ancient times was termed the forest of rankleburn. the names of places in the district, though there were no other more intelligible traditions, might serve to shew that it is a range of country to which both kings and nobles had resorted. if from morning to night i was away far from the homes of living men, i was not so in regard to those of the dead. where a lesser stream from the wild uplands comes down and meets the rankleburn, a church or chapel once stood, surrounded, like most other consecrated places of the kind, by a burial-ground. there tradition says that five dukes, some say kings, lie buried under a marble stone. i had heard that sir walter, then mr scott, had, a number of years previously, made a pilgrimage to this place, for the purpose of discovering the sepulchres of the great and nearly forgotten dead, but without success. this, however, tended, in my estimation, to confirm the truth of the tradition; and having enough of time and opportunity, i made many a toilsome effort of a similar nature, with the same result. with hills around, wild and rarely trodden, and the ceaseless yet ever-varying tinkling of its streams, together with the mysterious echoes which the least stir seemed to awaken, the place was not only lonely, but also creative of strange apprehensions, even in the hours of open day. it is strange that the heart will fear the dead, which, perhaps, never feared the living. though i could muster and maintain courage to dig perseveringly among the dust of the long-departed when the sun shone in the sky, yet when the shadow of night was coming, or had come down upon the earth, the scene was sacredly secure from all inroad on my part: and to make the matter sufficiently intelligible, i may further mention that, some years afterwards, when i took a fancy one evening to travel eight miles to meet some friends in a shepherd's lone muirland dwelling, i made the way somewhat longer for the sake of evading the impressive loneliness of this locality. i had no belief that i should meet accusing spirits of the dead; but i disliked to be troubled in waging war with those _eery_ feelings which are the offspring of superstitious associations. "while a lamb-herd at buccleuch, i read when i could get a book which was not already threadbare. i had a few chisels, and files, and other tools, with which i took pleasure in constructing, of wood or bone, pieces of mechanism; and i kept a diary in which i wrote many minute and trivial matters, as well, no doubt as i then thought, many a sage observation. in this, likewise, i wrote rude rhymes on local occurrences. but i have anticipated a little. on returning home from glencotha, and two years before i went to buccleuch, a younger brother and i had still another round at herding cattle, which pastured in a park near by my father's cottage. our part was to protect a meadow which formed a portion of it; and the task being easy to protect that for which the cattle did not much care, nor yet could skaithe greatly though they should trespass upon it, we were far too idle not to enter upon and prosecute many a wayward and unprofitable ploy. our predilections for taming wild birds--the wilder by nature the better--seemed boundless; and our family of hawks, and owls, and ravens was too large not to cost us much toil, anxiety, and even sorrow. we fished in the ettrick and the lesser streams. these last suited our way of it best, since we generally fished with staves and plough-spades--thus far, at least, honourably giving the objects of our pursuit a fair chance of escape. when the hay had been won, we went to ettrick school, at which we continued throughout the winter, travelling to and from it daily, though it lay at the distance of five miles. this we, in good weather, accomplished conveniently enough; but it proved occasionally a serious and toilsome task through wind and rain, or keen frost and deep snow, when winter days and the mountain blasts came on. "my father after being three years in stanhopefoot, on the banks of the ettrick, went to deloraineshiels, an _out-bye herding_, under the same employer. in the winter season either i or some other of the family assisted him; but so often as the weather was fine, we went to a school instituted by a farmer in the neighbourhood for behoof of his own family. when by and by i went to herd the _hirsel_ which my father formerly tended, like most other regular shepherds i delighted in and was proud of the employment. a considerable portion of another _hirsel_ lying contiguous, and which my elder brother herded, was for the summer season of the year added to mine, so that this already large was made larger; but exempted as i was from attending to aught else but my flock, i had pleasant days, for i loved the wilds among which it had become alike my destiny and duty to walk at will, and 'view the sheep thrive bonnie.' the hills of ettrick are generally wild and green, and those of them on which i daily wandered, musing much and writing often, were as high, green, and wild, as any of them all.... it may be the partiality arising from early habit which induces me to think that a man gets the most comprehensive and distinct view of any subject which may occupy thought when he is walking, provided fatigue has not overtaken him. mental confidence awake amid the stir seems increased by the exercise of bodily power, and becomes free and fearless as the step rejoicing in the ample scope afforded by the broad green earth and circumambient sky. on the same grounds, i have sometimes marvelled if it might not be the majesty of motion, as one may say, reigning around the seaman's soul, that made his heart so frank in communication, and in action his arm so vigorously energetic. at all events, there was in these days always enough around one to keep interest more or less ardent awake- "'prompting the heart to pour the impassion'd strain afar 'mid solitude's eternal reign, in numbers fearless all as unconfined, and wild as wailings of the desert wind.' "according to my ability i studied while wandering among the mountains, and at intervals, adopting my knee for my desk, wrote down the results of my musing. let not the shepherd ever forget his dog--his constant companion and best friend, and without which all his efforts would little avail! mine knew well the places where in my rounds i was wont to pause, and especially the majestic seat which i occupied so often on the loftiest peak of stanhopelaw. it had also an adopted spot of rest the while, and, confident of my habits, would fold itself down upon it ere i came forward; and would linger still, look wistful, and marvel why if at any time i passed on without making my wonted delay. i did not follow these practices only 'when summer days were fine.' the lines of an epistle written subsequently will convey some idea of my habits:- "'my early years were pass'd far on the hills of ettrick wild and lone; through summer sheen and winter shade tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd. in bold enthusiastic glee i sung rude strains of minstrelsy, which mingling with died o'er the dale, unheeded as the plover's wail. oft where the waving rushes shed a shelter frail around my head, weening, though not through hopes of fame, to fix on these more lasting claim, i'd there secure in rustic scroll the wayward fancies of the soul. even where yon lofty rocks arise, hoar as the clouds on wintry skies, wrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath the colder cone of drifted wreath, i noted them afar from ken, till ink would freeze within the pen; so deep the spell which bound the heart unto the bard's undying art- so rapt the charm that still beguiled the minstrel of the mountains wild.' "the ancients had a maxim--'revenge is sweet.' in rural, as well as in other life, there are things said and done which are more or less ungenerous. these, if at any time they came my way, i repelled as best i might. but i did not stop here; whether such matters, when occurring, might concern myself as an individual or not, i took it upon me, as if i had been a 'learned judge,' to write satires upon such persons as i knew or conceived to have spoken or acted in aught contrary to good manners. these squibs were written through the impulse of offended feeling, or the stirrings of that injudicious spirit which sometimes prompts a man to exercise a power merely because he possesses it. they were still, after all, only as things of private experiment, and not intended ever to go forth to the world--though it happened otherwise. i usually carried a lot of these writings in my hat, and by and by, unlike most other young authors, i got a publisher unsought for. this was the wind, which, on a wild day, swept my hat from my head, and tattering its contents asunder from their fold, sent them away over hill and dale like a flock of wild fowl. i recovered some where they had halted in bieldy places; others of them went further, and fell into other hands, and particularly into those of a neighbour, who, a short while previously, had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the march which ran between us. he found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an epistle which, i daresay, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to him but the unblushing mountain blast. he complained to others, whom he found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went disagreeably abroad. my master, through good taste and feeling, was vexed, as i understood, that i should have done anything that gave ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself; but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me upon the hill, and not in very good humour, disapproved of my imprudent conduct. as for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the mean of revealing what i had hitherto concealed--procuring for me a sort of local popularity little to be envied. i made the best improvement of it, as i then thought, that lay in my power--by writing a satire upon myself. "i continued shepherd at deloraine two years, and then went in the same capacity to the late mr knox of todrigg; and if at the former place i had been well and happy, here i was still more so. his son william, the poet of 'the lonely hearth,' paid me much friendly attention. he commended my verses, and augured my success as one of the song-writers of my native land. in those days, i did not write with the most remote view to publication. my aim did not extend beyond the gratification of hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or lass, as time and place might favour. and when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home from the hill, and 'the kye were in the loan,' i did hear this much, i thought, no doubt, that "'the swell and fall of these wild tones were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.' "william crozier, author of 'the cottage muse,' was also my neighbour and friend at todrigg, during the summer part of the year; and even at this hour i feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial sunshine of those departed days. i rejoice to dwell upon those remote and rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years of life was so continually cast; few may well conceive how distinctly i can recall them. memory, which seems often to constitute the mind itself, more, perhaps, than any other faculty, can set them so brightly before me, as if they were painted on a dark midnight sky with brushes dipped in the essence of living light. to appreciate thoroughly the grandeur of the mountain solitudes, it is necessary to have dwelt among the scenes, and to have looked upon them at every season of the ever-changing year. they are fresh with solemn beauty, when bathed in the deep dews of a summer morning; or in autumn, if you have attained to the border of the mystery which has overhung your path, and therefore to a station high enough for the survey, all that meets the eye shall be as a dream of poetry itself. the deep folds of white vapour fill up glen and hollow, till the summit of the mountains, near and far away--far as sight itself can penetrate--are only seen tinged with the early radiance of the sun, the whole so combined as to appear a limitless plain of variegated marble, peaceful as heaven, and solemnly serene as eternity. what winter writes with his frozen finger i need not state. when the venerable old man, gladstanes, perished among the stormy blasts of these wilds, i was one of about threescore of men who for three days traversed them in search of the dead. then was the scenery of the mountains impressive, much beyond what can well be spoken. the bridal that loses the bride through some wayward freak of the fair may be sad enough; so also the train, in its dark array, that conveys the familiar friend to the chamber where the light of nature cannot come. but in this latter case, the hearts that still beat, necessarily know that their part is resignation, and suspense and anxiety mingle not in the mood of the living, as it relates to the dead; but otherwise is it with those who seem already constituting the funeral train of one who should have been--yet who is not there to be buried. "'the feeling is nameless that makes us unglad, and a strange, wild dismayment it brings; which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad desolation of men and of things. * * * * * "'the hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way, when his aim and his pathway were lost; and effort has then oft too much of dismay to pay well the toil it may cost. if fate has its privilege, death has its power, and is fearful where'er it may fall, but worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor, where all that approaches portends to devour, nor fixes till first it appal. "'no mercy obtains in the tempests that rave, by the sky-frozen elements fed, and there comes no hand that is willing to save, and soothe, till the spirit be fled; but the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break o'er the frail in the solitude cast, and howl in their strength and impatience to take their course to commix with the roar of the lake where it flings forth its foam on the blast. "'lo! 'neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak, another of adam lay lone, where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak, by the strife of the tempest o'erthrown. no raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled, if there he had yet come abroad, and the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed, which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead when the spirit return'd to its god.' * * * * * these are a few out of many more lines written on this subject, which at the time was so deeply interesting to mind and heart." mr riddell here states that his poetical style of composition about this period underwent a considerable change. he laid aside his wayward wit for serious sentiment, an improvement which he ascribes to his admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young knox. "my fortune in life," he proceeds, "had not placed me within the reach of a library, and i had read almost none; and although i had attempted to write, i merely followed the course which instinct pointed out. need i state further, that if in these days i employed my mind and pen among the mountains as much as possible, my thoughts also often continued to pursue the same practice, even when among others, by the 'farmer's ingle.' i retired to rest when others retired, but if not outworn by matters of extra toil, the ardour of thought, through love of the poet's undying art, would, night after night for many hours, debar the inroads of sleep. the number of schools which i have particularised as having attended may occasion some surprise at the deficiency of my scholarship. for this, various reasons are assignable, all of which, however, hinge upon these two formidable obstacles--the inconveniency of local position, and the thoughtless inattention of youth. in remote country places, long and rough ways, conjoined not unfrequently with wild weather, require that children, before they can enter school, be pretty well grown up; consequently, they quit it the sooner. they are often useful at home in the summer season, or circumstances may destine them to hire away. among these inconveniences, one serious drawback is, that the little education they do get is rarely obtained continuously, and regular progress is interrupted. much of what has been gained is lost during the intervals of non-attendance, and every new return to the book is little else than a new beginning. so was it with me. at the time when my father hired a teacher into his house, it was for what is termed the winter quarter, and i was then somewhat too young to be tied down to the regular routine of school discipline; and if older when boarded away, the other obstruction to salutary progress began to operate grievously against me. i acquired bit by bit the common education--reading, writing, and arithmetic. so far as i remember, grammar was not much taught at any of these schools, and the spelling of words was very nearly as little attended to as the meaning which they are appointed to convey was explained or sought after. "but the non-understanding of words is less to be marvelled at than that a man should not understand himself. at this hour i cannot conceive how i should have been so recklessly careless about learning and books when at school, and yet so soon after leaving it seriously inclined towards them. i see little else for it than to suppose that boys who are bred where they have no companions are prone to make the most of companionship when once attained to. and then, in regard to books, as of these i rarely got more than what might serve as a whet to the appetite, i might have the desire of those whose longings after what they would obtain are increased by the difficulties which interpose between them and the possession. one book which in school i sometimes got a glance of, i would have given anything to possess: this was a small volume entitled, 'the three hundred animals.' "i cannot forbear mentioning that, when at deloraine, i was greatly advantaged by an old woman, called mary hogg, whose cottage stood on an isolated corner of the lands on which my flock pastured. her husband had been a shepherd, who, many years previous to this period, perished in a snow-storm. in her youth she had opportunities of reading history, and other literature, and she did not only remember well what she had read, but could give a distinct and interesting account of it. in going my wonted rounds, few days there were on which i did not call and listen to her intelligent conversation. she was a singularly good woman--a sincere christian; and the books which she lent me were generally of a religious kind, such as the 'pilgrim's progress,' and the 'holy war;' but here i also discovered a romance, the first which i had ever seen. it was printed in the gothic letter, and entitled 'prissimus, the renowned prince of bohemia.' particular scenes and characters in 'ivanhoe' reminded me strikingly of those which i had formerly met with in this old book of black print. and i must mention that few books interested me more than 'bailey's dictionary.' day after day i bore it to the mountains, and i have an impression that it was a more comprehensive edition of the work than i have ever since been able to meet with. "at todrigg my reading was extended; and having begun more correctly to appreciate what i did read, the intention which i had sometimes entertained gathered strength: this was to make an effort to obtain a regular education. the consideration of the inadequacy of my means had hitherto bridled my ambition; but having herded as a regular shepherd nearly three years, during which i had no occasion to spend much of my income, my prospects behoved to be a little more favourable. it was in this year that the severest trial which had yet crossed my path had to be sustained. the death of my father overthrew my happier mood; at the same time, instead of subduing my secret aim, the event rather strengthened my determination. my portion of my father's worldly effects added something considerable to my own gainings; and, resigning my situation, i bade farewell to the crook and plaid. i went to biggar, in clydesdale, where i knew the schoolmaster was an approved classical scholar. besides, my glencotha reminiscences tended to render me partial to this part of the world, and in the village i had friends with whom i could suitably reside. the better to insure attention to what i was undertaking, i judged it best to attend school during the usual hours. a learner was already there as old in years, and nearly as stout in form, as myself, so that i escaped from the wonderment which usually attaches to singularity much more comfortably than i anticipated. there were also two others in the school, who had formerly gone a considerable way in the path of classic lore, and had turned aside, but who, now repenting of their apostasy, returned to their former faith. these were likewise well grown up, and i may state that they are now both eminent as scholars and public men. the individual first mentioned and i sat in the master's desk, which he rarely, if ever, occupied himself; and although we were diligent upon the whole, yet occasionally our industry and conduct as learners were far from deserving approbation. to me the confinement was frequently irksome and oppressive, especially when the days were bright with the beauty of sunshine. there were ways, woods, and even wilds, not far apart from the village, which seemed eternally wooing the step to retirement, and the mind to solitary contemplation. some verses written in this school have been preserved, which will convey an idea of the cast of feeling which produced them:- "discontented and uncheery, of this noise and learning weary, half my mind, to madness driven, woos the lore by nature given; 'mong fair fields and flowing fountains, lonely glens and lofty mountains, charm'd with nature's wildest grandeur, lately wont was i to wander, wheresoever fancy led me, came no barrier to impede me; still from early morn till even, in the light of earth and heaven, musing on whatever graces, livelier scenes or lonelier places, till a nameless pleasure found me living, like a dream, around me,- how, then, may i be contented, thus confined and thus tormented! "'still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather to be roaming through the heather; and where flow'd the stream so glassy, 'mong its flowers and margins mossy, where the flocks at noon their path on came to feed by birk and hawthorn; or upon the mountain lofty, seated where the wind blew softly, with my faithful friend beside me, and my plaid from sun to hide me, and the volume oped before me, i would trace the minstrel's story, or mine own wild harp awaken, 'mid the deep green glens of braken, free and fearlessly revealing all the soul of native feeling. "''stead of that eternal humming, to the ear for ever coming- humming of these thoughtless beings, in their restless pranks and pleaings; and the sore-provoked preceptor roaring, "silence!"--o'er each quarter silence comes, as o'er the valley, where all rioted so gaily, when the sudden bursting thunder overpowers with awe and wonder- till again begins the fuss- 'master, jock's aye nippin' us!' i could hear the fountains flowing, where the light hill-breeze was blowing, and the wild-wing'd plover wailing, round the brow of heaven sailing; bleating flocks and skylarks singing, echo still to echo ringing- sounds still, still so wont to waken that no note of them is taken, yet which seem to lend assistance to the blessing of existence. "'who shall trow thee wise or witty, lore of "the eternal city," or derive delight and pleasure from the blood-stain'd deeds of cã¦sar, thus bewildering his senses 'mong these cases, moods, and tenses? still the wrong-placed words arranging, ever in their finals changing; out and in with hic and hockings, like a loom for working stockings. latin lords and grecian heroes- oh, ye gods, in mercy spare us! how may mortals be contented, thus confined and thus tormented!' "my teacher, the late richard scott, was an accurate classical scholar, which perhaps accounts for his being, unlike some others of his profession, free from pedantry. he was kind-hearted and somewhat disposed to indolence, loving more to converse with one of my years than to instruct him in languages. he had seen a good deal of the world and its ways, and i learned much from him besides greek and latin. we were great friends and companions, and rarely separate when both of us were unengaged otherwise. "i bore aloof from making many acquaintances; yet, ere long, i became pretty extensively acquainted with the people of the place. it went abroad that i was a bard from the mountains, and the rumour affixed to me a popularity which i did not enjoy. a party of young men in the village had prepared themselves to act 'the douglas tragedy,' and wished a song, which was to be sung between this and the farce. the air was of their own fixing, and which, in itself, was wild and beautiful; but, unfortunately, like many others of our national airs possessed of these qualities, it was of a measure such as rendered it difficult to write words for. since precluded from introducing poetic sentiment, i substituted a dramatic plot, and being well sung by alternate voices, the song was well received, and so my fame was enhanced. "it was about this time that i wrote 'the crook and plaid'--not by request, but with the intention of supplanting a song, i think of english origin, called 'the plough-boy,' and of a somewhat questionable character. 'the crook and plaid' accomplished the end intended, and soon became popular throughout the land. so soon as i got a glimpse of the roman language, i began to make satisfactory progress in its acquisition. but i daily wrote more or less in my old way--now also embracing in my attempts prose as well as verse. i wrote a border romance. this was more strongly than correctly expressed. hogg, who took the trouble of reading it, gave me his opinion, by saying that there were more rawness and more genius in it than in any work he had seen. it, sometime afterwards, had also the honour of being read--for i never offered it for publication--by one who felt much interest in the characters and plot--professor wilson's lady--who, alas! went too early to where he himself also now is; lost, though not to fond recollection, yet to love and life below. i contributed some papers to the _clydesdale magazine_, and i sent a sort of poetic tale to the editor, telling him to do with it whatever he might think proper. he published it anonymously, and it was sold about clydesdale. "my intention had been to qualify myself for the university, and, perhaps in regard to latin and greek acquirements, i might have proceeded thither earlier than i ventured to do; but having now made myself master of my more immediate tasks, i took more liberty. a gentleman, who, on coming home after having made his fortune abroad, took up his residence at biggar. i had, in these days, an aversion to coming into contact with rich strangers, and although he lived with a family which i was accustomed to visit, i bore aloof from being introduced to him. but he came to me one day on the hill of bizzie-berry, and frankly told me that he wished to be acquainted with me, and therefore had taken the liberty of introducing himself. i found excuse for not dining with him on that day, but not so the next, nor for many days afterwards. he was intellectual--and his intelligence was only surpassed by his generosity. he gave me to understand that his horse was as much at my service as his own; and one learned, by and by, to keep all wishes and wants as much out of view as possible, in case that they should be attended to when you yourself had forgotten them. when he began to rally me about my limited knowledge of the world, i knew that some excursion was in contemplation. we, on one occasion, rode down the clyde, finding out, so far as we might, all things, both natural and artificial, worthy of being seen; and when at greenock, he was anxious that we should have gone into the highlands, but i resisted; for although not so much as a shade of the expenses was allowed to fall on me, i felt only the more ashamed of the extent of them. "i had become acquainted with a number of people whom i delighted to visit occasionally; one family in particular, who lived amid the beauty of 'the wild glen sae green.' the song now widely known by this name i wrote for a member of this delightful family, who at that time herded one of the _hirsels_ of his father's flocks on 'the heathy hill.' with the greater number of persons in the district possessing literary tastes i became more or less intimate. the schoolmasters i found friendly and obliging; one of these, in particular (now holding a higher office in the same locality), i often visited. his high poetic taste convinced me more and more of the value of mental culture, and tended to subdue me from those more rugged modes of expression in which i took a pride in conveying my conceptions. with this interesting friend i sometimes took excursions into rural regions more or less remote, and once we journeyed to the south, when i had the pleasure of introducing him to the ettrick shepherd. but of my acquaintances, i valued few more than my modest and poetic friend, the late james brown of symington.[2] though humble in station, he was high in virtuous worth. his mind, imbued with and regulated by sound religious and moral principle, was as ingenious and powerful as his heart was 'leal, warm, and kind.' "entering the university of edinburgh, i took for the first session the greek and latin classes. attending them regularly, i performed the incumbent exercises much after the manner that others did--only, as i have always understood it to be a rare thing with the late mr dunbar, the greek professor, to give much praise to anything in the shape of poetry, i may mention that marked merit was ascribed to me in his class for a poetical translation of one of the odes of anacreon. i had laid the translation on his desk, in an anonymous state, one day before the assembling of the class. he read it and praised it, expressing at the same time his anxiety to know who was the translator; but the translator having intended not to acknowledge it, kept quiet. he returned to it, and praising it anew, expressed still more earnestly his desire to know the author; and so i made myself known, as all _great unknowns_ i think, with the exception of junius, are sooner or later destined to do. "of the philosophical classes, those that i liked best were the logic and moral philosophy--particularly the latter. i have often thought that it is desirable, could it be possibly found practicable, to have all the teachers of the higher departments of education not merely of high scholastic acquirements, but of acknowledged genius. youth reveres genius, and delights to be influenced by it; heart and spirit are kept awake and refreshed by it, and everything connected with its forthgivings is rendered doubly memorable. it fixes, in a certain sense, the limit of expectation, and the prevailing sentiment is--we are under the tuition of the highest among those on earth who teach; if we do not profit here, we may not hope to do so elsewhere. these remarks i make with a particular reference to the late professor wilson, under the influence of whose genius and generous warmth of heart many have felt as i was wont to feel. if it brings hope and gladness to love and esteem the living, it also yields a satisfaction, though mingled with regret, to venerate the dead; and now that he is no more, i cannot forbear recording how he treated a man from the mountains who possessed no previous claim upon his attention. i had no introduction to him, but he said that he had heard of me, and would accept of no fee for his class when i joined it; at least he would not do so, he said, till i should be able to inform him whether or not i had been pleased with his lectures. but it proved all the same in this respect at the close as it was at the commencement of the session. he invited me frequently to his house as a friend, when other friends were to meet him there, besides requesting me to come and see him and his family whenever i could make it convenient. he said that his servant john was very perverse, and would be sure to drive me by like all others, if he possibly could; so he gave me a watchword, which he thought john, perverse as he was, would not venture to resist. i thus became possessed of a privilege of which i did not fail to avail myself frequently--a privilege which might well have been gratifying to such as were much less enthusiastic with regard to literary men and things than i was. to share in the conversation of those possessed of high literary taste and talent, and, above all, of poetic genius, is the highest enjoyment afforded by society; and if it be thus gratifying, it is almost unnecessary to add that it is also advantageous in no ordinary degree, if, indeed, properly appreciated and improved. any one who ever met the late professor in the midst of his own happy family, constituted as it was when i had this pleasure, was not likely soon to forget a scene wherein so much genius, kindness, loveliness, and worth were blended. if the world does not think with a deep and undying regret of what once adorned it, and it has now lost, through the intervention of those shadows which no morning but the eternal one can remove, i am one, at least, who in this respect cannot follow its example. "edinburgh, with its 'palaces and towers,' and its many crowded ways, was at first strangely new to me, being as different, in almost all respects, to what i had been accustomed as it might seem possible for contrariety to make earthly things. though i had friends in it, and therefore was not solitary, yet its tendency, like that of the noisy and restless sea, was to render me melancholy. some features which the congregated condition of mankind exhibited penetrated my heart with something like actual dismay. i had seen nothing of the sort, nor yet even so much as a semblance of it, and therefore i had no idea that there existed such a miserable shred of degradation, for example, as a cinder-woman--desolate and dirty as her employment--bowed down--a shadow among shadows--busily prone, beneath the sheety night sky, to find out and fasten upon the crumb, whose pilgrimage certainly had not improved it since falling from the rich man's table. compassion, though not naturally so, becomes painful when entertained towards those whom we believe labouring under suffering which we fain would but cannot alleviate. "i had enough of curiosity for wishing to see all those things which others spoke of, and characterised as worthy of being seen; but i contented myself meanwhile with a survey of the city's external attributes. in a week or two, however, my friend a. f. harrower, formerly mentioned, having come into town from clydesdale, took pleasure in finding out whatever could interest or gratify me, and of conveying me thither. with very few exceptions, every forenoon he called at my lodgings, leaving a note requesting me to meet him at some specified time and place. i sometimes sent apologies, and at other times went personally to apologise; but neither of these methods answered well. through his persevering attentions towards me, i met with much agreeable society, and saw much above as well as somewhat below the earth, which i might never otherwise have seen. in illustration of the latter fact, i may state that, having gone to london, he returned with two englishmen, when he invited me to assist them in exploring the battle-field of pinkie. we terminated our excursion by descending one of sir john hope's coal-pits. these humorous and frank english associates amused themselves by bantering my friend and myself about the chastisement which scotland received from the sister kingdom at pinkie. as did the young rustic countryman--or, at least, was admonished to do--so did i. when going away to reside in england, he asked his father if he had any advice to give him. 'nane, jock, nane but this,' he said; 'dinna forget to avenge the battle o' pinkie on them.' ere i slept i wrote, in support of our native land, the song--'ours is the land of gallant hearts;' and thus, in my own way, 'avenged the battle of pinkie.' "one of two other friends with whom i delighted to associate was r. b., an early school companion, who, having left the mountains earlier than i did, had now been a number of years in edinburgh. of excellent head and generous heart, he loved the wild, green, and deep solitudes of nature. the other--g. m'd.--was of powerful and bold intellect, and remarkable for a retentive memory. each of us, partial to those regions where nature strives to maintain her own undisturbed dominion, on all holidays hied away from the city, to the woodland and mountainous haunts, or the loneliness of the least frequented shores of the sea. the spirit of our philosophy varied much--sometimes profound and solemn, and sometimes humorous; but still we philosophised, wandering on. they were members of a literary society which met once a week, and which i joined. my propensity to study character and note its varieties was here afforded a field opening close upon me; but i was also much profited by performing my part in carrying forward the business of the institution. during all the sessions that i attended the university, but especially as these advanced toward their termination, i entered into society beyond that which might be regarded as professionally literary. i had an idea then, as i still have, that, in every process of improvement, care should be taken that one department of our nature is not cultivated to the neglect of another. there are two departments--the intellectual and the moral;--the one implying all that is rational, the other comprising whatever pertains to feeling and passion, or, more simply, there are the head and the heart; and if the intellect is to be cultivated, the heart is not to be allowed to run into wild waste, nor to sink into systematic apathy. lore-lighted pages and unremitting abstract studies will make a man learned; but knowledge is not wisdom; and to know much is not so desirable, because it is not so beneficial, either to ourselves or others, as to understand, through the more generous and active sympathies of our nature, how the information which we possess may be best applied to useful purposes. this we shall not well know, if the head be allowed or encouraged to leave the heart behind. if we forget society it will forget us, and, through this estrangement, a sympathetic knowledge of human nature may be lost. thus, in the haunts of seclusion and solitary thought our acquirements may only prove availing to ourselves as matters of self-gratification. the benevolent affections, which ought not merely to be allowed, but taught to expand, may thus not only be permitted but encouraged to contract, and the exercise of that studious ingenuity, which perhaps leads the world to admire the achievements of learning, thus deceive us into a state of existence little better than cold selfishness itself. sir isaac newton, who soared so high and travelled so far on the wing of abstract thought, gathering light from the stars that he might convey it in intelligible shape to the world, seems to have thought, high as the employment was, that it was not good, either for the heart or mind of man, to be always away from that intercourse with humanity and its affairs which is calculated to awaken and sustain the sympathies of life; and therefore turned to the contemplation of him who was _meek and lowly_. and no countenance has been afforded to monks and hermits who retired from the world, though it even was to spend their lives in meditation and prayer; for heaven had warned man, at an early date, not to withhold the compassionate feelings of the heart, and the helping-hand, from any in whom he recognised the attributes of a common nature, saying to him, 'see that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh.' "my last year's attendance at the college philosophical classes was at st andrews. i had a craving to acquaint myself with a city noted in story, and i could not, under the canopy of my native sky, have planted the step among scenes more closely interwoven with past national transactions, or fraught with more interesting associations. in attending the natural philosophy class, not being proficient in mathematic lore, i derived less advantage than had otherwise been the case with me. yet i did not sit wholly in the shade, notwithstanding that the light which shone upon me did not come from that which campbell says yielded 'the lyre of heaven another string.' a man almost always finds some excuse for deficiency; and i have one involving a philosophy which i think few will be disposed to do otherwise than acquiesce in--namely, that it is a happy arrangement in the creation and history of man, that all minds are not so constituted as to have the same predilections, or to follow the same bent. considering that i had started at a rather late hour of life to travel in the paths of learning, and having so many things, interesting and important, to attend to by the way, it was perhaps less remarkable that i should be one who 'neither kenn'd nor cared' much about lines that had no breadth, and points which were without either breadth or length, than that i should have felt gratified to find on my arrival some of my simple strains sung in a city famed for its scientific acquirements. "the ruins which intermingle with the scenery and happy homes of st andrews, like gray hairs among those of another hue, rendered venerable the general aspect of the place. but i did not feel only the city interesting, but the whole of fifeshire. by excursions made on the monthly holidays then as well as subsequently, when in after-years i returned to visit friends in the royal realm, i acquainted myself with a goodly number of those haunts and scenes which history and tradition have rendered attractive. a land, however, or any department of it, whatever may be its other advantages, is most to be valued in respect of the intelligence or worth of its inhabitants. and if so, then i am proud to aver that in fife i came to possess many intelligent and excellent friends. many of these have gone to another land--'the land o' the leal,' leaving the places which now know them no more, the more regretfully endeared to recollection. of those friends who survive, i cannot forbear an especial mention of one, who is now a professor in the college in which he was then only a student. a man cannot be truly great unless he also be good, and i do not alone value him on the colder and statelier eminence of high intellectual powers and scientific acquirements, but also, if not much rather, for his generous worth and his benevolent feeling. my friend is one in whom these qualities are combined, and as i sincerely think, i will likewise freely say, that those will assuredly find a time, sooner or later, greatly to rejoice, whose fate has been so favourable as to place them under the range and influence of his tuition. "i studied at st andrews college under the late dr jackson, who was an eminent philosopher and friendly man; also under mr duncan, of the mathematical chair, whom i regarded as a personification of unworldly simplicity, clothed in high and pure thought; and i regularly attended, though not enrolled as a regular student, the moral philosophy class of dr chalmers. returning to edinburgh and its university, i became acquainted, through my friend and countryman, robert hogg, with r. a. smith, who was desirous that i should assist him with the works in which he was engaged, particularly 'the irish minstrel,' and 'select melodies.' smith was a man of modest worth and superior intelligence; peculiarly delicate in his taste and feeling in everything pertaining to lyric poetry as well as music; his criticisms were strict, and, as some thought, unnecessarily minute. diffident and retiring, he was not got acquainted with at once, but when he gave his confidence, he was found a pleasant companion and warm-hearted friend. if, as he had sought my acquaintance, i might have expected more frankness on our meeting, i soon became convinced that his shyer cast arose alone from excess of modesty, combined with a remarkable sensitiveness of feeling. proudly honourable, he seemed more susceptible of the influences of all sorts that affect life than any man i ever knew; and, indeed, a little acquaintance with him was only required to shew that his harp was strung too delicately for standing long the tear and wear of this world. he had done much for scottish melody, both by fixing the old airs in as pure a state as possible, and by adding to the vast number of these national treasures some exquisite airs of his own. for a number of the airs in the works just mentioned, but particularly in the 'select melodies,' he had experienced difficulty in procuring suitable words, owing chiefly to the crampness of the measures--a serious drawback which appears to pervade, more or less, the sweetest melodies of other nations as well as those of our own. a number of these i supplied as well as i could. "about this time the native taste for scottish song in city society seemed nearly, if not altogether lost, and a kind of songs, such as 'i've been roaming,' 'i'd be a butterfly,' 'buy a broom,' 'cherry-ripe,' &c. (in which if the head contrived to find a meaning, it was still such as the heart could understand nothing about), seemed alone to be popular, and to prevail. r. a. smith disliked this state of things, but, perhaps, few more so than mr p. m'leod, who gave a most splendid evidence of his taste in his 'original national melodies.' both smith and m'leod were very particular about the quality of the poetry which they honoured with their music. m'leod was especially careful in this respect. he loved the lay of lofty and undaunted feeling as well as of love and friendship; for his genius is of a manly tone, and has a bold and liberal flow. and popular as some of the effusions in his work have become, such as 'oh! why left i my hame?' and 'scotland yet!' many others of them, i am convinced, will yet be popular likewise. when the intelligence of due appreciation draws towards them, it will take them up and delight to fling them upon the breezes that blow over the hills and glens, and among the haunts and homes of the isle of unconquerable men. to mr m'leod's 'national melodies' i contributed a number of songs. in the composition of these i found it desirable to lay aside, in some considerable degree, my pastoral phraseology, for, as conveyed in such productions, i observed that city society cared little about rural scenery and sentiment. it was different with my kind and gifted friend professor wilson. he was wont to say that he would not have given the education, as he was pleased to term it, which i had received afar in the green bosom of mountain solitude, and among the haunts and homes of the shepherd--meaning the thing as applicable to poetry--for all that he had received at colleges. wilson had introduced my song, 'when the glen all is still,' into the _noctes_, and la sapio composed music for it; and not only was it sung in drury-lane, but published in a sheet as the production of a real shepherd; yet it did not become popular in city life. in the country it had been popular previous to this, where it is so still, and where no effort whatever had been made to introduce it. "about the time when i had concluded the whole of my college course, the 'songs of the ark,'[3] were published by blackwood. these, as published, are not what they were at first, and were intended only to be short songs of a sacred nature, unconnected by intervening narrative, for which r. a. smith wished to compose music. unfortunately, his other manifold engagements never permitted him to carry his intention into practice; and seeing no likelihood of any decrease of these engagements, i gave scope to my thoughts on the subject, and the work became what it now is. but i ought to mention that this was not my first poetic publication in palpable shape. some years previously i published stanzas, or a monody, on the death of lord byron. i had all along thought much, and with something like mysterious awe, upon the eccentric temperament, character and history of that great poet, and the tidings which told the event of his demise impressed me deeply. being in the country, and remote from those who could exchange thoughts with me on the occurrence, i resorted to writing. that which i advanced was much mixed up with the result, if i may not say of former experience, yet of former reflection, for i had entertained many conjectures concerning what this powerful personage would or might yet do; and, indeed, his wilful waywardness, together with the misery which he represented as continually haunting him, constituted an impressive advertisement to the world, and served to keep human attention awake towards him. "those who write because it brings a relief to feeling, will write rapidly: likely, too, they will write with energy, because not only the head but also the heart is engaged. 'the monody,' which is of a goodly length, i finished in a few days; and though i felt a desire of having it published, yet it lay over for a time, till, being in edinburgh, a friend shewed it to dr robert anderson. i had been well satisfied with the result, had the production accomplished nothing more than procured me, as it did, the friendly acquaintance of this excellent, venerable man. he knew more of the minutiã¦ of literature, together with the character and habits of the literary men of his day, and of other days also, than any i had then or have since met with; and he seemed to take great pleasure in communicating his knowledge to others. he thought well of 'the monody,' and warmly advised me to publish it. it was published accordingly by mr john anderson, bookseller, north bridge, edinburgh. "some of the reviewers, in regard to the 'songs of the ark,' seemed to think that a sufficiency of eastern scenery did not obtain in them. doubtless this was correct; but i remark, that if my object in the undertaking had been to delineate scenery, i would not have turned my attention to the east, the scenes of which i never saw. human nature being radically the same everywhere, a man, through the sympathies of that nature, can know to a certain extent what are likely to be the thoughts and feelings of his fellow-kind in any particular circumstances--therefore he has data upon which he can venture to give a representation of them; but it is very different from this in regard to topographical phenomena. it was therefore not the natural, but, if i may so call it, the moral scenery in which i was interested, more particularly since the whole scene of nature here below was, shortly after the period at which the poem commences, to become a blank of desolate uniformity, as overwhelmed beneath a waste of waters. "at the risk of incurring the charge of vanity, i would venture to adduce one or two of the favourable opinions entertained in regard to some of the miscellaneous pieces which went to make up the volume of the 'songs of the ark.' of the piece entitled 'apathy,' allan cunningham thus wrote:--'although sufficiently distressful, it is a very bold and original poem, such as few men, except byron, would have conceived or could have written.' motherwell said of the 'sea-gray man,' that it was 'the best of all modern ballads.' this ballad, shortly after i had composed it, i repeated to the ettrick shepherd walking on the banks of the yarrow, and he was fully more pleased with it than with anything of mine i had made him acquainted with. he was wont to call me his 'assistant and successor;' and although this was done humorously, it yet seemed to furnish him with a privilege on which he proceeded to approve or disapprove very frankly, that in either case i might profit by his remarks. he was pleased especially with the half mysterious way in which i contrived to get quit of the poor old man at last. this, indeed, was a contrivance; but the idea of the rest of the ballad was taken from an old man, who had once been a sailor, and who was wont to come to my mother's, in the rounds which he took in pursuit of charity at regular periods of the year, so that we called him her pensioner. "the summer vacations of college years i passed in the country, sometimes residing with my mother, and eldest brother, at a small farm which he had taken at the foot of the lammermuir hills, in east-lothian, called brookside, and sometimes, when i wished a variety, with another brother, at dryden, in selkirkshire. at both places i had enough of time, not only for study, but also for what i may call amusement. the latter consisted in various literary projects which i entered upon, but particularly those of a poetic kind, and the writing of letters to friends with whom i regularly, and i may say also copiously corresponded; for in these we did not merely express immediate thoughts and feelings of a more personal nature, but remarked with vigorous frankness upon many standard affairs of this scene of things. to this general rule of the manner of my life at this time, however, i must mention an exception. a college companion and i, thinking to advantage ourselves, and perhaps others, took a school at fisherrow. the speculation in the end, as to money matters, served us nothing. it was easier to get scholars than to get much if anything for teaching them. yet neither was the former, in some respects, so easy as might have been expected. the offspring of man, in that locality, may be regarded as in some measure amphibious. boys and girls equally, if not already in the sea, were, like young turtles, sure to be pointing towards it with an instinct too intense to err. i never met, indeed, with a race of beings believed, or even suspected to be rational, that, provided immediate impulses and inclinations could be gratified, cared so thoroughly little for consequences. on warm summer days, when we caused the school door to stand open, it is not easy to say how much of intense interest this simple circumstance drew towards it. the squint of the unsettled eye was on the door, out at which the heart and all its inheritance was off and away long previously, and the more than ordinarily propitious moment for the limbs following was only as yet not arrived. when that moment came, off went one, followed by another; and down the narrow and dark lanes of sooty houses. as well might the steps have proposed to pursue meteors playing at hide-and-seek among the clouds of a midnight sky that the tempest was troubling. nevertheless, colin bell, who by virtue of his ceaseless stir in the exercise of his heathen-god-like abilities, had constituted himself captain of the detective band, would be up and at hand immediately, and would say 'master--sir, young an' me will bring them, sir, if ye'll let's.' it was just as good to 'let' as to hinder, for, for others to be out thus, and he in, seemed to be an advantage gained over colin to which he could never be rightly reconciled. he was bold and frank, and full of expedients in cases of emergency; especially he appeared capable of rendering more reasons for an error in his conduct than one could well have imagined could have been rendered for anything done in life below. another drawback in the case was, that one could never be very seriously angry with him. if more real than pretended at any time, his broad bright eye and bluff face, magnificently lifted up, like the sun on frost-work, melted down displeasure and threatened to betray all the policy depending on it; for in the main never a bit of ill heart had colin, though doubtlessly he had in him, deeply established, a trim of rebellion against education that seemed ever on the alert, and which repulsed even its portended approach with a vigour resembling the electric energy of the torpedo. "as we did not much like this place, we did not remain long in it. i had meanwhile, however, resources which brought relief. those friends whose society i most enjoyed occasionally paid us a visit from edinburgh; and in leisure hours i haunted the banks of the esk, which, with wood, and especially with wild-roses, are very beautiful around the church of inveresk. this beauty was heightened by contrast--for i have ever hated the scenery of, and the effect produced by, sunny days and dirty streets. nor do the scenes where mankind congregate to create bustle, 'dirdum and deray,' often fail of making me more or less melancholy. in the week of the musselburgh races, i only went out one day to toss about for a few hours in the complicated and unmeaning crowd. i insert the protest which i entered against it on my return:- "'what boots this turmoil of uproar and folly- that renders the smile of creation unholy? if that which we love is life's best assistant, the thought still must rove to the dear and the distant. would, then, that i were 'mid nature's wild grandeur- from this folly afar, as i wont was to wander; where the pale cloudlets fly, by the soft breezes driven, and the mountains on high kiss the azure of heaven. where down the deep glen the rivulet is rolling, and few, few of men through the solitudes strolling. oh! bliss i could reap, when day was returning; o'er the wild-flowers asleep, 'mong the dews of the morning; and there were it joy, when the shades of the gloaming, with the night's lullaby, o'er the world were coming- to roam through the brake, in the paths long forsaken; my hill-harp retake, and its warblings awaken. the heart is in pain, and the mind is in sadness- and when comes, oh! when, the return of its gladness? the forest shall fade at the winter's returning, and the voice of the shade shall be sorrow and mourning. man's vigour shall fail as his locks shall grow hoary, and where is the tale of his youth and his glory? my life is a dream- my fate darkly furl'd; i a hermit would seem 'mid the crowd of the world. oh! let me be free of these scenes that encumber, and enjoy what may be of my days yet to number!' "i have dwelt at the greater length on these matters, trivial though they be, in consequence of my non-intention of tracing minutely the steps and stages of my probationary career. these, with me, i suppose, were much like what they are and have been with others. my acquaintance was a little extended with those that inhabit the land, and in some cases a closer intimacy than mere acquaintance took place, and more lasting friendships were formed. "my brother having taken a farm near teviothead, i left brookside, and as all the members of the family were wont to account that in which my mother lived their home, it of course was mine. but, notwithstanding that the change brought me almost to the very border of the vale of my nativity, i regretted to leave brookside. it was a beautiful and interesting place, and the remembrance of it is like what ossian says of joys that are past--'sweet and mournful to the soul.' i loved the place, was partial to the peacefulness of its retirement, its solitude, and the intelligence of its society. i was near the laird's library, and i had a garden in the glen. the latter was formed that i might gather home to it, when in musing moods among the mountains, the wild-flowers, in order to their cultivation, and my having something more of a possessory right over them. it formed a contrast to the scenery around, and lured to relaxation. occasionally 'the lovely of the land' brought, with industrious delight, plants and flowers, that they might have a share in adorning it. even when i was from home it was, upon the whole, well attended to; for although, according to taste or caprice, changes were made, yet i readily forgave the annoyances that might attend alteration, and especially those by the hands that sometimes printed me pleasing compliments on the clay with the little stones lifted from the walks. if the things which i have written and given to the world, or may yet give, continue to be cared for, these details may not be wholly without use, inasmuch as they will serve to explain frequent allusions which might otherwise seem introduced at capricious random, or made without a meaning. "shortly after becoming a probationer, i came to reside in this district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the preaching-station here died. the people connected with it wished me to become his successor, which, after some difficulties on their part had been surmounted, i became. i had other views at the time which were promising and important; but as there had been untoward disturbances in the place, owing to the lack of defined rights and privileges, i had it in my power to become a peacemaker, and, besides, i felt it my duty to comply with a call which was both cordial and unanimous. i now laid wholly aside those things which pertain to the pursuits of romantic literature, and devoted myself to the performance of incumbent duties. in consequence of no house having been provided for the preacher, and no one to be obtained but at a very inconvenient distance, i was in this respect very inconveniently situated. travelling nine miles to the scene of my official duties, it was frequently my hap to preach in a very uncomfortable condition, when, indeed, the wet would be pouring from my arms on the bible before me, and oozing over my shoes when the foot was stirred on the pulpit floor. but, by and by, the duke of buccleuch built a dwelling-house for me, the same which i still occupy." to the ministerial charge of the then preaching station of teviothead mr riddell was about to receive ordination, at the united solicitation of his hearers, when he was suddenly visited with severe affliction. unable to discharge pulpit duty for a period of years, the pastoral superintendence of the district was devolved on another; and on his recovery, with commendable forbearance, he did not seek to interfere with the new ecclesiastical arrangement. this procedure was generously approved of by the duke of buccleuch, who conferred upon him the right to occupy the manse cottage, along with a grant of land, and a small annuity. mr riddell's autobiography proceeds:--"in the hope of soon obtaining a permanent and comfortable settlement at teviothead, i had ventured to make my own, by marriage, her who had in heart been mine through all my college years, and who for my sake had, in the course of these, rejected wealth and high standing in life. the heart that, for the sake of leal faith and love, could despise wealth and its concomitants, and brave the risk of embracing comparative poverty, even at its best estate, was not one likely overmuch to fear that poverty when it appeared, nor flinch with an altered tone from the position which it had adopted, when it actually came. this, much rather, fell to my part. it preyed upon my mind too deeply not to prove injurious in its effects; and it did this all the more, that the voice of love, true to its own law, had the words of hope and consolation in it, but never those of complaint. it appeared the _acmã©_ of the severity of fate itself to have lived to be the mean of placing a heart and mind so rich in disinterested affection on so wild and waste a scene of trial. "from an experience of fourteen years, in which there were changes in almost all things except in the affection which bound two hearts in one, before the hands were united, it might be expected that i should give some eminent admonitions concerning the imprudence of men, and particularly of students, allowing their hearts to become interested in, and the remembrance of their minds more fraught with the rich beauty of auburn ringlets than in the untoward confusion, for example, of irregular greek verbs; yet i much fear that admonition would be of no use. if their fate be woven of a texture similar to that of mine, how can they help it? a man may have an idea that to cling to the shelter which he has found, and indulge in the sleep that has overtaken him amid the stormy blasts of the waste mountains, may be little else than opening for himself the gates of death, yet the toils of the way through which he has already passed may also have rendered him incapable of resisting the dangerous rest and repose of his immediate accommodation. in regard to my own love affairs, i, throughout all these long years which i have specified, might well have adopted, as the motto of both mind and heart, these lines- "'oh, poortith cauld and restless love, ye wreck my peace between ye.' i had, as has already been hinted, a rival, who, if not so devotedly attached as i, nevertheless was by far too much so for any one who is destined to love without encouragement. he was as rich in proportion as i was poor. the gifts of love, called the gifts of friendship, which he contrived to bestow were costly; mine, as fashioned forth by a higher hand than that of art, might be equally rich and beautiful in the main, yet wild-flowers, though yellow as the gold, and though wrapped in rhymes, are light ware when weighed against the solid material. he, in personal appearance, manners, and generosity of heart, was one with whom it was impossible to be acquainted and not to esteem; and another feature of this affair was, that we were friends, and almost constant companions for some years. when in the country i had to be with him as continually as possible; and when i went to the city, it was his wont to follow me. here, then, was a web strangely woven by the fingers of a wayward fate. feelings were brought into daily exercise which might seem the least compatible with being brought into contact and maintained in harmony. and these things, which are strictly true, if set forth in the contrivances of romance might, or in all likelihood would, be pronounced unnatural or overstrained. the worth and truth of the heart to which these fond anxieties related left me no ground to fear for losing that regard which i valued as 'light and life' itself; but in another way there reached me a matchless misery, and which haunted me almost as constantly as my own shadow when the sun shone. considering the dark uncertainty of my future prospects in life, that regard i felt it fearful almost beyond measure even to seek to retain, incurring the responsibility of marring the fortune of one whom nevertheless i could not bear the thought of another than myself having the bliss of rendering blessed. if selfishness be thus seen to exist even in love itself, i would fain hope that it is of an elevated and peculiar kind, and not that which grovels, dragging downwards, and therefore justly deserving of the name. i am the more anxious in regard to this on account of its being in my own case felt so deeply. it maintained its ground with more or less firmness at all times, and ultimately triumphed, in despite of all efforts made to the contrary over the suggestions of prudence and even the sterner reasonings of the sense of justice. in times of sadness and melancholy, which, like the preacher's days of darkness, were many, when hope scarcely lit the gloom of the heart on which it sat though the band of love was about its brow, i busied myself in endeavouring to form resolutions to resign my pretensions to the warmer regard of her who was the object of all this serious solicitude; but neither she herself, nor time and place seemed, so far as i could see, disposed in the least to aid me in these efforts of self-control and denial; and, indeed, even at best, i much suspect that the resolutions of lovers in such cases are only like the little dams which the rivulet forms in itself by the frail material of stray grass-piles, and wild-rose leaves, easily overturned by the next slight impulse that the wave receives. in a ballad called 'lanazine,' written somewhat in the old irregular style, sentiments relating to this matter, a little--and only a little--disguised, are set forth. the following is a portion of these records, written from time to time for the sake of preserving to the memory what might once be deeply interesting to the heart:- "'o who may love with warm true heart, and then from love refrain? who say 'tis fit we now should part and never meet again? "'the heart once broken bleeds no more, and a deep sound sleep it hath, where the stir of pain ne'er travels o'er the solitude of death. "'the moon is set, and the star is gone, and the cure, though cruel, cures, but the heart left lone must sorrow on, while the tie of life endures. "'he had nor gold nor land, and trow'd himself unworthy all, and sternly in his soul had vow'd his fond love to recall. "'for her he loved he would not wrong, since fate would ne'er agree, and went to part with a sore, sore heart, in the bower of the greenwood tree. "'the dews were deep, and the leaves were green, and the eve was soft and still; but strife may reach the vale i ween, though no blasts be on the hill. "'the leaves were green, and the dews were deep, and the foot was light upon the grass and flowers, round the bower asleep; but parting there could be none. "'he spoke the word with a struggle hard, and the fair one forward sprung, nor ever wist, till like one too blest, her arms were round him flung. "'for the fair one whom he'd woo'd before, while the chill night breezes sigh'd, could wot not why she loved him more than ere she thus was tried. "'a red--not weak--came o'er her cheek, and she turn'd away anon; but since nor he nor she could speak, still parting there could be none. "'i could have lived alone for thee,' he said; 'so lived could i,' she answer'd, while it seem'd as she had wish'd even then to die. "'for pale, pale grew her cheek i ween, while his arms, around her thrown, left space no plea to come between, so parting there could be none. "'she cool'd his brow with the heart's own drop, while the brain seem'd burning there, and her whisper reach'd the realm of hope through the darkness of despair. "'she bade his soul be still and free, in the light of love to live, and soothed it with the sympathy which a woman's heart can give. "'and it seem'd more than all before e'er given to mortal man, the radiance came, and with it bore the angel of the dawn. "'for ever since eve her love-bower would weave, as the first of all her line, no one on earth had had more of worth than the lovely lanazine. "'and if fortune's frown would o'er him come down, less marvel it may be, since he woo'd all while to make his own a lovelier far than she.' * * * * * "notwithstanding the ever-living solicitude and sad suffering constituting the keen and trying experience of many years, as arising in consequence of this attachment and untoward circumstances, it has brought more than a sufficient compensation; and were it possible, and the choice given, i would assuredly follow the same course, and suffer it all over again, rather than be without 'that treasure of departed sorrow' that is even now at my right hand as i write these lines. "'the christian politician'[4] was published during the time of my indisposition. this work i had written at leisure hours, with the hopes of its being beneficial to the people placed under my care, by giving them a general and connected view of the principles and philosophical bearing of the christian religion. in exhorting them privately, i discovered that many of them understood that religion better in itself, than they appeared to comprehend the manner in which it stood in connexion with the surrounding circumstances of this life. in other words, they were acquainted with doctrines and principles whose application and use, whether in regard to thought, or feeling, or daily practice, they did not so clearly recognise. to remedy this state of things, i wrote 'the christian politician' in a style as simple as the subjects treated of in it would well admit of, giving it a conversational cast, instead of systematic arrangement, that it might be the less forbidding to those for whom it was principally intended. being published, however, at the time when, through my indisposition, i could take no interest in it, it was sent forth in a somewhat more costly shape than rightly suited the original design; and although extensively introduced and well received, it was in society of a higher order than that which it was its object chiefly to benefit. "my latest publication is a volume of 'poems and songs,'[5] published by messrs sutherland and knox of edinburgh. 'the cottagers of glendale,' the 'lay of life,' and some others of the compositions in this volume, were written during the period of my convalescence; the songs are, for the greater part, the production of 'the days of other years.' many of the latter had been already sung in every district of the kingdom, but had been much corrupted in the course of oral transmission. these wanderers of the hill-harp are now secured in a permanent form." to this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that mr riddell is possessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the scottish lyre. he has viewed the national character where it is to be seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most favourable to its development. he has lived, too, among scenes the best calculated to foster the poetic temperament. "he has got," wrote professor wilson, "a poet's education: he has lived the greater part of his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and beautiful solitudes of nature." sufficiently imaginative, he does not, like his minstrel predecessor the ettrick shepherd, soar into the regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless world. he sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life. his style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to nature. several of his songs, such as "scotland yet," "the wild glen sae green," "the land of gallant hearts," and "the crook and plaid," will find admirers while scottish lyric poetry is read or sung. in 1855, mr riddell executed a translation of the gospel of matthew into the scottish language by command of prince lucien bonaparte, a performance of which only a limited number of copies have been printed under the prince's auspices. at present, he is engaged in preparing a romance connected with border history. footnotes: [1] a flock of sheep. [2] see minstrel, vol. iii. p. 186. [3] "songs of the ark, with other poems." edin. 1831. 8vo. [4] "the christian politician, or the right way of thinking." edinburgh, 1844, 8vo. this work, now nearly out of print, we would especially commend to the favourable attention of the religious tract society.--ed. [5] "poems, songs, and miscellaneous pieces." edinburgh, 1847, 12mo. the wild glen sae green. air--_"the posy, or roslin castle."_ when my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, and the gloamin' spreads its mantle gray o'er the world's dewy breast, i'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, and meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. i'll meet her by the trysting-tree, that's stannin' a' alane, where i hae carved her name upon yon little moss gray stane, there i will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd i ween than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green. her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss i'll share the pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care, and spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene, while i woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. my fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale; the star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale- our simple tale o' tender love--that tauld sae oft has been to my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green. it may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day, to meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay; but the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en, wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green. o! i could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss, if i might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this; and i could spurn a' earthly wealth--a palace and a queen, for my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green! scotia's thistle. scotia's thistle guards the grave, where repose her dauntless brave; never yet the foot of slave has trode the wilds of scotia. free from tyrant's dark control- free as waves of ocean roll- free as thoughts of minstrel's soul, still roam the sons of scotia. scotia's hills of hoary hue, heaven wraps in wreathes of blue, watering with its dearest dew the heathy locks of scotia. down each green-wood skirted vale, guardian spirits, lingering, hail many a minstrel's melting tale, as told of ancient scotia. when the shades of eve invest nature's dew-bespangled breast, how supremely man is blest in the glens of scotia! there no dark alarms convey aught to chase life's charms away; there they live, and live for aye, round the homes of scotia. wake, my hill harp! wildly wake! sound by lee and lonely lake, never shall this heart forsake the bonnie wilds of scotia. others o'er the ocean's foam far to other lands may roam, but for ever be my home beneath the sky of scotia! the land of gallant hearts. ours is the land of gallant hearts, the land of lovely forms, the island of the mountain-harp, the torrents and the storms; the land that blooms with freeman's tread, and withers with the slave's, where far and deep the green woods spread, and wild the thistle waves. ere ever ossian's lofty voice had told of fingal's fame, ere ever from their native clime the roman eagles came, our land had given heroes birth, that durst the boldest brave, and taught above tyrannic dust, the thistle tufts to wave. what need we say how wallace fought, and how his foemen fell? or how on glorious bannockburn the work went wild and well? ours is the land of gallant hearts, the land of honour'd graves, whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart while yet the thistle waves. the yellow locks o' charlie. the gathering clans, 'mong scotia's glens, wi' martial steps are bounding, and loud and lang, the wilds amang, the war pipe's strains are sounding; the sky and stream reflect the gleam of broadswords glancing rarely, to guard till death the hills of heath against the foes o' charlie. then let on high the banners fly, and hearts and hands rise prouder, and wake amain the warlike strain still louder, and still louder; for we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn o'er appin's mountains early, auld scotland's crown shall nod aboon the yellow locks o' charlie. while banners wave aboon the brave our foemen vainly gather, and swear to claim, by deeds o' fame, our hills and glens o' heather. for seas shall swell to wild and fell, and crown green appin fairly, ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield the rights o' royal charlie. then wake mair loud the pibroch proud, and let the mountains hoary re-echo round the warlike sound that speaks of highland glory. for strains sublime, through future time, shall tell the tale unsparely, how scotland's crown was placed aboon the yellow locks o' charlie. we'll meet yet again. we'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us the sky shall be bright, and the bower shall be green, and the visions of life shall be lovely before us as the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene. the woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading, and sorrow is deep when the dearest must part, but for each darker woe that our spirit is shading a joy yet more bright shall return to the heart. we'll meet yet again, when the pain, disconcerting the peace of our minds in a moment like this, shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting, or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss. we have loved in the hours when a hope scarce could find us; we've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all, and the same tender tie that has bound still shall bind us, when the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral. we'll meet yet again, when the spirit of gladness shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers, and the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness shall gather delight from the transport of ours; yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish, and thine is the star that my guide still shall be, alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee. our ain native land. our ain native land! our ain native land! there's a charm in the words that we a' understand, that flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell, and makes us love mair what we a' love so well. the heart may have feelings it canna conceal, as the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal, but alike he the feelings and thought can command who names but the name o' our ain native land. our ain native land! our ain native land! though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand, the waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea, when woke by the winds from the hills o' the free. our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld, but where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld as those that unite, and uniting expand, when they hear but the name o' our ain native land? our ain native land! our ain native land! to hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand, for the hours o' a' time far too little would prove to name but the names that we honour and love. the bard lives in light, though his heart it be still, and the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill, and songster and sage can alike still command a garland of fame from our ain native land. our ain native land! our ain native land! her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand, and her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen, the charms of her maids and the worth of her men. her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave, and the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave, ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand, the freedom and faith of our ain native land. the grecian war song. on! on to the fields, where of old the laurels of freedom were won; let us think, as the banners of greece we unfold, of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd, and the deeds by our forefathers done! o yet, if there's aught that is dear, let bravery's arm be its shield; let love of our country give power to each spear, and beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather'd tear in the light of the weapons we wield. awake then to glory, that greece yet may be the land--the proud land of the famed and the free! rear! rear the proud trophies once more, where persia's hosts were o'erthrown; let the song of our triumph arise on our shore, till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore, to the fields where our foemen lie strewn! oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease till the garlands of freedom shall wave in breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace, shall wander o'er all the fair islands of greece, and cool not the lip of a slave; awake then to glory! that greece yet may be the land--the proud land of the famed and the free! flora's lament. more dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands, dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore; for lost is my hope since the prince of the highlands 'mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more. ah! charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast; thy flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee, but where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee, that she--only she--should be true to the last? the step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters, that now should have been on the floor of a throne; and, alas for auld scotland, her sons and her daughters! thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own. but 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken, and weep in the glen where the cataracts foam, and sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken; thy foot has the land of thy fathers forsaken, and more--never more will it yield thee a home. oh! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger, if e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be of her who was true in these moments of danger, reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee. the night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow a ray, all the glow of its charms to renew, but charlie, ah! charlie, no ray to thy flora can dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue. when the glen all is still. air--_"cold frosty morning."_ when the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain, when the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam, and the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, inviting her mate to return to his home- oh! meet me, eliza, adown by the wild-wood, where the wild daisies sleep 'mong the low-lying dew, and our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood, and pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue. thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming, and fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn; the spirits of heaven shall know of thy coming, and watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn. no woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing, of the past and the future my dreams may not be, for the light of thine eye seems the home of my being, and my soul's fondest thoughts shall be gather'd to thee. scotland yet.[6] gae, bring my guid auld harp ance mair,- gae, bring it free and fast,- for i maun sing another sang ere a' my glee be past; and trow ye as i sing, my lads, the burden o't shall be auld scotland's howes, and scotland's knowes, and scotland's hills for me- i'll drink a cup to scotland yet wi' a' the honours three. the heath waves wild upon her hills, and foaming frae the fells, her fountains sing o' freedom still, as they dance down the dells; and weel i lo'e the land, my lads, that's girded by the sea; then scotland's dales, and scotland's vales, and scotland's hills for me- i'll drink a cup to scotland yet wi' a' the honours three. the thistle wags upon the fields where wallace bore his blade, that gave her foemen's dearest bluid to dye her auld gray plaid; and looking to the lift, my lads, he sang this doughty glee- auld scotland's right, and scotland's might, and scotland's hills for me- i'll drink a cup to scotland yet wi' a' the honours three. they tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, where freedom's voice ne'er rang; gie me the hills where ossian lies, and coila's minstrel sang; for i've nae skill o' lands, my lads, that ken nae to be free; then scotland's right, and scotland's might, and scotland's hills for me- i'll drink a cup to scotland yet wi' a' the honours three. footnotes: [6] this song, set to music by mr peter m'leod, was published in a separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum, given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the monument of burns on the calton hill, edinburgh. the minstrel's grave. i sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, and the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade, for remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story, that told where the dust of the minstrel was laid: i saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, i heard not its anthems the mountains among; but the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely than others would seem to the earth that belong. "sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away; for the lips of the living the ages shall number that steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay: oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood, beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen, beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood, and the worm only living where rapture hath been. "till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking, no form shall descend, and no dawning shall come, to break the repose that thy ashes are taking, and call them to life from their chamber of gloom: yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever, thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung; no time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever the tales that it told, and the strains that it sung." our own land and loved one. air--_"buccleuch gathering."_ no sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread o'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew- such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid that is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true. with her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd, 'neath my dear native sky let my home only be; and the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste, shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me. let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart, or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe, and each shadow of care from the soul shall depart, save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow. my thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles, nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim, but live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles with the song of the harp that shall hallow her name. the anthems of music delightful may roll, or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea, but the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free! the bower of the wild. i form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, afar from the din and the dwellings of men; where still i might linger in many a dream, and mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream. from the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam, where the earn has his nest and the raven his home, i brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled, and taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild. but the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away, and sought my lone grotto still day after day, and soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn that the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn. full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair would still have no flower till i pull'd it with care; and gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild, she stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild. the summer is past, and the maidens are gone, and this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone, and yet, with the winter, i'll cease not to mourn, unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return. oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away, i sing in my sorrow still day after day. the scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled, and woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild! the crook and plaid. air--_"the ploughman."_ i winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few; for he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid; for he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie, who wears the crook and plaid. at morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view, while o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew; his doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd, sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid; and he's aye true, &c. at noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell, and views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell; and there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made; o! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; and he's aye true, &c. he pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek, ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek; his words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed; and weel i love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid; for he's aye true, &c. when the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on, when the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, he whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made to ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid; for he's aye true, &c. beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen, he meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken, to woo and vow, and there i trow, whatever may be said, he kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid; for he's aye true, &c. the youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride, and woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride; but i'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid, oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid; and he's aye true, &c. to own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply, since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky? if love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid; and through life i'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid; for he's aye true, &c. the minstrel's bower. air--_"bonnie mary hay."_ oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, i'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee; i'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green, and to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been. when the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea, in the bonnie green-wood bower i'll wake my harp to thee; i'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell. oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam, as the image of a flower reflected frae the stream; there's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e, but ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me! oh, lassie! wert thou mine i wad love thee wi' such love as the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove; in the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be, and our life a blissful dream, while i lived alone for thee. when i am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest, allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest; for beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be, oh! a maiden fair as thou, i again shall never see! when the star of the morning. when the star of the morning is set, and the heavens are beauteous and blue, and the bells of the heather are wet with the drops of the deep-lying dew; 'mong the flocks on the mountains that lie, 'twas blithesome and blissful to be, when these all my thoughts would employ; but now i must think upon thee. when noontide displays all its powers, and the flocks to the valley return, to lie and to feed 'mong the flowers that bloom on the banks of the burn; o sweet, sweet it was to recline 'neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree, and think on the charge that was mine; but now i must think upon thee. when gloaming stole down from the rocks, with her fingers of shadowy light, and the dews of the eve in her locks, to spread down a couch for the night; 'twas sweet through yon green birks to stray, that border the brook and the lea; but now, 'tis a wearisome way, unless it were travell'd with thee. all lovely and pure as thou art, and generous of thought and of will, oh mary! speak thou to this heart, and bid its wild beating be still; i'd give all the ewes in the fold- i'd give all the lambs on the lea, by night or by day to behold one look of true kindness from thee. though all fair was that bosom. though all fair was that bosom, heaving white, while hung this fond spirit o'er thee; and though that eye, with beauty's light, still bedimm'd every eye before thee; oh! charms there were still more divine, when woke that melting voice of thine, the charms that caught this soul of mine, and taught it to adore thee. then died the woes of the heart away with the thoughts of joys departed; for my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay, while it told of the faithful-hearted. methought how sweet it were to be far in some wild green glen with thee; from all of life and of longing free, save what pure love imparted. oh! i could stray where the drops of dew never fell on the desert round me, and dwell where the fair flowers never grew if the hymns of thy voice still found me. thy smile itself could the soul invest with all that here makes mortals bless'd; while every thought thy lips express'd in deeper love still bound me. would that i were where wild woods wave. would that i were where wild woods wave aboon the beds where sleep the brave; and where the streams o' scotia lave her hills and glens o' grandeur! where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells, bright as the sun upon the fells, when autumn brings the heather-bells in all their native splendour. the thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, the birks mix wi' the mountain pines, and heart with dauntless heart combines for ever to defend her. then would i were, &c. there roam the kind, and live the leal, by lofty ha' and lowly shiel; and she for whom the heart must feel a kindness still mair tender. fair, where the light hill breezes blaw, the wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw; but she is fairer than them a', wherever she may wander. then would i were, &c. still, far or near, by wild or wood, i'll love the generous, wise, and good; but she shall share the dearest mood that heaven to life may render. what boots it then thus on to stir, and still from love's enjoyment err, when i to scotland and to her must all this heart surrender. then would i were, &c. oh! tell me what sound. air--_"paddy's resource."_ oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear- the sound that can most o'er our being prevail? 'tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear, when chanting the songs of her own native vale. more thrilling is this than the tone of the gale, awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore; more sweet than the songster that sings in the dale, when the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er. oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky, can the deepest delight to the spirit impart? 'tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye of the maid that affection has bound to the heart. more charming is this than the glory of art, more lovely than rays from yon heavens above; it heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart, enchanting our souls with the magic of love. oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek that aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share? 'tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek when she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer! more tender is this--more celestial and fair- than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn; a balm that still softens the ranklings of care, and heals every wound that the bosom hath borne. our mary.[7] our mary liket weel to stray where clear the burn was rowin', and trouth she was, though i say sae, as fair as ought ere made o' clay, and pure as ony gowan. and happy, too, as ony lark the clud might ever carry; she shunn'd the ill, and sought the good, e'en mair than weel was understood; and a' fouk liket mary. but she fell sick wi' some decay, when she was but eleven; and as she pined frae day to day, we grudged to see her gaun away, though she was gaun to heaven. there's fears for them that's far awa', and fykes for them are flitting, but fears and cares, baith grit and sma', we, by and by, o'er-pit them a'; but death there's nae o'er-pitting. and nature's bands are hard to break, when thus they maun be broken; and e'en the form we loved to see, we canna lang, dear though it be, preserve it as a token. but mary had a gentle heart- heaven did as gently free her; yet lang afore she reach'd that part, dear sir, it wad hae made ye start had ye been there to see her. sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, and growing meek and meeker, wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair, she wore a little angel's air, ere angels cam to seek her. and when she couldna stray out by, the wee wild-flowers to gather; she oft her household plays wad try, to hide her illness frae our eye, lest she should grieve us farther. but ilka thing we said or did, aye pleased the sweet wee creature; indeed ye wad hae thought she had a something in her made her glad ayont the course o' nature. for though disease, beyont remeed, was in her frame indented, yet aye the mair as she grew ill, she grew and grew the lovelier still, and mair and mair contented. but death's cauld hour cam' on at last, as it to a' is comin'; and may it be, whene'er it fa's, nae waur to others than it was to mary, sweet wee woman! footnotes: [7] this exquisite lay forms a portion of "the cottagers of glendale," mr riddell's longest ballad poem. mrs margaret m. inglis. the writer of spirited and elegant poetry, mrs margaret maxwell inglis was the youngest daughter of alexander murray, a medical practitioner, who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of sanquhar, dumfriesshire. she was born at sanquhar on the 27th october 1774, and at an early age became the wife of a mr finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. on the death of her husband, which took place in the west indies, she resided with the other members of her family in dumfries; and in 1803, she married mr john inglis, only son of john inglis, d.d., minister of kirkmabreck, in galloway. by the death of mr inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the excise. she relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in prose and verse. in 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, entitled "miscellaneous collection of poems, chiefly scriptural pieces." of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy. mrs inglis died in edinburgh on the 21st december 1843. eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own songs. of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. she has left some mss. of poems and songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the present work. sweet bard of ettrick's glen.[8] air--_"banks of the devon."_ sweet bard of ettrick's glen! where art thou wandering? miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea. why round yon craggy rocks wander thy heedless flocks, while lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee? cold as the mountain stream, pale as the moonlight beam, still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e. wild may the tempest's wave sweep o'er thy lonely grave; thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee. like a meteor's brief light, like the breath of the morning, thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by; till thy soft numbers stealing o'er mem'ry's warm feeling, each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh. sweet was thy melody, rich as the rose's dye, shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee; love laugh'd on golden wing, pleasure's hand touch'd the string, all taught the strain to sing, shepherd, by thee. cold on benlomond's brow flickers the drifted snow, while down its sides the wild cataracts foam; winter's mad winds may sweep fierce o'er each glen and steep, thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home. and when on dewy wing comes the sweet bird of spring, chanting its notes on the bush or the tree; the bird of the wilderness, low in the waving grass, shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee. footnotes: [8] this song was composed by mrs inglis, in honour of the ettrick shepherd, shortly after the period of his death. young jamie.[9] air--_"drummond castle."_ leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower, cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain, but caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour, though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e. o saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny, the blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony, but softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e, and sweeter the smile o' young jamie. dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie, faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean, rough rows the wave on whose bosom i see the wee bit frail bark that bears jamie frae me. oh, lang may i look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary, and lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary, and oft may i see the leaf fade frae the tree, ere i see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e. cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn, mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the robin, he looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see; come, robin, and join the sad concert wi' me. oh, lang may i look o'er yon foam-crested billow, and hope dies away like a storm-broken willow; sweet robin, the blossom again ye may see, but i'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e. footnotes: [9] printed for the first time. charlie's bonnet's down, laddie. air--_"tullymet."_ let highland lads, wi' belted plaids, and bonnets blue and white cockades, put on their shields, unsheathe their blades, and conquest fell begin; and let the word be scotland's heir: and when their swords can do nae mair, lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair let hieland lasses spin, laddie. charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, kilt yer plaid and scour the heather; charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, draw yer dirk and rin. mind wallace wight, auld scotland's light, and douglas bright, and scrymgeour's might, and murray bothwell's gallant knight, and ruthven light and trim- kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack laid cressingham upon his back, garr'd edward gather up his pack, and ply his spurs and rin, laddie. charlie's bonnet's down, &c. heard ye the bagpipe? heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners that floated sae light o'er the fields o' kildairlie; saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose, heard ye the muster-roll sworn to prince charlie? saw ye brave appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid, or saw ye the lords o' seaforth and airlie; saw ye the glengarry, m'leod, and clandonachil, plant the white rose in their bonnets for charlie? saw ye the halls o' auld holyrood lighted up, kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely; saw ye the chiefs of lochiel and clanronald, wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow prince charlie? but saw ye the blood-streaming fields of culloden, or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly; heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing, that mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for prince charlie. wha, in yon highland glen, weary and shelterless, pillows his head on the heather sae barely; wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light, borne down by lawless might--gallant prince charlie? wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear, fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly; but wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld scotland's heart- wha but the royal, the gallant prince charlie? bruce's address. when the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms, and the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave, and the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save; the sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors, and reflected their shields in the green rippling wave, in its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers, and shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves. o'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare, and the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave, while the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--do not spare, lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave; for the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter, like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave; though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers, and rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave. to arms, then! to arms! let the battle-cry rise, like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound; set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies, till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around; let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble, for the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave, while the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave. removed from vain fashion. removed from vain fashion, from title's proud ken, in a straw-cover'd cottage, deep hid in yon glen, there dwells a sweet flow'ret, pure, lovely, and fair, though rear'd, like the snowdrop, 'midst hardships' chill air. no soft voice of kindred, or parent she knows- in the desert she blooms, like the sweet mountain rose, like the little stray'd lammie that bleats on the lea; she's soft, kind, and gentle, and dear, dear to me. though the rich dews of fortune ne'er water'd this stem, nor one fostering sunbeam matured the rich gem- oh! give me that pure bosom, her lot let me share, i'll laugh at distinction, and smile away care. when shall we meet again? when shall we meet again, meet ne'er to sever? when shall peace wreath her chain round us for ever? when shall our hearts repose, safe from each breath that blows, in this dark world of woes? never! oh, never! fate's unrelenting hand long may divide us, yet in one holy land one god shall guide us. then, on that happy shore, care ne'er shall reach us more, earth's vain delusions o'er, angels beside us. there, where no storms can chill, false friends deceive us, where, with protracted thrill, hope cannot grieve us; there with the pure in heart, far from fate's venom'd dart, there shall we meet to part never! oh, never! james king. james king was born in paisley in 1776. his paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of gleniffer braes. having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight, required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. joining a circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of tannahill, who has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. in his fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards stationed at inverness. on its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to the loom at paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a recruit in the renfrewshire county militia. he accompanied this regiment to margate, deal, dover, portsmouth, and london, and subsequently to leith, the french prisoners' depã´t at penicuick, and the castle of edinburgh. at edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some attention from sir walter scott, the ettrick shepherd, and several others of the poets of the capital. accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment was stationed at perth, king, though wholly innocent of the charge, fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived to effect his escape. by a circuitous route, so as to elude the vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of galloway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural labourer. he subsequently wrought as a weaver at crieff till 1815, when, on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. he now settled as a muslin-weaver, first at glasgow, and afterwards at paisley and charleston. he died at charleston, near paisley, on the 27th september 1849, in his seventy-third year. of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the humorous, king was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his own. his mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and sentiment. the lake is at rest. the lake is at rest, love, the sun's on its breast, love, how bright is its water, how pleasant to see; its verdant banks shewing the richest flowers blowing, a picture of bliss and an emblem of thee! then, o fairest maiden! when earth is array'd in the beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea, let me still delight in the glories that brighten, for they are, dear anna, sweet emblems of thee. but, anna, why redden? i would not, fair maiden, my tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray; the traitor, the demon, that could deceive woman, his soul's all unfit for the glories of day. believe me then, fairest, to me thou art dearest; and though i in raptures view lake, stream, and tree, with flower blooming mountains, and crystalline fountains, i view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee. life's like the dew. air--_"scott's boat song."_ no sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley, save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell, warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily, that gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale. at length from the hill i heard, plaintively wild, a bard, yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow; "remember what morard says, morard of many days, life's like the dew on the hill of the roe. "son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain, sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing; though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain, widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing. hard are the laws that bind poor foolish man and blind; but free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow, thy cheeks with health's roses spread, till time clothes with snow thy head, fairer than dew on the hill of the roe. "wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary, shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom; innocence leads to the summit of glory, innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb. the tyrant, whose hands are red, trembles alone in bed; but pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow, no horror fiends haunt his rest, hope fills his placid breast, hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe." ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending, slow rose the bard and retired from the hill, the blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending, oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill, yet still from the hoary bard, methought the sweet song i heard, mix'd with instruction and blended with woe; and oft as i pass along, chimes in mine ear his song, "life's like the dew on the hill of the roe." isobel pagan. the author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by robert burns and allan cunningham, isobel pagan claims a biographical notice. she was born in the parish of new cumnock, ayrshire, about the year 1741. deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which an early moral training would have probably prevented. she was lame and singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. her chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a mode of subsistence. she published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her name. she lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of muirkirk. she died on the 3d november 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of muirkirk. a tombstone marks her grave. ca' the yowes to the knowes.[10] ca' the yowes to the knowes, ca' them where the heather grows, ca' them where the burnie rows, my bonnie dearie. as i gaed down the water-side, there i met my shepherd lad, he row'd me sweetly in his plaid, an' he ca'd me his dearie. "will ye gang down the water-side, and see the waves sae sweetly glide beneath the hazels spreading wide? the moon it shines fu' clearly. "ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet, and in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, and ye shall be my dearie." "if ye'll but stand to what ye've said, i'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, and ye may row me in your plaid, and i shall be your dearie." "while water wimples to the sea, while day blinks in the lift sae hie, till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e, ye shall be my dearie." footnotes: [10] of this song a new version was composed by burns, the original chorus being retained. burns' version commences--"hark the mavis' evening sang." john mitchell. john mitchell, the paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th august 1856, in his seventieth year. he was born at paisley in 1786. the labour of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. he contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _moral and literary observer_, a small paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he was the publisher. in 1838, he appeared as the author of "a night on the banks of the doon, and other poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by "the wee steeple's ghaist, and other poems and songs," the latter being dedicated to professor wilson. in the year 1840, he likewise produced, jointly with a mr dickie, the "philosophy of witchcraft," a work which, published by messrs oliver and boyd, was well received. his next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "one hundred original songs." his last work, "my gray goose quill, and other poems and songs," was published in 1852. mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. he wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with considerable power. his songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. had mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche in the temple of national song. his manners were eccentric, and he was not unconscious of his poetical endowments. beauty. what wakes the poet's lyre? 'tis beauty; what kindles his poetic fire? 'tis beauty; what makes him seek, at evening's hour, the lonely glen, the leafy bower, when dew hangs on each little flower? oh! it is beauty. what melts the soldier's soul? 'tis beauty; what can his love of fame control? 'tis beauty; for oft, amid the battle's rage, some lovely vision will engage his thoughts and war's rough ills assuage: such power has beauty. what tames the savage mood? 'tis beauty; what gives a polish to the rude? 'tis beauty; what gives the peasant's lowly state a charm which wealth cannot create, and on the good alone will wait? 'tis faithful beauty. then let our favourite toast be beauty; is it not king and peasant's boast? yes, beauty; then let us guard with tender care the gentle, th' inspiring fair, and love will a diviner air impart to beauty. to the evening star. star of descending night! lovely and fair, robed in thy mellow light, subtle and rare; whence are thy silvery beams, that o'er lone ocean gleams, and in our crystal streams dip their bright hair? far in yon liquid sky, where streamers play and the red lightnings fly, hold'st thou thy way; clouds may envelop thee, winds rave o'er land and sea, o'er them thy march is free as thine own ray. oh! waft me to the fairy clime. oh! waft me to the fairy clime where fancy loves to roam, where hope is ever in her prime, and friendship has a home; there will i wander by the streams where song and dance combine, around my rosy waking dreams ecstatic joys to twine. on music's swell my thoughts will soar above created things, and revel on the boundless shore of rapt imaginings. the rolling spheres beyond earth's ken my fancy will explore, and seek, far from the haunts of men, the poet's mystic lore. love will add gladness to the scene, and strew my path with flowers; and joy with innocence will lean amid my rosy bowers. then waft me to the fairy clime where fancy loves to roam, where hope is ever in her prime, and friendship has a home. the love-sick maid. the love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid? can the doctor cure her woe when she will not let him know why the tears incessant flow from the love-sick maid? the flaunting day, the flaunting day, she cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day! for she sits and pines alone, and will comfort take from none; nay, the very colour's gone from the love-sick maid. the secret 's out, the secret 's out, a doctor has been found, and the secret 's out! for she finds at e'ening's hour, in a rosy woodland bower, charms worth a prince's dower to a love-sick maid. alexander jamieson. alexander jamieson was born in the village of dalmellington, ayrshire, on the 29th january 1789. after a course of study at the university of edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. in 1819, he settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of alloa. a skilful mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. he composed verses with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the _stirling journal_ newspaper. his death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of bencleugh, one of the ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit a patient at tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. he was early next morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours afterwards. his death took place on the 26th july 1826. possessed of varied talents, and excellent dispositions, jamieson was deeply regretted by his friends. he left a widow, who died lately in dunfermline. his songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford evidence of power. the maid who wove.[11] _"russian air."_ the maid who wove the rosy wreath with every flower--hath wrought a spell, and though her chaplets fragrance breathe and balmy sweets--i know full well, 'neath every bud, or blossom gay, there lurks a chain--love's tyranny. though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd, sits stillness, soft as evening skies- though crimson'd cheek you seldom find, or glances from her downcast eyes- there lurks, unseen, a world of charms, which ne'er betray young love's alarms. o trust not to her silent tongue; her settled calm, or absent smile; nor dream that nymph, so fair and young, may not enchain in love's soft guile; for where love is--or what's love's spell- no mortal knows--no tongue can tell. footnotes: [11] this song was addressed by mr jamieson to miss jane morrison of alloa, the heroine of motherwell's popular ballad of "jeanie morrison," and who had thus the singular good fortune to be celebrated by two different poets. for some account of miss morrison, now mrs murdoch, see vol. iii. p. 233. a sigh and a smile. welsh air--_"sir william watkin wynne."_ from beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses, or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight; nor far had it stray'd forth, when pity proposes the wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night. but scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion, his lodging secured, when a conflict arose, each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion, nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose. they say that young love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer, at random the shafts from his silken string fly, but surely the urchin of peace is destroyer, whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh. o yes! for he whisper'd, "to beauty's shrine hie thee; there worship to cupid, and wait yet awhile; a cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee, the wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile." john goldie. a short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, john goldie was born at ayr on the 22d december 1798. his father, who bore the same christian name, was a respectable shipmaster. obtaining an ample education at the academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant to a grocer in paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a stoneware and china shop in glasgow. in 1821 he opened, on his own account, a stoneware establishment at ayr; but proving unfortunate in business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. from his boyhood being devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of support. already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant editor of the _ayr courier_, and shortly after obtained the entire literary superintendence of that journal. in 1821, he published a pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as the author of a duodecimo volume of "poems and songs," which he inscribed to the ettrick shepherd. of the compositions in the latter publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is altogether creditable to his genius and taste. deprived of the editorship of the _courier_, in consequence of a change in the proprietary, goldie proceeded to london, in the hope of forming a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis. unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing _the london scotsman_, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration of scottish affairs. lacking that encouragement necessary to the ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to scotland. he now projected the _paisley advertiser_, of which the first number appeared on the 9th october 1824. the editorship of this newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the 27th february 1826, in his twenty-eighth year. of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste, goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. as a poet and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. of sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of admiring friends. his personal appearance was pleasing, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence. and can thy bosom? air--_"loudon's bonnie woods and braes."_ and can thy bosom bear the thought to part frae love and me, laddie? are all those plighted vows forgot, sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie? canst thou forget the midnight hour, when in yon love-inspiring bower, you vow'd by every heavenly power you'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie? wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me- win my heart and then deceive me? oh! that heart will break, believe me, gin' ye part wi' me, laddie. aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek, aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie, aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek, but love and live wi' me, laddie. but soon those cheeks will lose their red, those eyes in endless sleep be hid, and 'neath the turf the heart be laid that beats for love and thee, laddie. wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me- win my heart and then deceive me? oh! that heart will break, believe me, gin ye part frae me, laddie. you'll meet a form mair sweet and fair, where rarer beauties shine, laddie, but, oh! the heart can never bear a love sae true as mine, laddie. but when that heart is laid at rest- that heart that lo'ed ye last and best- oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast will sharper be than mine, laddie. broken vows will vex and grieve me, till a broken heart relieve me- yet its latest thought, believe me, will be love an' thine, laddie. sweet's the dew. sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in june and lily fair to see, annie, but there's ne'er a flower that blooms is half so fair as thee, annie. beside those blooming cheeks o' thine the opening rose its beauties tine, thy lips the rubies far outshine, love sparkles in thine e'e, annie. the snaw that decks yon mountain top nae purer is than thee, annie; the haughty mien and pridefu' look are banish'd far frae thee, annie. and in thy sweet angelic face triumphant beams each modest grace; and ne'er did grecian chisel trace a form sae bright as thine, annie. wha could behold thy rosy cheek and no feel love's sharp pang, annie; what heart could view thy smiling looks, and plot to do thee wrang, annie? thy name in ilka sang i'll weave, my heart, my soul, wi' thee i'll leave, and never, till i cease to breathe, i'll cease to think on thee, annie. robert pollok. robert pollok, author of the immortal poem, "the course of time," was the son of a small farmer in the parish of eaglesham, renfrewshire, where he was born on the 19th october 1798. with a short interval of employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. resolving to prepare for the ministry in the secession church, he took lessons in classical learning at the parish school of fenwick, ayrshire, and in twelve months fitted himself for the university. he attended the literary and philosophical classes in glasgow college, during five sessions, and subsequently studied in the divinity hall of the united secession church. he wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable translations from the classics as college exercises. his great poem, "the course of time," was commenced in december 1824, and finished within the space of nineteen months. on the 24th march 1827, the poem was published by mr blackwood; and on the 2d of the following may the author received his license as a probationer. the extraordinary success of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. pollok only preached four times. his constitution, originally robust, had suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production of his poem. to recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was necessary, and that of italy was recommended. the afflicted poet only reached southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the 18th september 1827. in millbrook churchyard, near southampton, where his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory. besides his remarkable poem, pollok published three short tales relative to the sufferings of the covenanters. he had projected a large work respecting the influences which christianity had exercised upon literature. since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. in person he was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. his complexion was pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "he was," writes mr gabriel neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took pleasure in good-humoured controversy." the copyright of "the course of time" continues to produce emolument to the family. the african maid. on the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood, where to ocean the dark waves of gabia haste, all lonely, a maid of black africa stood, gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste. a bark for columbia hung far on the tide, and still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave; ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side, moan'd her zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave. like the statue of sorrow, forgetting to weep, long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail, till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep; then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:- "o my zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe? come back, cruel ship, and take monia too! ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow to waft my dear zoopah far, far from my view? * * * * * "great spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds, when the savage white men dragg'd my zoopah away? why linger'd the panther far back in his woods? was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey? "ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath, and sleep never visit the place of their bed! on their children and wives, on their life and their death, abide still the curse of an african maid!" j. c. denovan. j. c. denovan was born at edinburgh in 1798. early evincing a predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. after accomplishing a single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in edinburgh. he now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. he died in 1827. of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and unassuming member of society. he courted the muse to interest his hours of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of sir walter scott and other men of letters. oh dermot, dear loved one! thou hast left me, dear dermot! to cross the wide seas, and thy norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn, she laments and looks back on the past happy days when thy presence had left her no object to mourn those days that are past, too joyous to last, a pang leaves behind them, 'tis heaven's decree; no joy now is mine, in sadness i pine, till dermot, dear dermot, returns back to me. o dermot, dear dermot! why, why didst thou leave the girl who holds thee so dear in her heart? oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve, or think for one moment from norah to part? couldst thou reconcile to leave this dear isle, in a far unknown country, where dangers there be? oh! for thy dear sake this poor heart will break, if thou, dear beloved one, return not to me. in silence i 'll weep till my dermot doth come, alone will i wander by moon, noon, and night, still praying of heaven to send him safe home to her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight. then come, like a dove, to thy faithful love, whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free; from danger's alarms speed to her open arms, o dermot, dear loved one! return back to me. john imlah. john imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of scottish song-writers, was born in north street, aberdeen, about the close of the year 1799. his progenitors were farmers in the parish of fyvie, but his father followed the profession of an innkeeper. of seven sons, born in succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. on completing an ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a pianoforte maker in aberdeen. excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this capacity, sought employment in london, and was fortunate in procuring an engagement from the messrs broadwood. for the first six months of the year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in scotland. attached to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. he composed songs from his boyhood. in 1827, he published "may flowers," a duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the scottish dialect, which he followed by a second volume of "poems and songs" in 1841. he contributed to macleod's "national melodies" and the _edinburgh literary journal_. on the 9th january 1846, his death took place at jamaica, whither he had gone on a visit to one of his brothers. imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. of his numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy. kathleen. air--_"the humours of glen."_ o distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein my hopes with my kathleen and kindred abide; and far though i wander from thee, emerald erin! no space can the links of my love-chain divide. fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean! how oft have i waken'd my wild harp in thee! while, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion, listen'd, kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree! the bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning, the soft cheek of kathleen discloses their dye; what ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen? what sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye? her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness, and white is her brow as the surf of the sea; thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness, of kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree! fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom! as the song of thy praise and my passion i breathed, thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom, sweet erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed; while with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on, that by thy bower follows the sun to the sea; and oh! soon dawn the day i review the sweet shannon and kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree! hielan' heather. air--_"o'er the muir amang the heather."_ hey for the hielan' heather! hey for the hielan' heather! dear to me, an' aye shall be, the bonnie braes o' hielan' heather! the moss-muir black an' mountain blue, whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather; the craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue, whare blooms the bonnie hielan' heather! hey for the hielan' heather! whare monie a wild bird wags its wing, baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather; while cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring, amang the hills o' hielan' heather! hey for the hielan' heather! whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel, young lads and lasses trip thegither; the native norlan rant and reel amang the halesome hielan' heather! hey for the hielan' heather! the broom an' whin, by loch an' lin, are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather; how sweet an' fair! but meikle mair the purple bells o' hielan' heather! hey for the hielan' heather! whare'er i rest, whare'er i range, my fancy fondly travels thither; nae countrie charms, nae customs change my feelings frae the hielan' heather! hey, for the hielan' heather! farewell to scotland. air--_"kinloch."_ loved land of my kindred, farewell--and for ever! oh! what can relief to the bosom impart; when fated with each fond endearment to sever, and hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart! farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish, though doom'd to forego, i shall never forget, wherever i wander, for thee will i cherish the dearest regard and the deepest regret. farewell, ye great grampians, cloud-robed and crested! like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight; your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones--where have rested the snow-falls of ages--eternally white. ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear; no more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains, i'll pore on with pleasure--deep, lonely, yet dear. yet--yet caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me, oh! oft will i dream of thee, far, far, away; but vain are the visions that rapture restore me, to waken and weep at the dawn of the day. ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean, where yet my heart dwells--where it ever shall dwell, while tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion, my country--my kindred--farewell, oh farewell! the rose of seaton vale. a bonnie rose bloom'd wild and fair, as sweet a bud i trow as ever breathed the morning air, or drank the evening dew. a zephyr loved the blushing flower, with sigh and fond love tale; it woo'd within its briery bower the rose of seaton vale. with wakening kiss the zephyr press'd this bud at morning light; at noon it fann'd its glowing breast, and nestled there at night. but other flowers sprung up thereby, and lured the roving gale; the zephyr left to droop and die the rose of seaton vale. a matchless maiden dwelt by don, loved by as fair a youth; long had their young hearts throbb'd as one wi' tenderness and truth. thy warmest tear, soft pity, pour- for ellen's type and tale are in that sweet, ill-fated flower, the rose of seaton vale. katherine and donald. young donald dearer loved than life the proud dunallan's daughter; but, barr'd by feudal hate and strife, in vain he loved and sought her. she loved the lord of garry's glen, the chieftain of clanronald; a thousand plaided highlandmen clasp'd the claymore for donald. on scotland rush'd the danish hordes, dunallan met his foemen; beneath him bared ten thousand swords of vassal, serf, and yeomen. the fray was fierce--and at its height was seen a visor'd stranger, with red lance foremost in the fight, unfearing dane and danger. "be praised--brave knight! thy steel hath striven the sharpest in the slaughter; crave what thou wilt of me--though even my fair--my darling daughter!" he lifts the visor from his face- the chieftain of clanronald! and foes enclasp in friends' embrace, dunallan and young donald. dunallan's halls ring loud with glee- the feast-cup glads glengarry; the joy that should for ever be when mutual lovers marry. the shout and shell the revellers raise, dunallan and clanronald; and minstrel measures pour to praise fair kath'rine and brave donald! guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'. guid night, and joy be wi' you a'! since it is sae that i maun gang; short seem'd the gate to come, but ah! to gang again as wearie lang. sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang that i sae sune sou'd haste awa'; but since it's sae that i maun gae, guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'! this night i ween we've had the heart to gar auld time tak' to his feet; that makes us a' fu' laith to part, but aye mair fain again to meet! to dree the winter's drift and weet for sic a night is nocht ava, for hours the sweetest o' the sweet; guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'! our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen, in younker revels fidgin' fain; our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been, like daffin hizzies, young again! to mony a merrie auld scot's strain we've deftly danced the time awa': we met in mirth--we part wi' pain, guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'! my nimble gray neighs at the yett, my shouthers roun' the plaid i throw; i've clapt the spur upon my buit, the guid braid bonnet on my brow! then night is wearing late i trow- my hame lies mony a mile awa'; the mair's my need to mount and go, guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'! the gathering.[12] rise, rise! lowland and highlandman, bald sire to beardless son, each come and early; rise, rise! mainland and islandmen, belt on your broad claymores--fight for prince charlie; down from the mountain steep, up from the valley deep, out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling, bugle and battle-drum bid chief and vassal come, bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing. men of the mountains--descendants of heroes! heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers; say, shall the southern--the sassenach fear us when to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers? too long on the trophied walls of your ancestral halls, red rust hath blunted the armour of albin; seize then, ye mountain macs, buckler and battle-axe, lads of lochaber, braemar, and breadalbin! when hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward? when did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal? up, then, and crowd to the standard of stuart, follow your leader--the rightful--the royal! chief of clanronald, donald macdonald! lovat! lochiel! with the grant and the gordon! rouse every kilted clan, rouse every loyal man, gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on! footnotes: [12] a ms. copy of this song had been sent by the author to the ettrick shepherd. having been found among the shepherd's papers after his decease, it was regarded as his own composition, and has consequently been included in the posthumous edition of his songs, published by the messrs blackie. the song appears in imlah's "may flowers," published in 1827. mary. air--_"the dawtie."_ there lives a young lassie far down yon lang glen, how i lo'e that lassie there's nae ane can ken! oh! a saint's faith may vary, but faithfu' i'll be- for weel i lo'e mary, and mary lo'es me. red, red as the rowan her smiling wee mou, an' white as the gowan her breast and her brow; wi' the foot o' a fairy she links o'er the lea- oh! weel i lo'e mary, an' mary lo'es me. where yon tall forest timmer, an' lowly broom bower, to the sunshine o' simmer, spread verdure an' flower; there, when night clouds the cary, beside her i'll be- for weel i lo'e mary, an' mary lo'es me! oh! gin i were where gadie rins.[13] oh! gin i were where gadie rins, where gadie rins, where gadie rins- oh, gin i were where gadie rins by the foot o' bennachie. i've roam'd by tweed, i've roam'd by tay, by border nith, and highland spey, but dearer far to me than they the braes o' bennachie. when blade and blossoms sprout in spring, and bid the burdies wag the wing, they blithely bob, and soar, and sing by the foot o' bennachie. when simmer cleeds the varied scene wi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green, i fain would be where aft i've been at the foot o' bennachie. when autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn, and barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' corn, 'tis blithe to toom the clyack horn at the foot o' bennachie. when winter winds blaw sharp and shrill o'er icy burn and sheeted hill, the ingle neuk is gleesome still at the foot o' bennachie. though few to welcome me remain, though a' i loved be dead and gane, i'll back, though i should live alane, to the foot o' bennachie. oh, gin i were where gadie rins, where gadie rins, where gadie rins- oh, gin i were where gadie rins by the foot o' bennachie. footnotes: [13] the chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally connected with a plaintive jacobite ditty, now lost, has suggested several modern songs similar in manner and sentiment. imlah composed two songs with this chorus. the earlier of these compositions appears in the "may flowers." it is evidently founded upon a rumour, which prevailed in aberdeenshire during the first quarter of the century, to the effect, that a scottish officer, serving in egypt, had been much affected on hearing a soldier's wife _crooning_ to herself the original words of the air. we have inserted in the text imlah's second version, as being somewhat smoother in versification. it is the only song which we have transcribed from his volume, published in 1841. but the most popular words which have been attached to the air and chorus were the composition of a student in one of the colleges of aberdeen, nearly thirty years since, who is now an able and accomplished clergyman of the scottish church. having received the chorus and heard the air from a comrade, he immediately composed the following verses, here printed from the author's ms.:- oh, an' i were where gadie rins, where gadie rins, where gadie rins, oh, an' i were where gadie rins, at the back o' bennachie! i wish i were where gadie rins, 'mong fragrant heath and yellow whins, or, brawlin' doun the bosky lins at the back o' bennachie; to hear ance mair the blackbird's sang, to wander birks and braes amang, wi' friens and fav'rites, left sae lang, at the back o' bennachie. how mony a day, in blithe spring-time, how mony a day, in summer's prime, i wil'd awa' my careless time on the heights o' bennachie. ah! fortune's flowers wi' thorns are rife, and walth is won wi' grief and strife- ae day gie me o' youthfu' life at the back o' bennachie. oh, mary! there, on ilka nicht, when baith our hearts were young and licht, we've wander'd whan the moon was bricht wi' speeches fond and free. oh! ance, ance mair where gadie rins, where gadie rins, where gadie rins- oh! micht i dee where gadie rins at the back o' bennachie. "the air," communicates the reverend author of this song, "is undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several gaelic and irish airs. 'cuir's chiste moir me,' and several others, might be thought to have been originally the same _in the first part_. the second part of the air is, i think, modern." the gadie is a rivulet, and bennachie a mountain, in aberdeenshire. john tweedie. john tweedie was born in the year 1800, in the vicinity of peebles, where his father was a shepherd. obtaining a classical education, he proceeded to the university of edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for the established church. by acting as a tutor during the summer months, he was enabled to support himself at the university, and after the usual curriculum, he was licensed as a probationer. though possessed of popular talents as a preacher, he was not successful in obtaining a living in the church. during his probationary career, he was employed as a tutor in the family of the minister of newbattle, assisted in the parish of eddleston, and ultimately became missionary at stockbridge, edinburgh. he died at linkfieldhall, musselburgh, on the 29th february 1844. tweedie was a person of amiable dispositions and unaffected piety; he did not much cultivate his gifts as a poet, but the following song from his pen, to the old air, "saw ye my maggie," has received a considerable measure of popularity.[14] footnotes: [14] in the "cottagers of glendale," mr h. s. riddell alludes to two of tweedie's brothers, who perished among the snow in the manner described in that poem. the present memoir is prepared from materials chiefly supplied by mr riddell. saw ye my annie? saw ye my annie, saw ye my annie, saw ye my annie, wading 'mang the dew? my annie walks as light as shadow in the night or downy cloudlet light alang the fields o' blue. what like is your annie, what like is your annie, what like is your annie, that we may ken her be? she's fair as nature's flush, blithe as dawning's blush, and gentle as the hush when e'ening faulds her e'e. yonder comes my annie, yonder comes my annie, yonder comes my annie, bounding o'er the lea. lammies play before her, birdies whistle o'er her, i mysell adore her, in heavenly ecstasy. come to my arms, my annie, come to my arms, my annie, come to my arms, my annie, speed, speed, like winged day. my annie's rosy cheek smiled fair as morning's streak, we felt, but couldna speak, 'neath love's enraptured sway. thomas atkinson. thomas atkinson, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at glasgow about the year 1800. having completed an apprenticeship to mr turnbull, bookseller, trongate, he entered into copartnership with mr david robertson, subsequently king's publisher in the city. of active business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant literature. at an early age he published "the sextuple alliance," a series of poems on the subject of napoleon bonaparte, which afforded considerable promise, and received the commendation of sir walter scott. in 1827, he published "the ant," a work in two volumes, one of which consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. "the chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, commenced in 1831, and extended to three octavo volumes. of this work, a _melange_ of prose and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own composition. the last volume appeared in september 1833, shortly before his death. deeply interested in the public affairs, atkinson was distinguished as a public speaker. at the general election, subsequent to the passing of the reform bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal interest for the parliamentary representation of the stirling burghs, in opposition to lord dalmeny, who was returned. naturally of a sound constitution, the exertions of his political canvass superinduced an illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. during a voyage he had undertaken to barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at sea on the 10th october 1833. his remains, placed in an oaken coffin, which he had taken along with him, were buried in the deep. he bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after accumulation, in erecting a building in glasgow for scientific purposes. a monument to his memory has been erected in the glasgow necropolis. the following stanzas were composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than three weeks prior to his decease; they are dated the "river mersey," 21st september 1833:- i could not, as i gazed my last--there was on me a spell, in all its simple agony--breathe that lone word--"farewell," which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies, in song alone 'twould pass the lips that loved the dear disguise. i go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark, as forth the dove went trembling--but to my father's ark shall i return? i may not ask my doubting heart, but yet to hope and wish in one--how hard the lesson to forget. * * * * * but drooping head and feeble limbs--and, oh! a beating heart, remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part; yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell, in this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe--"farewell." in the "chameleon" several of mr atkinson's songs are set to music, but, with the exception of "mary shearer," none of them are likely to obtain popularity. mary shearer. she's aff and awa', like the lang summer-day, and our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary; the sun-blinks o' june will come back ower the brae, but lang for blithe mary fu' mony may weary. for mair hearts than mine kenn'd o' nane that were dearer; but nane mair will pine for the sweet mary shearer! she cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers, and the blue-bell and mary baith blossom'd thegither; the bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, but the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither. their sweet breath is fled- her kind looks still endear her; for the heart maun be dead that forgets mary shearer! than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung; an e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover; sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue, nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover. oh! he maun be bless'd wha's allow'd to be near her; for the fairest and best o' her kind 's mary shearer! but farewell glenlin, and dunoon, and loch striven, my country and kin,--since i 've sae lov'd the stranger; whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven- sae across the braid warld for a while i'm a ranger. though i try to forget, in my heart still i 'll wear her, for mine may be yet- name and a'--mary shearer! william gardiner. william gardiner, the author of "scotland's hills," was born at perth about the year 1800. he established himself as a bookseller in cupar-fife. during a period of residence in dundee, in acquiring a knowledge of his trade, he formed the acquaintance of the poet vedder. with the assistance of this gifted individual, he composed his popular song of "scotland's hills." introduced at a theatre in dundee, it was received with marked approbation. it was first printed, in january 1829, in the _fife herald_ newspaper, with a humorous preface by vedder, and was afterwards copied into the _edinburgh literary gazette_. it has since found a place in many of the collections of scottish song, and has three different times been set to music. gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained employment in the publishing office of the _fife herald_. he died at perth on the 4th july 1845. some years before his death, he published a volume of original and selected compositions, under the title of "gardiner's miscellany." he was a person of amiable dispositions; and to other good qualities of a personal character, added considerable skill in music. o scotland's hills for me![15] o these are not my country's hills, though they seem bright and fair; though flow'rets deck their verdant sides, the heather blooms not there. let me behold the mountain steep, and wild deer roaming free- the heathy glen, the ravine deep- o scotland's hills for me! the rose, through all this garden-land, may shed its rich perfume, but i would rather wander 'mong my country's bonnie broom. there sings the shepherd on the hill, the ploughman on the lea; there lives my blithesome mountain maid, o scotland's hills for me! the throstle and the nightingale may warble sweeter strains than thrills at lovely gloaming hour o'er scotland's daisied plains; give me the merle's mellow note, the linnet's liquid lay; the laverocks on the roseate cloud- o scotland's hills for me! and i would rather roam beneath thy scowling winter skies, than listlessly attune my lyre where sun-bright flowers arise. the baron's hall, the peasant's cot protect alike the free; the tyrant dies who breathes thine air; o scotland's hills for me! footnotes: [15] at the request of one roger, a music-master in edinburgh, who had obtained a copy of the first two stanzas, a third was added by mr robert chambers, and in this form the song appears in some of the collections. mr chambers's stanza proceeds thus:- in southern climes the radiant sun a brighter light displays; but i love best his milder beams that shine on scotland's braes. then dear, romantic native land if e'er i roam from thee, i'll ne'er forget the cheering lay; o scotland's hills for me! robert hogg. robert hogg was born in the parish of stobo, about the close of the century. his father was william hogg, eldest brother of the ettrick shepherd. william hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. receiving a classical education at the grammar-school of peebles, robert proceeded to the university of edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the church. abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press, or reader in the printing-office of messrs ballantyne. john wilson, the future vocalist, was his yoke-fellow in office. his official duties were arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. his literary talents attracted the favourable notice of mr j. g. lockhart, who, on being appointed, in 1825, to conduct the _quarterly review_, secured his services as secretary or literary assistant. he therefore proceeded to london, but as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his former situation. for a short period he acted as amanuensis to sir walter scott, while the "life of napoleon" was in progress. according to his own account,[16] this must have been no relief from his ordinary toils, for sir walter was at his task from early morning till almost evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. when _chambers's edinburgh journal_ was commenced, hogg was asked by his former schoolfellow, mr robert chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received; but this office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give satisfaction, he was led to decline. he was an extensive contributor, both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular periodical; but before the work had gone further, his health began to give way, and he retired to his father's house in peeblesshire, where he died in 1834. he left a young wife and one child. robert hogg was of low stature and of retiring manners. he was fond of humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of heart. his compositions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary periodical literature. he contributed songs to the "scottish and irish minstrels" and "select melodies" of r. a. smith; and a ballad, entitled "the tweeddale raide," composed in his youth, was inserted by his uncle in the "mountain bard." those which appear in the present work are transcribed from a small periodical, entitled "the rainbow," published at edinburgh, in 1821, by r. ireland; and from the author's album, in the possession of mr henry scott riddell, to whom it was presented by his parents after his decease. in the "rainbow," several of hogg's poetical pieces are translations from the german, and from the latin of buchanan. all his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression, but they are defective in startling originality and power.[17] footnotes: [16] see lockhart's "life of sir walter scott." [17] we have to acknowledge our obligations to mr robert chambers for many of the particulars contained in this memoir. queen of fairie's song. haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me, over the holme so green, over the lea, over the corrie, and down by the lake, cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake, stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea: hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me! come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill; come at the dead of night when all is still; come over mountain steep, come over brae, through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray; come from the forest glade and greenwood tree; hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me! were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae, were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray, were ye by sunny dell up in the ben, or by the braken howe far down the glen, or by the river side; where'er ye be, hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me! hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night, haste to your revel sports gleesome and light, to bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the leven, and dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven, then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea; hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me! when autumn comes. when autumn comes an' heather bells bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells, an' corn that waves on lowland dales is yellow ripe appearing; bonnie lassie will ye gang shear wi' me the hale day lang; an' love will mak' us eithly bang the weary toil o' shearing? an' if the lasses should envy, or say we love, then you an' i will pass ilk ither slyly by, as if we werena caring. but aye i wi' my heuk will whang the thistles, if in prickles strang your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang, when we gang to the shearing. an' aye we'll haud our rig afore, an' ply to hae the shearing o'er, syne you will soon forget you bore your neighbours' jibes and jeering. for then, my lassie, we'll be wed, when we hae proof o' ither had, an' nae mair need to mind what's said when we're thegither shearing. bonnie peggie, o! gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie peggie, o! down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie peggie, o! when the siller burn rins clear, when the rose blooms on the brier, an' where there is none to hear, bonnie peggie, o! i hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie peggie, o! you hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie peggie, o! my heart's been sick and sair, but it shall be sae nae mair, i've now gotten a' my care, bonnie peggie, o! you hae said you love me too, bonnie peggie, o! an' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie peggie, o! let the world gae as it will, be it weel or be it ill, nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie peggie, o! gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie peggie, o! where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie peggie, o! nae mair my love is cross'd, sorrow's sairest pang is past, i am happy at the last, bonnie peggie, o! a wish burst. oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea, with the winds and waves for guides, from all the wants of nature free and all her ties besides. beyond where footstep ever trode would i hold my onward way, as wild as the waves on which i rode, and fearless too as they. the angry winds with lengthen'd sweep were music to mine ear; i'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep close round me without fear. when winter storms burst from the cloud and trouble the ocean's breast, i'd joy me in their roaring loud, and mid their war find rest. by islands fair in the ocean placed, with waves all murmuring round, my wayward course should still be traced, and still no home be found. when calm and peaceful sleeps the tide, and men look out to sea, my bark in silence by should glide, their wonder and awe to be. when sultry summer suns prevail, and rest on the parching land, the cool sea breeze would i inhale, o'er the ocean breathing bland. a restless sprite, that likes delight, in calm and tempest found, 'twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea for ever and aye to bound. i love the merry moonlight.[18] i love the merry moonlight, so wooingly it dances, at midnight hours, round leaves and flowers, on which the fresh dew glances. i love the merry moonlight, on lake and pool so brightly it pours its beams, and in the stream's rough current leaps so lightly. i love the merry moonlight, it ever shines so cheerily when night clouds flit, that, but for it, would cast a shade so drearily. i love the merry moonlight, for when it gleams so mildly the passions rest that rule the breast at other times so wildly. i love the merry moonlight, for 'neath it i can borrow such blissful dreams, that this world seems without a sin or sorrow. footnotes: [18] printed from the author's ms., in the possession of mr h. s. riddell. oh, what are the chains of love made of?[19] oh, what are the chains of love made of, the only bonds that can, as iron gyves the body, thrall the free-born soul of man? can you twist a rope of beams of the sun, or have you power to seize, and round your hand, like threads of silk, wind up the wandering breeze? can you collect the morning dew and, with the greatest pains, beat every drop into a link, and of these links make chains? more fleeting in their nature still, and less substantial are than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew, smile, sigh, and tear--by far. and yet of these love's chains are made, the only bonds that can, as iron gyves the body, thrall the free-born soul of man. footnotes: [19] printed for the first time from the original ms. john wright. a son of genius and of misfortune, john wright was born on the 1st september 1805, at the farm-house of auchincloigh, in the parish of sorn, ayrshire. from his mother, a woman of much originality and shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclination towards intellectual culture. his school education was circumscribed, but he experienced delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities of the vicinity of galston, a village to which his father had removed. at the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of a coal driver; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the loom. his master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity, and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for mutual literary improvement; but his chief happiness was still experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. he fell in love, was accepted, and ultimately cast off--incidents which afforded him opportunities of celebrating the charms, and deploring the inconstancy of the fair. he composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled "mahomet, or the hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort of retaining the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to write. "the retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in 1824. at the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to edinburgh to seek the counsel of men of letters, he submitted the ms. of his poem to professor wilson, dr m'crie, mr glassford bell, and others, who severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. "the retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers, and was well received by the press. the poet now removed to cambuslang, near glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving. he entered into the married state by espousing margaret chalmers, a young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes. the desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife, who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. during the course of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. returning to the loom at cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. he separated from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. in 1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of extricating him from his painful condition. the attempt did not succeed. he died in an hospital in glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance. as a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive powers. his "retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive. an autumnal cloud. oh! would i were throned on yon glossy golden cloud, soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud, floating o'er the sky like a spirit, to descry each bright realm,--and, when i die, may it be my shroud! i would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill, o'er the thunders of ni'gara and cataracts of nile,- with rising rainbows wreathed, in mist and darkness sheathed, where nought but spirits breathed around me the while. above the mighty alps (o'er the tempest's angry god careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode. there, where nature lowers more wild than her most uncultured child, revels beauty--as one smiled o'er life's darkest mood. our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been, o'er the stormy polar deep, where the icy alps are seen, where death sits, crested high, as he would invade the sky, whilst the living valleys lie in their beautiful green! spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve! child of enchantment! behind thee leave thy semblance mantled o'er me; too full thy tide of glory for fancy to restore thee, or memory give! the maiden fair. the moon hung o'er the gay greenwood, the greenwood o'er the mossy stream, that roll'd in rapture's wildest mood, and flutter'd in the fairy beam. through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam o'er hill and dell,--all nature lay wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream of her that charm'd my homeward way! long had i mark'd thee, maiden fair! and drunk of bliss from thy dark eye, and still, to feed my fond despair, bless'd thy approach, and, passing by, i turn'd me round to gaze and sigh, in worship wild, and wish'd thee mine, on that fair breast to live and die, o'er-power'd with transport so divine! still sacred be that hour to love, and dear the season of its birth, and fair the glade, and green the grove, its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth of melody and woodland mirth!- the hour, the spot, so dear to me! that wean'd my soul from all on earth, to be for ever bless'd in thee. the old blighted thorn. all night, by the pathway that crosses the moor, i waited on mary, i linger'd till morn, yet thought her not false--she had ever been true to her tryst by the old blighted thorn. i had heard of love lighting to darken the heart, fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn; such were not my fears, though i sigh'd all night long, and wept 'neath the old blighted thorn. the snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread, i mark'd as footprints far below by the burn; i sped to the valley--i found her deep sunk, on her way to the old blighted thorn! i whisper'd, "my mary!"--she spoke not: i caught her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold; then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er- nor knew how i quitted my hold. the wrecked mariner. stay, proud bird of the shore! carry my last breath with thee to the cliff, where waits our shatter'd skiff- one that shall mark nor it nor lover more. fan with thy plumage bright her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine; and, gently to divine the tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light. again swoop out to sea, with lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head, as thou thyself wert dead, upon her breast, that she may weep for me. now let her bid false hope for ever hide her beam, nor trust again the peace-bereaving strain- life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop. oh! bid not her repine, and deem my loss too bitter to be borne, yet all of passion scorn but the mild, deep'ning memory of mine. thou art away, sweet wind! bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing, and o'er her bosom fling the love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find! joseph grant. joseph grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm of affrusk, parish of banchory-ternan, kincardineshire, on the 26th of may 1805. he was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's farm. from boyhood he cherished a passionate love for reading, and was no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in nature. so early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some merit. in 1828, he published "juvenile lays," a collection of poems and songs; and in 1830, "kincardineshire traditions"--a small volume of ballads--both of which obtained a favourable reception. desirous of emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in 1831, the situation of assistant to a shop-keeper in stonehaven, and soon afterwards proceeded to dundee, where he was employed in the office of the _dundee guardian_ newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a respectable writer. grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _chambers's edinburgh journal_. in 1834, he published a second small volume of "poems and songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a prose work, entitled "tales of the glens," which he did not, however, survive to publish. after an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary complaint, he died on the 14th april 1835, in his thirtieth year. his remains were interred in the churchyard of strachan, kincardineshire, where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected to his memory. the "tales of the glens" were published shortly after his decease, under the editorial care of the late mr james m'cosh, of dundee, editor of the _northern warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an edition of his collected works was published at edinburgh, with a biographical preface by the poet nicol. of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure christian sentiments, grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming an ornament to literature. cut down in the bloom of youth, his elegy has been recorded by the brechin poet, alexander laing- "a kinder, warmer heart than his was ne'er to minstrel given; and kinder, holier sympathies ne'er sought their native heaven." the blackbird's hymn is sweet. the blackbird's hymn is sweet at fall of gloaming, when slow, o'er grove and hill, night's shades are coming; but there is a sound that far more deeply moves us- the low sweet voice of her who truly loves us. fair is the evening star rising in glory, o'er the dark hill's brow, where mists are hoary; but the star whose rays the heart falls nearest, is the love-speaking eye of our heart's dearest. oh, lonely, lonely is the human bosom, that ne'er has nursed the sweets of young love's blossom! the loveliest breast is like a starless morning, when clouds frown dark and cold, and storms are forming. love's adieu. the e'e o' the dawn, eliza, blinks over the dark green sea, an' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap, richt dim and drowsilie. an' the music o' the mornin' is murmurin' alang the air; yet still my dowie heart lingers to catch one sweet throb mair. we've been as blest, eliza, as children o' earth can be, though my fondest wish has been knit by the bonds of povertie; an' through life's misty sojourn, that still may be our fa', but hearts that are link'd for ever ha'e strength to bear it a'. the cot by the mutterin' burnie, its wee bit garden an' field, may ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' heaven than lichts o' the lordliest bield; there 's many a young brow braided wi' jewels o' far-off isles, but woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs, while we see nought but smiles. but adieu, my ain eliza! where'er my wanderin's be, undyin' remembrance will make thee the star o' my destinie; an' well i ken, thou loved one, that aye, till i return, thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom, like a gem in a gowden urn. dugald moore. a poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, dugald moore was born in stockwell street, glasgow, in 1805. his father, who was a private soldier in one of the highland regiments, died early in life, leaving his mother in circumstances of poverty. from his mother's private tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. when a child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of the establishment of messrs james lumsden and son, booksellers, queen street. he very early began to write verses, and some of his compositions having attracted the notice of mr lumsden, senior, that benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution of his literary tastes. through mr lumsden's personal exertions in procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a volume of poems entitled "the african, a tale, and other poems." of this work a second edition was required in the following year, when he likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "scenes from the flood; the tenth plague, and other poems." "the bridal night, and other poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared from his pen in 1831. the profits of these publications enabled him to commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city. his shop, no. 96 queen street, became the rendezvous of men of letters, and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of their custom. in 1833, moore published "the bard of the north, a series of poetical tales, illustrative of highland scenery and character;" in 1835, "the hour of retribution, and other poems;" and in 1839, "the devoted one, and other poems." he died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d january 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the support of his aged mother. buried in the necropolis of the city, a massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal friends in tribute to his memory. though slightly known to fame, moore is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets. possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. he has chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. had he occupied his muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times. rise, my love. rise, my love! the moon, unclouded, wanders o'er the dark blue sea; sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded, hynda comes to set thee free! leave those vaults of pain and sorrow, on the long and dreaming deep; a bower will greet us ere to-morrow, where our eyes may cease to weep. oh! some little isle of gladness, smiling in the waters clear, where the dreary tone of sadness never smote the lonely ear- soon will greet us, and deliver souls so true, to freedom's plan; death may sunder us, but never tyrant's threats, nor fetters can. then our lute's exulting numbers, unrestrain'd will wander on, while the night has seal'd in slumbers, fair creation, all her own. and we'll wed, while music stealeth through the starry fields above, while each bounding spirit feeleth all the luxury of love. then we'll scorn oppression's minions, all the despot's bolts and powers; while time wreathes his heavy pinions with love's brightest passion-flowers. rise, then! let us fly together, now the moon laughs on the sea; east or west, i care not whither, when with love and liberty! julia. born where the glorious star-lights trace in mountain snows their silver face, where nature, vast and rude, looks as if by her god design'd to fill the bright eternal mind, with her fair magnitude. hers was a face, to which was given less portion of the earth than heaven, as if each trait had stole its hue from nature's shapes of light; as if stars, flowers, and all things bright had join'd to form her soul. her heart was young--she loved to breathe the air which spins the mountain's wreath, to wander o'er the wild, to list the music of the deep, to see the round stars on it sleep, for she was nature's child! nursed where the soul imbibes the print of freedom--where nought comes to taint, or its warm feelings quell: she felt love o'er her spirit driven, such as the angels felt in heaven, before they sinn'd and fell. her mind was tutor'd from its birth, from all that's beautiful on earth- lights which cannot expire- from all their glory, she had caught a lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught with heaven's celestial fire. the desert streams familiar grown, the stars had language of their own, the hills contain'd a voice with which she could converse, and bring a charm from each insensate thing, which bade her soul rejoice. she had the feeling and the fire, that fortune's stormiest blast could tire, though delicate and young; her bosom was not formed to bend- adversity, that firmest friend, had all its fibres strung. such was my love--she scorn'd to hide a passion which she deem'd a pride! oft have we sat and view'd the beauteous stars walk through the night, and cynthia lift her sceptre bright, to curb old ocean's mood. she'd clasp me as if ne'er to part, that i might feel her beating heart- might read her living eye; then pause! i've felt the pure tide roll through every vein, which to my soul, said--nature could not lie. lucy's grave. my spirit could its vigil hold for ever at this silent spot; but, ah! the heart within is cold, the sleeper heeds me not: the fairy scenes of love and youth, the smiles of hope, the tales of truth, by her are all forgot: her spirit with my bliss is fled- i only weep above the dead! i need not view the grassy swell, nor stone escutcheon'd fair; i need no monument to tell that thou art lying there: i feel within, a world like this, a fearful blank in all my bliss- an agonized despair, which paints the earth in cheerful bloom, but tells me, thou art in the tomb! i knew death's fatal power, alas could doom man's hopes to pine, but thought that many a year would pass before he scatter'd mine! too soon he quench'd our morning rays, brief were our loves of early days- brief as those bolts that shine with beautiful yet transient form, round the dark fringes of the storm! i little thought, when first we met, a few short months would see thy sun, before its noontide, set in dark eternity! while love was beaming from thy face, a lover's eye but ill could trace aught that obscured its ray; so calm its pain thy bosom bore, i thought not death was at its core! the silver moon is shining now upon thy lonely bed, pale as thine own unblemish'd brow, cold as thy virgin head; she seems to breathe of many a day now shrouded with thee in the clay, of visions that have fled, when we beneath her holy flame, dream'd over hopes that never came! hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell, it mars the hallow'd scene; and must we bid again--farewell! must life still intervene? its charms are vain! my heart is laid e'en with thine own, celestial maid! a few short days have been an age of pain--a few may be a welcome passport, love! to thee. the forgotten brave. 'tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, as the patriot sons of the mountain should die, with the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand, on the heath of the desert they lie. like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight, like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast; their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright, but red when the battle was past. they rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met the foes of their country in battle array; but the sun of their glory in darkness hath set, and the flowers of the forest are faded away! oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep, no friend of their bosom, no loved one is near, to add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep, or drop o'er their ashes a tear. the first ship. the sky in beauty arch'd the wide and weltering flood, while the winds in triumph march'd through their pathless solitude- rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest, that like space in darkness slept, when his watch old silence kept, ere the earliest planet leapt from its breast. a speck is on the deeps, like a spirit in her flight; how beautiful she keeps her stately path in light! she sweeps the shining wilderness in glee- the sun has on her smiled, and the waves, no longer wild, sing in glory round that child of the sea. 'twas at the set of sun that she tilted o'er the flood, moving like god alone o'er the glorious solitude- the billows crouch around her as her slaves. how exulting are her crew- each sight to them is new, as they sweep along the blue of the waves! fair herald of the fleets that yet shall cross the wave, till the earth with ocean meets one universal grave, what armaments shall follow thee in joy! linking each distant land with trade's harmonious band, or bearing havoc's brand to destroy! weep not. though this wild brain is aching, spill not thy tears with mine; come to my heart, though breaking, its firmest half is thine. thou wert not made for sorrow, then do not weep with me; there is a lovely morrow, that yet will dawn on thee. when i am all forgotten- when in the grave i lie- when the heart that loved thee 's broken, and closed the sparkling eye; love's sunshine still will cheer thee, unsullied, pure, and deep; for the god who 's ever near thee, will never see thee weep. to the clyde. when cities of old days but meet the savage gaze, stream of my early ways thou wilt roll. though fleets forsake thy breast, and millions sink to rest- of the bright and glorious west still the soul. when the porch and stately arch, which now so proudly perch o'er thy billows, on their march to the sea, are but ashes in the shower; still the jocund summer hour, from his cloud will weave a bower over thee. when the voice of human power has ceased in mart and bower, still the broom and mountain flower will thee bless. and the mists that love to stray o'er the highlands, far away, will come down their deserts gray to thy kiss. and the stranger, brown with toil, from the far atlantic soil, like the pilgrim of the nile, yet may come to search the solemn heaps that moulder by thy deeps, where desolation sleeps, ever dumb. though fetters yet should clank o'er the gay and princely rank of cities on thy bank, all sublime; still thou wilt wander on, till eternity has gone, and broke the dial stone of old time. rev. t. g. torry anderson. the author of the deservedly popular words and air of "the araby maid," thomas gordon torry anderson was the youngest son of patrick torry, d.d., titular bishop of st andrews, dunkeld, and dunblane. his mother, jane young, was the daughter of dr william young, of fawsyde, kincardineshire. born at peterhead on the 9th july 1805, he received his elementary education at the parish school of that place. he subsequently prosecuted his studies in marischal college, aberdeen, and the university of edinburgh. in 1827, he received holy orders, and was admitted to the incumbency of st john's episcopal church, portobello. he subsequently became assistant in st george's episcopal church, edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of st paul's episcopal church, dundee. devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, mr torry anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music and song, and in the occasional composition of both. he composed, in 1833, the words and air of "the araby maid," which speedily obtained a wide popularity. the music and words of the songs, entitled "the maiden's vow," and "i love the sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854, respectively. to a work, entitled "poetical illustrations of the achievements of the duke of wellington and his companions in arms," published in 1852, he extensively contributed. during the summer of 1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency. he afterwards resided on his estate of fawsyde, to which he had succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, dr young. he died at aberdeen on the 20th of june 1856, in his fifty-first year. he was three times married--first, in 1828, to mrs gaskin anderson of tushielaw, whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly, he espoused, in 1838, elizabeth jane, daughter of dr thomas sutter, r.n.; and lastly, mrs hill, widow of mr william hill, r.n., whom he married in 1854. he has left a widow and six children. the araby maid. away on the wings of the wind she flies, like a thing of life and light- and she bounds beneath the eastern skies, and the beauty of eastern night. why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam, why wings it so speedy a flight? 'tis an araby maid who hath left her home, to fly with her christian knight. she hath left her sire and her native land, the land which from childhood she trode, and hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand, to worship the christian's god. then away, away, oh swift be thy flight, it were death one moment's delay; for behind there is many a blade glancing bright- then away--away--away! they are safe in the land where love is divine, in the land of the free and the brave- they have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine, nought can sever them now but the grave. the maiden's vow. the maid is at the altar kneeling, hark the chant is loudly pealing- now it dies away! her prayers are said at the holy shrine, no other thought but thought divine doth her sad bosom fill. the world to her is nothing now, for she hath ta'en a solemn vow to do her father's will. but why hath one so fair, so young, the joys of life thus from her flung- why hath she ta'en the veil? her lover fell where the brave should fall, amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call proclaim'd the victory. he fought, he fell, a hero brave- and though he fill a lowly grave, his name can never die. the victory's news to the maiden came- they loudly breathed her lover's name, who for his country fell. but vain the loudest trumpet tone of fame to her, when he was gone to whom the praise was given! her sun of life had set in gloom- its joys were withered in his tomb- she vow'd herself to heaven. i love the sea. i love the sea, i love the sea, my childhood's home, my manhood's rest, my cradle in my infancy- the only bosom i have press'd. i cannot breathe upon the land, its manners are as bonds to me, till on the deck again i stand, i cannot feel that i am free. then tell me not of stormy graves- though winds be high, there let them roar; i 'd rather perish on the waves than pine by inches on the shore. i ask no willow where i lie, my mourner let the mermaid be, my only knell the sea-bird's cry, my winding-sheet the boundless sea! george allan. george allan was the youngest son of john allan, farmer at paradykes, near edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d february 1806. ere he had completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both his parents. intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served an apprenticeship in the office of a writer to the signet. he became a member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished legal pursuits, and proceeded to london, resolved to commence the career of a man of letters. in the metropolis his literary aspirations were encouraged by allan cunningham and mr and mrs s. c. hall. in 1829, he accepted an appointment in jamaica; but, his health suffering from the climate of the west indies, he returned in the following year. shortly after his arrival in britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the editorship of the _dumfries journal_, a respectable conservative newspaper. this he conducted with distinguished ability and success for three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. a letter of allan cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor, is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:- "study to fill your paper," writes cunningham, "with such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the district, such as please men of the nith in a far land. these are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and these you can easily have. a few literary paragraphs you can easily scatter about; these attract booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements where they find their works are noticed. above all things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake the head. you will have friends on one side of the water desiring one thing, friends on the other side desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you vex ten. an honest heart, a clear head, and a good conscience, will enable you to get well through all." on terminating his connexion with the _dumfries journal_, allan proceeded to edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the messrs chambers as a literary assistant. in a letter addressed to a friend, about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising employers:- "they are never idle. their very recreations are made conducive to their business, and they go through their labours with a spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with their dispositions." "mr robert chambers," he adds, "is the most mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man i ever knew, and is perfectly uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. the interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond everything i ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way in which he is every other day asking me if i am all comfortable at home, and bidding me apply to him when i am in want of anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks for." besides contributing many interesting articles to _chambers's edinburgh journal_, and furnishing numerous communications to the _scotsman_ newspaper, allan wrote a "life of sir walter scott," in an octavo volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the public press. in preparing that elegant work, the "original national melodies of scotland," the ingenious editor, mr peter m'leod, was favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that publication, with suitable music. in 1834, some of his relatives succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate situation in the stamp office,--one which at once afforded him a certain subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his literary talents. but a constitutional weakness of the nervous system did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. he died suddenly at janefield, near leith, on the 15th august 1835, in his thirtieth year. in october 1831, he had espoused mrs mary hill, a widow, eldest daughter of mr william pagan, of curriestanes, and niece of allan cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. allan was a man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion, and devoted friend. in person he was tall and rather thin, with a handsome, intelligent countenance. an enthusiast in the concerns of literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by overstrained application. his verses are animated and vigorous, and are largely imbued with the national spirit.[20] footnotes: [20] we are indebted to william pagan, esq. of clayton, author of "road reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. mr pagan kindly procured for our use the whole of mr allan's papers and mss. is your war-pipe asleep?[21] is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, m'crimman? is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever? shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to benaer, be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair, to give back our wrongs to the giver? to the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone, like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on, with the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them, and have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them; then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray! sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen, shout for m'pherson, m'leod, and the moray, till the lomonds re-echo the challenge again! ii.--(m'crimman.) youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom as the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now, but the fate of m'crimman is closing in gloom, and the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow; victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to benaer, and be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there, but m'crimman, m'crimman, m'crimman, never- never! never! never! iii.--(clansmen.) wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, m'crimman? wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not? if thy course must be brief, let the proud saxon know that the soul of m'crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe bared his blade in the land he had won not! where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, and the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind, there our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing, 'mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing, then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray! sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen; shout for m'pherson, m'leod, and the moray, till the lomonds re-echo the challenge again! footnotes: [21] in blackie's "book of scottish song," this song is attributed to the rev. george allan, d.d. it is also inserted among the songs of the ettrick shepherd, published by the messrs blackie. the latter blunder is accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the shepherd by mr h. s. riddell, as a specimen of mr allan's poetical talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. this song, with the two immediately following, appeared in m'leod's "national melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's mss. i will think of thee yet. i will think of thee yet, though afar i may be, in the land of the stranger, deserted and lone, though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me, and the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone, i will think of thee yet, and the vision of night will oft bring thine image again to my sight, and the tokens will be, as the dream passes by, a sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye. i will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill o'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea, and i'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still, while i know that one heart still beats warmly for me. yes! grief and despair may encompass me round, 'till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found; but mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you and the wild mountain land which my infancy knew. i will think of thee; oh! if i e'er can forget the love that grew warm as all others grew cold, 'twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set, or memory fled from her care-haunted hold; but while life and its woes to bear on is my doom, shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom; and thine still shall be, as so long it hath been, a light to my soul when no other is seen. lassie, dear lassie. lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan, and the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin', but the best buds of nature may blaw till they weary, ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie! i wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes, and the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses; but there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover! the snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken, and melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken, oh sae pure is the heart i hae won to my keepin'! but warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'! then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing, for my lips could repeat it a thousand times over, and the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover. when i look far down on the valley below me.[22] when i look far down on the valley below me, where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast, while the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me how calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd, how oft have i wish'd that kind heaven had granted my hours in such spot to have peacefully run, where, if pleasures were few, they were all that i wanted, and contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won. i have mingled with mankind, and far i have wander'd, have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues; i have been where the bounties of nature were squander'd till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse! yet _there_ i still found that man's innocence perish'd, as the senses might sway or the passions command; that the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd, were the peaceful abodes of my own native land. then why should i leave this dear vale of my choice and the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true, to mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few? ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd, our feelings ebb back from eternity's strand, and the hopes of elysium in vain would be tender'd, could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land. footnotes: [22] printed, for the first time, from the author's ms. i will wake my harp when the shades of even.[23] i will wake my harp when the shades of even are closing around the dying day, when thoughts that wear the hues of heaven are weaning my heart from the world away; and my strain will tell of a land and home which my wand'ring steps have left behind, where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam are free as the breath of their mountain wind. i will wake my harp when the star of vesper hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth, when not a leaf is heard to whisper that a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth. and you, dear friends of my youthful years, will oft be the theme of my lonely lay, and a smile for the past will gild the tears that tell how my heart is far away. i will wake my harp when the moon is holding her star-tent court in the midnight sky, when the spirits of love, their wings unfolding, bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye. and well may i hail that blissful hour, for my spirit will then, from its thrall set free, return to my own lov'd maiden's bower, and gather each sigh that she breathes for me. thus, still when those pensive hours are bringing the feelings and thoughts which no lips can tell, i will charm each cloud from my soul by singing of all i have left and lov'd so well. oh! fate may smile, and sorrow may cease, but the dearest hope we on earth can gain is to come, after long sad years, in peace, and be join'd with the friends of our love, again. footnotes: [23] printed for the first time. thomas brydson. thomas brydson was born in glasgow in 1806. on completing the usual course of study at the universities of glasgow and edinburgh, he became a licentiate of the established church. he assisted in the middle church, greenock, and in the parish of kilmalcolm, renfrewshire, and was, in 1839, ordained minister of levern chapel, near paisley. in 1842, he was translated to the full charge of kilmalcolm, where he continued to minister with much acceptance till his death, which took place suddenly on the 28th january 1855. a man of fine fancy and correct taste, mr brydson was, in early life, much devoted to poetical composition. in 1829, he published a duodecimo volume of "poems;" and a more matured collection of his poetical pieces in 1832, under the title of "pictures of the past." he contributed, in prose and verse, to the _edinburgh literary journal_; the _republic of letters_, a glasgow publication; and some of the london annuals. though fond of correspondence with his literary friends, and abundantly hospitable, he latterly avoided general society, and, in a great measure, confined himself to his secluded parish of kilmalcolm. among his parishioners he was highly esteemed for the unction and fervour which distinguished his public ministrations, as well as for the gentleness of his manners and the generosity of his heart. of domestic animals he was devotedly fond. he took delight in pastoral scenery, and in solitary musings among the hills. his poetry is pervaded by elegance of sentiment and no inconsiderable vigour of expression. all lovely and bright. all lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time, seem the days when i wander'd with you, like the green isles that swell in this far distant clime, on the deeps that are trackless and blue. and now, while the torrent is loud on the hill, and the howl of the forest is drear, i think of the lapse of our own native rill- i think of thy voice with a tear. the light of my taper is fading away, it hovers, and trembles, and dies; the far-coming morn on her sea-paths is gray, but sleep will not come to mine eyes. yet why should i ponder, or why should i grieve o'er the joys that my childhood has known? we may meet, when the dew-flowers are fragrant at eve, as we met in the days that are gone. charles doyne sillery. though a native of ireland, charles doyne sillery has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of caledonia. his mother was a scotchwoman, and he was himself brought up and educated in edinburgh. he was born at athlone, in ireland, on the 2d of march 1807. his father, who bore the same christian and middle names, was a captain of the royal artillery.[24] he distinguished himself in the engagements of talavera on the 27th and 28th of july 1809; but from his fatigues died soon after. his mother, catherine fyfe, was the youngest daughter of mr barclay fyfe, merchant in leith. she subsequently became the wife of james watson, esq., now of tontley hall, berkshire. of lively and playful dispositions, sillery did not derive much advantage from scholastic training. his favourite themes were poetry and music, and these he assiduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of other important studies. at a subsequent period he devoted himself with ardour to his improvement in general knowledge. he read extensively, and became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages. disappointed in obtaining a commission in the royal artillery, on which he had calculated, he proceeded to india as midshipman in a merchant vessel. conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage, he entered on the study of medicine in the university of edinburgh. from early youth he composed verses. in 1829, while only in his twenty-second year, he published, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, entitled "vallery; or, the citadel of the lake." this production, which refers to the times of chivalry, was well received; and, in the following year, the author ventured on the publication of a second poem, in two books, entitled "eldred of erin." in the latter composition, which is pervaded by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal experiences. in 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, "the exiles of chamouni; a drama," a production which received only a limited circulation. about the same period, he became a contributor of verses to the _edinburgh literary journal_. he ultimately undertook the editorial superintendence of a religious periodical. delicate in constitution, and of a highly nervous temperament, sillery found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the intention of qualifying himself for the church. he calculated on early ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of her majesty queen adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some interest on his behalf. but his prospects were soon clouded by the slow but certain progress of an insidious malady. he was seized with pulmonary consumption, and died at edinburgh on the 16th may 1836, in his twenty-ninth year. of sprightly and winning manners, sillery was much cherished in the literary circles of the capital. he was of the ordinary height, and of an extremely slender figure; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing, was singularly indicative of power. poetry, in its every department, he cherished with the devotion of an enthusiast; and though sufficiently modest on the subject of his own poetical merits, he took delight in singing his own songs. interested in the history of the middle ages, he had designed to publish an "account of ancient chivalry." latterly, his views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. shortly before his death, he composed a "discourse on the sufferings of christ," the proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. as a poet, with more advanced years, he would have obtained a distinguished place. with occasional defects, the poem of "vallery" is possessed of much boldness of imagery, and force and elegance of expression. footnotes: [24] captain doyne sillery was born in drogheda, ireland, of which place his father was mayor during the rebellion of 1798, and where he possessed considerable property. he was descended from one of the most ancient and illustrious families in france, of which the representative took refuge in england during the infamous persecution of the protestants in the sixteenth century. on the reduction of priestly power in ireland by cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the united kingdom. the family name was originally brulart. nicolas brulart, marquis de sillery, lord de pinsieux, de marinis, and de berny, acquired much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in france. (see "l'histoire gã©nã©alogique et chronologique des chanceliers de france," tom. vi. p. 524). on the maternal side captain sillery was lineally descended from edward hyde, earl of clarendon, the famous chancellor. she died in beauty. she died in beauty! like a rose blown from its parent stem; she died in beauty! like a pearl dropp'd from some diadem. she died in beauty! like a lay along a moonlit lake; she died in beauty! like the song of birds amid the brake. she died in beauty! like the snow on flowers dissolved away; she died in beauty! like a star lost on the brow of day. she _lives_ in glory! like night's gems set round the silver moon; she lives in glory! like the sun amid the blue of june! the scottish blue bells. let the proud indian boast of his jessamine bowers, his pastures of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells; while humbly i sing of those wild little flowers- the blue-bells of scotland, the scottish blue-bells. wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain, for brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells, and dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain, that calms its wild waves 'mid the scottish blue-bells. then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, the mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, and shout in the chorus for ever and ever- the blue-bells of scotland, the scottish blue-bells. sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming, and green are your groves with their cool crystal wells, and bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming on blue-bells of scotland, on scottish blue-bells. awake! ye light fairies that trip o'er the heather, ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells- come forth with your chorus, all chanting together- the blue-bells of scotland, the scottish blue-bells. then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, the mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, and shout in the chorus for ever and ever- the blue-bells of scotland, the scottish blue-bells. robert miller. robert miller, the author of the two following songs, was a native of glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. he contributed verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate publication. he died at glasgow, in september 1834, at the early age of twenty-four. his "lay of the hopeless" was written within a few days of his decease. where are they? the loved of early days! where are they?--where? not on the shining braes, the mountains bare;- not where the regal streams their foam-bells cast- where childhood's time of dreams and sunshine pass'd. some in the mart, and some in stately halls, with the ancestral gloom of ancient walls; some where the tempest sweeps the desert waves; some where the myrtle weeps on roman graves. and pale young faces gleam with solemn eyes; like a remember'd dream the dead arise; in the red track of war the restless sweep; in sunlit graves afar the loved ones sleep. the braes are dight with flowers, the mountain streams foam past me in the showers of sunny gleams; but the light hearts that cast a glory there, in the rejoicing past, where are they?--where? lay of the hopeless. oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now o'er the restless and weary wave, were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough o'er the calm of my early grave- and my heart with its pulses of fire and life, oh! would it were still as stone. i am weary, weary, of all the strife, and the selfish world i 've known. i 've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup, when youth and joy were mine; but the cold black dregs are floating up, instead of the laughing wine; and life hath lost its loveliness, and youth hath spent its hour, and pleasure palls like bitterness, and hope hath not a flower. and love! was it not a glorious eye that smiled on my early dream? it is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh, in the churchyard by the stream: and fame--oh! mine were gorgeous hopes of a flashing and young renown: but early, early the flower-leaf drops from the withering seed-cup down. and beauty! have i not worshipp'd all her shining creations well? the rock--the wood--the waterfall, where light or where love might dwell. but over all, and on my heart, the mildew hath fallen sadly, i have no spirit, i have no part in the earth that smiles so gladly! i only sigh for a quiet bright spot in the churchyard by the stream, whereon the morning sunbeams float, and the stars at midnight dream; where only nature's sounds may wake the sacred and silent air, and only her beautiful things may break through the long grass gathering there. alexander hume. alexander hume was born at kelso on the 1st of february 1809. his father, walter hume, occupied a respectable position as a retail trader in that town. of the early history of our author little has been ascertained. his first teacher was mr ballantyne of kelso, a man somewhat celebrated in his vocation. to his early preceptor's kindness of heart, hume frequently referred with tears. while under mr ballantyne's scholastic superintendence, his love of nature first became apparent. after school hours it was his delight to wander by the banks of the tweed, or reclining on its brink, to listen to the music of its waters. from circumstances into which we need not inquire, his family was induced to remove from kelso to london. the position they occupied we have not learned; but young hume is remembered as being a quick, intelligent, and most affectionate boy, eager, industrious, self-reliant, and with an occasional dash of independence that made him both feared and loved. he might have been persuaded to adopt almost any view, but an attempt at coercion only excited a spirit of antagonism. to use an old and familiar phrase, "he might break, but he would not bend." about this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had authority over him, he suddenly disappeared from home, and allied himself to a company of strolling players, with whom he associated for several months. he had an exquisite natural voice, and sung the melting melodies of scotland in a manner seldom equalled. with the itinerant manager he was a favourite, because he was fit for anything--tragedy, comedy, farce, a hornpipe, and, if need be, a comic song, in which making faces at the audience was an indispensable accomplishment. his greatest hit, we are told, was in the absurdly extravagant song, "i am such a beautiful boy;" when he used to say that in singing one verse, he opened his mouth so wide that he had difficulty in closing it; but it appears he had neither difficulty nor reluctance in closing his engagement. getting tired of his new profession, and disgusted with his associates, poorly clad and badly fed, he slipped away when his companions were fast asleep, and returned to london. here, weary and footsore, he presented himself to a relative, who received him kindly, and placed him in a position where by industry he might provide for his necessities. in 1827, he obtained a situation with forbes & co. of mark lane, the highly respectable agents for berwick & co. of edinburgh, the celebrated brewers of scotch ale. his position being one of considerable responsibility, he was obliged to find security in the sum of â£500, which he obtained from the relative who had always stood his friend. but such was his probity and general good conduct, that his employers cancelled the security, and returned the bond as a mark of their appreciation of his integrity and worth. about this period it was that he first gave utterance to his feelings in verse. impulsive and impassioned naturally, his first strong attachment roused the deepest feelings of the man, and awoke the dormant passion of the poet. the non-success of his first wooing only made his song the more vehement for a while, but as no flame can burn intensely for ever, his love became more subdued, and his song gradually assumed that touching pathos which has ever characterised the best lyrics of scotland. some time between the years 1830 and 1833, he became a member of the literary and scientific institution, aldersgate street, where he made the acquaintance of many kindred spirits, young men of the same standing as himself, chiefly occupied in the banks, offices, and warehouses of the city of london. there they had classes established for the study of history, for the discussion of philosophical and literary subjects, and for the practice of elocution. the recitations of the several members awoke the embers that smouldered in his heart from the time he had left the stage. his early experience had made him acquainted with the manner in which the voice ought to be modulated to make the utterance effective; and although he seldom ventured to recite, he was always a fair critic and a deeply interested auditor. the young ambition of a few had led them to aspire to authorship, and they established a monthly magazine. although the several articles were not of the highest order, they were, nevertheless, quite equal to the average periodical writings of the day. in this magazine it is believed that hume published his first song. it had been sent in the ordinary way, signed _daft wattie_, and the editor, not appreciating the northern dialect in which it was written, had tossed it aside. shortly afterwards, one of the managers on turning over the rejected papers was attracted by the verses, read them, and was charmed. he placed them back in the editor's box, certifying them as fit for publication by writing across them, "musical as is apollo's lute," to which he signed his name, william raine. this circumstance soon led to an intimate acquaintance with mr raine, who was a man of considerable original power, excellent education, and of a social and right manly nature. this new acquaintance coloured the whole of hume's future life. they became fast friends, and were inseparable. the imagination of hume was restrained by the acute judgment and critical ability of mr raine. when hume published his first volume of "songs," it would perhaps be difficult to determine whether their great success and general popularity resulted from the poet whose name they bore, or from the friend who weighed and suggested corrections in almost every song, until they finally came before the public in a collected form. the volume was dedicated to allan cunningham, and in the preface he says: "i composed them by no rules excepting those which my own observation and feelings formed; i knew no other. as i thought and felt, so have i written. of all poetical compositions, songs, especially those of the affections, should be natural, warm gushes of feeling--brief, simple, and condensed. as soon as they have left the singer's lips, they should be fast around the hearer's heart." in 1837, hume married miss scott, a lady well calculated to attract the eye and win the heart of a poet. he remained connected with the house of berwick & co. until 1840, when, to recover his health, which had been failing for some time, he was advised to visit america, where he travelled for several months. on his return to england, he entered into an engagement with the messrs lane of cork, then the most eminent brewers in the south of ireland. to this work he devoted himself with great energy, and was duly rewarded for his labour by almost immediate success. the article he sold became exceedingly popular in the metropolis; nor was he disappointed in the hope of realising considerable pecuniary advantages. for several years he had written very little. the necessity to make provision for a rapidly increasing family, and the ambition to take a high position in the business he had chosen, occupied his every hour, and became with him a passion as strong as had ever moved him in works of the imagination. in 1847 there were slight indications of a return of the complaint from which he had suffered in 1840, and he again crossed the atlantic. although he returned considerably improved in health, he was by no means well. fortunately he had secured the services of a mr macdonald as an assistant in his business, whose exertions in his interest were unremitting. mr hume's health gradually declined, and ultimately incapacitated him for the performance of any commercial duty. in may 1851 he died at northampton, leaving a widow and six children. as a song writer, hume is entitled to an honourable place among those authors whose writings have been technically called "the untutored muse of scotland." his style is eminently graceful, and a deep and genuine pathos pervades his compositions. we confidently predict that some of his lyrics are destined to obtain a lasting popularity. in 1845, a complete edition of his "songs and poems" was published at london in a thin octavo volume. my wee, wee wife. air--_"the boatie rows."_ my wee wife dwells in yonder cot, my bonnie bairnies three; oh! happy is the husband's lot, wi' bairnies on his knee. my wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, my bonnie bairnies three; how bright is day how sweet is life! when love lights up the e'e. the king o'er me may wear a crown, have millions bow the knee, but lacks he love to share his throne, how poor a king is he! my wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, my bonnie bairnies three, let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife, your hearts are thrones to me. i 've felt oppression's galling chain, i 've shed the tear o' care, but feeling aye lost a' its pain, when my wee wife was near. my wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, my bonnie bairnies three, the chains we wear are sweet to bear, how sad could we go free! o poverty! air--_"the posie."_ eliza was a bonnie lass, and oh! she lo'ed me weel, sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel; but i was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me; o poverty! o poverty! that love should bow to thee. i went unto her mother, and i argued and i fleech'd, i spak o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd; but she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me; o poverty! o poverty! that love should bow to thee. i next went to her brother, and i painted a' my pain, i told him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain; though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me; o poverty! o poverty! that love should bow to thee. oh! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man, and canker'd gray locks young again, if he has gear and lan'; to age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' e'e; o poverty! o poverty! that love should bow to thee. but wait a wee, oh! love is slee, and winna be said nay, it breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way; in spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be; o poverty! o poverty! we're wed in spite o' thee. nanny. air--_"fee him, father."_ there 's mony a flower beside the rose, and sweets beside the honey; but laws maun change ere life disclose a flower or sweet like nanny. her e'e is like the summer sun, when clouds can no conceal it, ye 're blind if it ye look upon, oh! mad if ere ye feel it. i 've mony bonnie lassies seen, baith blithesome, kind, an' canny; but oh! the day has never been i 've seen another nanny! she 's like the mavis in her sang, amang the brakens bloomin', her lips ope to an angel's tongue, but kiss her, oh! she's woman. my bessie. air--_"the posie."_ my bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers, oh! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours, when on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play, an' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day? the gowans blossom'd bonnilie, i 'd pu' them from the stem, an' rin in noisy blithesomeness to thee, my bess, wi' them, to place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me, i saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw i only thee. like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew, an' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you; how aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck, an' breathe young vows that after-years o' sorrow has na brak! we 'd raise our lisping voices in auld coila's melting lays, an' sing that tearfu' tale about doon's bonnie banks and braes; but thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet, like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet. oh! is na this a joyous day, a' nature's breathing forth, in gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth? the linties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree, oh! may such joy be ever felt, my bess, by thee and me! menie hay. air--_"heigh-ho! for somebody."_ a wee bird sits upon a spray, and aye it sings o' menie hay, the burthen o' its cheery lay is "come away, dear menie hay! sweet art thou, o menie hay! fair i trow, o menie hay! there 's not a bonnie flower in may shows a bloom wi' menie hay." a light in yonder window 's seen, and wi' it seen is menie hay; wha gazes on the dewy green, where sits the bird upon the spray? "sweet art thou, o menie hay! fair i trow, o menie hay! at sic a time, in sic a way, what seek ye there, o menie hay?" "what seek ye there, my daughter dear? what seek ye there, o menie hay?" "dear mother, but the stars sae clear around the bonnie milky way." "sweet are thou, o menie hay! slee i trow, o menie hay! ye something see ye daurna say, paukie, winsome menie hay!" the window 's shut, the light is gane, and wi' it gane is menie hay; but wha is seen upon the green, kissing sweetly menie hay? "sweet art thou, o menie hay! slee i trow, o menie hay! for ane sae young ye ken the way, and far from blate, o menie hay!" "gae scour the country, hill and dale; oh! waes me, where is menie hay? search ilka nook, in town or vale, for my daughter, menie hay." "sweet art thou, o menie hay! slee i trow, o menie hay! i wish you joy, young johnie fay, o' your bride, sweet menie hay." i 've wander'd on the sunny hill. i 've wander'd on the sunny hill, i 've wander'd in the vale, where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale; but hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me- the light that beam'd its ray on me was love's sweet glance from thee. the rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom- the morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom; but sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea, nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as love's sweet glance from thee. i love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand, when scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand; the captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free, than i when bound wi' beauty's chain in love's sweet glance from thee. i loved thee, bonnie bessie, as the earth adores the sun, i ask'd nae lands, i craved nae gear, i prized but thee alone; ye smiled in look, but no in heart--your heart was no for me; ye planted hope that never bloom'd in love's sweet glance from thee. oh! years hae come. oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane, sin' first i sought the warld alane, sin' first i mused wi' heart sae fain on the hills o' caledonia. but oh! behold the present gloom, my early friends are in the tomb, and nourish now the heather bloom on the hills o' caledonia. my father's name, my father's lot, is now a tale that 's heeded not, or sang unsung, if no forgot on the hills o' caledonia. o' our great ha' there 's left nae stane- a' swept away, like snaw lang gane; weeds flourish o'er the auld domain on the hills o' caledonia. the ti'ot's banks are bare and high, the stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by, like some sad heart maist grutten dry on the hills o' caledonia. the wee birds sing no frae the tree, the wild-flowers bloom no on the lea, as if the kind things pitied me on the hills o' caledonia. but friends can live, though cold they lie, an' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh, when we forget them, then they die on the hills o' caledonia. an' howsoever changed the scene, while mem'ry an' my feeling 's green, still green to my auld heart an' e'en are the hills o' caledonia. my mountain hame. air--_"gala water."_ my mountain hame, my mountain hame! my kind, my independent mother; while thought and feeling rule my frame, can i forget the mountain heather? scotland dear! i love to hear your daughters dear the simple tale in song revealing, whene'er your music greets my ear my bosom swells wi' joyous feeling- scotland dear! though i to other lands may gae, should fortune's smile attend me thither, i 'll hameward come, whene'er i may, and look again on the mountain heather- scotland dear! when i maun die, oh! i would lie where life and me first met together; that my cauld clay, through its decay, might bloom again in the mountain heather- scotland dear! thomas smibert. a poet and indefatigable prose-writer, thomas smibert was born in peebles on the 8th february 1810. of his native town his father held for a period the office of chief magistrate. with a view of qualifying himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in the university of edinburgh. obtaining licence as a surgeon, he commenced practice in the village of inverleithen, situated within six miles of his native town. he was induced to adopt this sphere of professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness, but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. disappointed in love, and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left inverleithen after the lapse of a year, and returned to peebles. he now began to turn his attention to literature, and was fortunate in procuring congenial employment from the messrs chambers, as a contributor to their popular _journal_. of this periodical he soon attained the position of sub-editor; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services in this literary connexion, it is worthy of record that, during the period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he contributed to the _journal_ no fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and about fifty biographical sketches. within the same period he edited a new edition of paley's "natural theology," with scientific notes, and wrote extensively for a work of the messrs chambers, entitled "information for the people." in 1842, he was appointed to the sub-editorship of the _scotsman_ newspaper. the bequest of a relative afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he continued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and industry. he became a frequent contributor to _hogg's instructor_, an edinburgh weekly periodical; produced a work on "greek history;" and collated a "rhyming dictionary." a large, magnificently illustrated volume, the "clans of the highlands of scotland," was his most ambitious and successful effort as a prose-writer. his poetical compositions, which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, "io anche! poems chiefly lyrical;" edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. an historical play from his pen, entitled "condã©'s wife," founded on the love of henri quatre for marguerite de montmorency, whom the young prince of condã© had wedded, was produced in 1842 by mr murray in the theatre royal, edinburgh, and during a run of nine nights was received with applause. smibert died at edinburgh on the 16th january 1854, in his forty-fourth year. with pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation. in person he was strong built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. he was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. his poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. his songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos. the scottish widow's lament. afore the lammas tide had dun'd the birken-tree, in a' our water side nae wife was bless'd like me. a kind gudeman, and twa sweet bairns were 'round me here, but they're a' ta'en awa' sin' the fa' o' the year. sair trouble cam' our gate, and made me, when it cam', a bird without a mate, a ewe without a lamb. our hay was yet to maw, and our corn was to shear, when they a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. i downa look a-field, for aye i trow i see the form that was a bield to my wee bairns and me; but wind, and weet, and snaw, they never mair can fear, sin' they a' got the ca' in the fa' o' the year. aft on the hill at e'ens, i see him 'mang the ferns- the lover o' my teens, the faither o' my bairns; for there his plaid i saw, as gloamin' aye drew near, but my a's now awa' sin' the fa' o' the year. our bonnie rigs theirsel', reca' my waes to mind; our puir dumb beasties tell o' a' that i hae tyned; for wha our wheat will saw, and wha our sheep will shear, sin' my a' gaed awa' in the fa' o' the year? my hearth is growing cauld, and will be caulder still, and sair, sair in the fauld will be the winter's chill; for peats were yet to ca', our sheep they were to smear, when my a' passed awa' in the fa' o' the year. i ettle whiles to spin, but wee, wee patterin' feet come rinnin' out and in, and then i just maun greet; i ken it 's fancy a', and faster rows the tear, that my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year. be kind, o heaven abune! to ane sae wae and lane, and tak' her hamewards sune in pity o' her maen. lang ere the march winds blaw, may she, far far frae here, meet them a' that's awa sin' the fa' o' the year! the hero of st john d'acre.[25] once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing the banner of england is spread to the breeze, and loud is the cheering that hails the uprearing of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the seas. no tempest shall daunt her, no victor-foe taunt her, what manhood can do in her cause shall be done- britannia's best seaman, the boast of her freemen, will conquer or die by his colours and gun. on acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, which stout hearts are banded till death to uphold; and bold is their crying, and fierce their defying, when trench'd in their ramparts, unconquer'd of old. but lo! in the offing, to punish their scoffing, brave napier appears, and their triumph is done; no danger can stay him, no foeman dismay him, he conquers or dies by his colours and gun. now low in the dust is the crescent flag humbled, its warriors are vanquish'd, their freedom is gone; the strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled, and england's flag waves over ruin'd st john. but napier now tenders to acre's defenders the aid of a friend when the combat is won; for mercy's sweet blossom blooms fresh in his bosom, who conquers or dies by his colours and gun. "all hail to the hero!" his country is calling, and "hail to his comrades!" the faithful and brave, they fear'd not for falling, they knew no appalling, but fought like their fathers, the lords of the wave. and long may the ocean, in calm and commotion, rejoicing convey them where fame may be won, and when foes would wound us may napier be round us, to conquer or die by their colours and gun! footnotes: [25] admiral sir charles napier. oh! bonnie are the howes. oh! bonnie are the howes and sunny are the knowes that feed the kye and yowes where my life's morn dawn'd; and brightly glance the rills that spring amang the hills and ca' the merry mills in my ain dear land. but now i canna see the lammies on the lea, nor hear the heather bee on this far, far strand. i see nae father's ha', nae burnie's waterfa', but wander far awa' frae my ain dear land. my heart was free and light, my ingle burning bright, when ruin cam' by night through a foe's fell hand. i left my native air, i gaed to come nae mair; and now i sorrow sair for my ain dear land. but blithely will i bide whate'er may yet betide when ane is by my side on this far, far strand. my jean will soon be here this waefu' heart to cheer, and dry the fa'ing tear for my ain dear land. oh! say na you maun gang awa'. oh! say na you maun gang awa', oh! say na you maun leave me; the dreaded hour that parts us twa of peace and hope will reave me. when you to distant shores are gane how could i bear to tarry, where ilka tree and ilka stane would mind me o' my mary? i couldna wander near yon woods that saw us oft caressing, and on our heads let fa' their buds in earnest o' their blessing. ilk stane wad mind me how we press'd its half-o'erspreading heather, and how we lo'ed the least the best that made us creep thegither. i couldna bide, when you are gane, my ain, my winsome dearie, i couldna stay to pine my lane- i live but when i 'm near ye. then say na you maun gang awa', oh! say na you maun leave me; for ah! the hour that parts us twa of life itself will reave me. john bethune. the younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled to remembrance, john bethune, was born at the mount, in the parish of monimail, fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. the poverty of his parents did not permit his attendance at a public school; he was taught reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother alexander,[26] who was considerably his senior. after some years' employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to break stones on the turnpike-road. at the recommendation of a comrade, he apprenticed himself, early in 1824, to a weaver in a neighbouring village. in his new profession he rapidly acquired dexterity, so that, at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of fifteen shillings. desirous of assisting his aged parents, he now purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his elder brother as his apprentice. a period of mercantile embarrassments which followed, severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed heavily on the subject of this notice; his earnings became reduced to six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. during the period of his apprenticeship, his thoughts had been turned to poetical composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825 that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of literature. successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and composition. before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length, and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. till considerably afterwards, however, his literary productions were only known to his brother alexander, or at furthest to his parents. "up to the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch, "the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had been a crime punishable by law. there being but one apartment in the house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book, upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life, was his only writing-desk. on the table, which was within reach, an old newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any one were heard approaching the door, copy-book, pens, and ink-stand were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had, in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading." for a number of years bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the grounds of inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. on the death of the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering on the duties at the term of martinmas 1835, his brother accompanying him as his assistant. the appointment yielded â£26 yearly, with the right of a cow's pasturage--emoluments which considerably exceeded the average of his previous earnings. to the duties of his new situation he applied himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate only his evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. but his comparative prosperity was of short duration. during the summer following his appointment at inchrye the estate changed owners, and the new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. in another year the landlord required the little cottage at lochend, occupied by his parents. undaunted by these reverses, john bethune and his brother summoned stout courage; they erected a cottage at mount pleasant, near newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. the future career of bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. he became a contributor to the _scottish christian herald_, _wilson's tales of the borders_, and other serial publications. in 1838 appeared "tales and sketches of the scottish peasantry," the mutual production of the poet and his brother--a work which, published in edinburgh, was well received. a work on "practical economy," on which the brothers had bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of persons of literary eminence, was published in may 1839, but failed to attract general interest. this unhappy result deeply affected the health of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by repeated attacks of illness. he was seized with a complaint which proved the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. he died at mount pleasant on the 1st september 1839, in his thirtieth year. with a more lengthened career, john bethune would have attained a high reputation, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose-writer. his genius was versatile and brilliant; of human nature, in all its important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons of industry. his tales are touching and simple; his verses lofty and contemplative. in sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model of genuine piety. his poems, prefaced by an interesting memoir, were published by his surviving brother in 1840; and from the profits of a second edition, published in the following year, a monument has been erected over his grave in the churchyard of abdie. footnotes: [26] alexander bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant companion and coadjutor in literary work, was born at upper rankeillor, in the parish of monimail, in july 1804. his education was limited to a few months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with occasional lessons from his parents. like his younger brother, he followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry or breaking stones on the public road. early contracting a taste for literature, his leisure hours were devoted to reading and composition. in 1835, several of his productions appeared in _chambers' edinburgh journal_. "tales and sketches of the scottish peasantry," a volume by the brothers, of which the greater portion was written by alexander, was published in 1838; their joint-treatise on "practical economy" in the year following. in 1843, alexander published a small volume of tales, entitled "the scottish peasant's fireside," which was favourably received. during the same year he was offered the editorship of the _dumfries standard_ newspaper, with a salary of â£100 a-year, but he was unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. he died at mount pleasant, near newburgh, on the 13th june 1843, and his remains were interred in his brother's grave in abdie churchyard. an interesting volume of his memoirs, "embracing selections from his correspondence and literary memoirs," was published in 1845 by mr william m'combie. wither'd flowers. adieu! ye wither'd flow'rets! your day of glory's past; but your latest smile was loveliest, for we knew it was your last. no more the sweet aroma of your golden cups shall rise, to scent the morning's stilly breath, or gloaming's zephyr-sighs. ye were the sweetest offerings which friendship could bestow- a token of devoted love in pleasure or in woe! ye graced the head of infancy, by soft affection twined into a fairy coronal its sunny brows to bind. * * * * * but ah! a dreary blast hath blown athwart you in your bloom, and, pale and sickly, now your leaves the hues of death assume. we mourn your vanish'd loveliness, ye sweet departed flowers; for ah! the fate which blighted you an emblem is of ours. * * * * * and though, like you, sweet flowers of earth, we wither and depart, and leave behind, to mourn our loss, full many an aching heart; yet when the winter of the grave is past, we hope to rise, warm'd by the sun of righteousness, to blossom in the skies. a spring song. there is a concert in the trees, there is a concert on the hill, there 's melody in every breeze, and music in the murmuring rill. the shower is past, the winds are still, the fields are green, the flow'rets spring, the birds, and bees, and beetles fill the air with harmony, and fling the rosied moisture of the leaves in frolic flight from wing to wing, fretting the spider as he weaves his airy web from bough to bough; in vain the little artist grieves their joy in his destruction now. alas! that, in a scene so fair, the meanest being e'er should feel the gloomy shadow of despair or sorrow o'er his bosom steal. but in a world where woe is real, each rank in life, and every day, must pain and suffering reveal, and wretched mourners in decay- when nations smile o'er battles won, when banners wave and streamers play, the lonely mother mourns her son left lifeless on the bloody clay; and the poor widow, all undone, sees the wild revel with dismay. even in the happiest scenes of earth, when swell'd the bridal-song on high, when every voice was tuned to mirth, and joy was shot from eye to eye, i 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh; and, 'mid the garlands rich and fair, i 've seen a cheek, which once could vie in beauty with the fairest there, grown deadly pale, although a smile was worn above to cloak despair. poor maid! it was a hapless wile of long-conceal'd and hopeless love to hide a heart, which broke the while with pangs no lighter heart could prove. the joyous spring and summer gay with perfumed gifts together meet, and from the rosy lips of may breathe music soft and odours sweet; and still my eyes delay my feet to gaze upon the earth and heaven, and hear the happy birds repeat their anthems to the coming even; yet is my pleasure incomplete; i grieve to think how few are given to feel the pleasures i possess, while thousand hearts, by sorrow riven, must pine in utter loneliness, or be to desperation driven. oh! could we find some happy land, some eden of the deep blue sea, by gentle breezes only fann'd, upon whose soil, from sorrow free, grew only pure felicity! who would not brave the stormiest main within that blissful isle to be, exempt from sight or sense of pain? there is a land we cannot see, whose joys no pen can e'er portray; and yet, so narrow is the road, from it our spirits ever stray- shed light upon that path, o god! and lead us in the appointed way. there only joy shall be complete, more high than mortal thoughts can reach, for there the just and good shall meet, pure in affection, thought, and speech; no jealousy shall make a breach, nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy; there sunny streams of gladness stretch, and there the very air is joy. there shall the faithful, who relied on faithless love till life would cloy, and those who sorrow'd till they died o'er earthly pain and earthly woe, see pleasure, like a whelming tide, from an unbounded ocean flow. allan stewart. allan stewart, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born in the village of houston, renfrewshire, on the 30th january 1812. his father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. deprived of his mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind attentions of his maternal aunt, martha muir, whose letters on religious subjects have been published. receiving an ordinary education at school, he followed the trade of a weaver in paisley. his leisure hours were employed in reading, and in the composition of verses. he died of typhus fever, at paisley, on the 12th november 1837, in his twenty-sixth year. his "poetical remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his friend, mr charles fleming. stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and somewhat melancholy cast. his verses are generally of a superior order; his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment. the sea-boy. air--_"the soldier's tear."_ the storm grew faint as daylight tinged the lofty billows' crest; and love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed, danced in the sea-boy's breast. and perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung to the billows' less'ning roar- "o ellen, so fair, so free, and young, i 'll see thee yet once more!" and o what joy beam'd in his eye, when, o'er the dusky foam, he saw, beneath the northern sky, the hills that mark'd his home! his heart with double ardour strung, he sung this ditty o'er- "o ellen, so fair, so free, and young, i 'll see thee yet once more!" now towers and trees rise on his sight, and many a dear-loved spot; and, smiling o'er the blue waves bright, he saw young ellen's cot. the scenes on which his memory hung a cheerful aspect wore; he then, with joyous feeling, sung, "i 'll see her yet once more!" the land they near'd, and on the beach stood many a female form; but ah! his eye it could not reach his hope in many a storm. he through the spray impatient sprung, and gain'd the wish'd-for shore; but ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young, was gone for evermore! menie lorn. while beaus and belles parade the streets on summer gloamings gay, and barter'd smiles and borrow'd sweets, and all such vain display; my walks are where the bean-field's breath on evening's breeze is borne, with her, the angel of my heart- my lovely menie lorn. love's ambuscades her auburn hair, love's throne her azure eye, where peerless charms and virtues rare in blended beauty lie. the rose is fair at break of day, and sweet the blushing thorn, but sweeter, fairer far than they, the smile of menie lorn. o tell me not of olive groves, where gold and gems abound; of deep blue eyes and maiden loves, with every virtue crown'd. i ask no other ray of joy life's desert to adorn, than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy- the love of menie lorn. the young soldier. air--_"the banks of the devon."_ o say not o' war the young soldier is weary, ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame; remember his daring when danger was near ye, forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame. past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming, frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free; but it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming; he turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e. 'tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted, 'tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear; the warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted, he langs now to reap in his jeanie sae dear. an' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie, whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day; nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey 'tween jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae. an' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing, in green highland garb, to cross the wide sea; his auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing- 'twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e. the black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit, as he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a'; but sair was his heart, an' sair jeanie sabbit, whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'. now high-headed alps an' dark seas divide them, wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream; their alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them, their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream. an' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing the scenes that surrounded our life's early hame? the hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling his nature is harsh, and not worthy the name. the land i love. the land i lo'e, the land i lo'e, is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue, of the gallant heart, the firm and true, the land of the hardy thistle. isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest, isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd, the loveliest star on ocean's breast is the land of the hardy thistle. fair are those isles of indian bloom, whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume; but dearer far are the braes o' broom where blooms the hardy thistle. no luscious fig-tree blossoms there, no slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear; her sons are free as the mountain air that shakes the hardy thistle. lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky, and lovely the lands that 'neath it lie; but i wish to live, and i wish to die in the land of the hardy thistle! robert l. malone. robert l. malone was a native of anstruther, in fife, where he was born in 1812. his father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was employed in the coast guard. he ultimately settled at rothesay, in bute. receiving a common school education, robert entered the navy in his fourteenth year. he served on board the gun-brig _marshall_, which attended the fisheries department in the west; next in the mediterranean ocean; and latterly in south america. compelled, from impaired health, to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he returned to his family at rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town of greenock. in 1845, he became a clerk in the long-room of the customs at greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of his death. a lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by the composition of verses. he published, in 1845, a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "the sailor's dream, and other poems," a work which was well received. his death took place at greenock on the 6th of july 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. of modest and retiring dispositions, malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet. his style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince considerable power. the thistle of scotland. air--_"humours o' glen."_ though fair blooms the rose in gay anglia's bowers, and green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea, the greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers, is the thistle--the thistle of scotland, for me! far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning, and breathing perfume over moorland and lea, but there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning like the thistle--the thistle of scotland, for me! what scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken, thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free, and the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken; the thistle--the thistle of scotland, for thee! still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers, and cold as the grave my affections must be, ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers; the thistle--the thistle of scotland, for me! on the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers, caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e, thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers; the thistle--the thistle of scotland, for me! hame is aye hamely. air--_"love's young dream."_ oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, an' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea; though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame, there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame. there 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on india's sunny strand, then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land? i 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name, and in a palace or a grave forget my hieland hame. 'twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream, and fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream; his good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim, but could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame. no! the peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still, for on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill; and young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game, as erst in life's young morning, around his hieland hame. oh! in the brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw; he thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa'; and her he loved--his hieland girl--there 's magic in the name- they a' combine to wile him back to his far hieland hame. he sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands, and where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands; and with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame- 'tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame. oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be, ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea; oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame, but there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame. peter still. peter still was born in the parish of fraserburgh, aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of january 1814. at the time of his birth his father rented a farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. with a limited education at the parish-school of longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. when somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day-labourer. of a delicate constitution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. during the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the world in three separate publications. his last work--"the cottar's sunday, and other poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. he closed a life of much privation and suffering at peterhead, on the 21st march 1848. of sound religious principles and devoted christian feeling, still meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. he was fortunate in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to his wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of his reputation. his verses are largely pervaded with poetical fervour and religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. in person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark blue eyes, and curling black hair. jeanie's lament. air--_"lord gregory."_ i never thocht to thole the waes it 's been my lot to dree; i never thocht to sigh sae sad whan first i sigh'd for thee. i thocht your heart was like mine ain, as true as true could be; i couldna think there was a stain in ane sae dear to me. whan first amang the dewy flowers, aside yon siller stream, my lowin' heart was press'd to yours, nae purer did they seem; nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, the flowers on whilk they hung, than seem'd the heart i felt in you as to that heart i clung. but i was young an' thochtless then, an' easy to beguile; my mither's warnin's had nae weight 'bout man's deceitfu' smile. but noo, alas! whan she is dead, i 've shed the sad, saut tear, and hung my heavy, heavy head aboon my father's bier! they saw their earthly hope betray'd, they saw their jeanie fade; they couldna thole the heavy stroke, an' baith are lowly laid! oh, jamie! but thy name again shall ne'er be breathed by me, for, speechless through yon gow'ny glen, i 'll wander till i die. ye needna' be courtin' at me. air--_"john todd."_ "ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, ye needna' be courtin' at me; ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an e'e, sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, ye needna' be courtin' at me. "stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man, stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be; ye 're auld an' ye 're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald, an' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man, ye 're nae for a lassie like me." "ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass, ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee; i 've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow'd, an' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass, a heart that lo'es nane but thee. "i 'll busk you as braw as a queen, sweet lass, i 'll busk you as braw as a queen; i 've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what 's mair, i 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass, only twa score an' fifteen." "gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man, gae hame to your gowd an' your gear; there 's a laddie i ken has a heart like mine ain, an' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man, to me he shall ever be dear. "get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man, get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair; there 's a something in love that your gowd canna move- i 'll be johnie's although i gang bare, auld man, i 'll be johnie's although i gang bare." the bucket for me. the bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me! awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree; though good ye may think it, i 'll never mair drink it- the bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me! there 's health in the bucket, there 's wealth in the bucket, there 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see; an' aye whan i leuk in 't, i find there 's a beuk in 't that teaches the essence o' wisdom to me. whan whisky i swiggit, my wifie aye beggit, an' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e; but noo--wad you think it?--whan water i drink it right blithesome she smiles on the bucket an' me. the bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure, it 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me; an' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle, i 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee. the bucket 's the bicker that keeps a man sicker, the bucket 's a shield an' a buckler to me; in pool or in gutter nae langer i 'll splutter, but walk like a freeman wha feels he is free. ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo- come cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me; ye 'll find it is better to swig "caller water," than groan in a gutter without a bawbee! robert nicoll. one of the most gifted and hopeful of modern scottish song writers, robert nicoll, was born at little tulliebeltane, in the parish of auchtergaven, perthshire, on the 7th january 1814. of a family of nine children, he was the second son. his father, who bore the same christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. young nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information; subsequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. from his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions--in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. in his thirteenth year, he wrote verses and became the correspondent of a newspaper. apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. at the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to _johnstone's magazine_, an edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of mr johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. by this gentleman he was introduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who subsequently evinced a warm interest in his career. in 1834, nicoll opened a small circulating library in dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of radical or extreme liberal opinions. to the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of "poems and lyrics." this publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. abandoning business in dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to london, but was induced by mr tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. in the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the _leeds times_ newspaper, with a salary of â£100. the politics of this journal were radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. but the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. the excitement of a political contest at leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical prostration of the poet; he removed from leeds to knaresborough, and from thence to laverock bank, near edinburgh, the residence of his friend mr johnstone. his case was hopeless; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he departed this life in december 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. his remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of north leith. possessed of strong poetical genius, robert nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. several of his songs, especially "bonnie bessie lee" and "ordã© braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of burns. since the period of his death, four different editions of his "poems" have been called for. the work has latterly been published by the messrs blackie of glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. his sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. in person nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. his countenance, which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. in society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. his political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. the solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. he married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. a monument to his memory, towards which nearly â£100 has lately been subscribed, is about to be erected on the ordã© braes, in his native parish. ordã� braes. there 's nae hame like the hame o' youth, nae ither spot sae fair; nae ither faces look sae kind as the smilin' faces there. an' i ha'e sat by mony streams, ha'e travell'd mony ways; but the fairest spot on the earth to me is on bonnie ordã© braes. an ell-lang wee thing then i ran wi' the ither neeber bairns, to pu' the hazel's shining nuts, an' to wander 'mang the ferns; an' to feast on the bramble-berries brown, an' gather the glossy slaes, by the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne i ha'e loved sweet ordã© braes. the memories o' my father's hame, an' its kindly dwellers a', o' the friends i loved wi' a young heart's love ere care that heart could thraw, are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn, an' its fairy crooks an' bays, that onward sang 'neath the gowden broom upon bonnie ordã© braes. aince in a day there were happy hames by the bonnie ordã©'s side: nane ken how meikle peace an' love in a straw-roof'd cot can bide. but thae hames are gane, an' the hand o' time the roofless wa's doth raze; laneness an' sweetness hand in hand gang ower the ordã© braes. oh! an' the sun were shinin' now, an', oh! an' i were there, wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne, my wanderin' joy to share. for though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame the flock o' the hills doth graze, some kind hearts live to love me yet upon bonnie ordã© braes. the muir o' gorse and broom. i winna bide in your castle ha's, nor yet in your lofty towers; my heart is sick o' your gloomy hame, an' sick o' your darksome bowers; an' oh! i wish i were far awa' frae their grandeur an' their gloom, where the freeborn lintie sings its sang on the muir o' gorse an' broom. sae weel as i like the healthfu' gale, that blaws fu' kindly there, an' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell that wave on the muirland bare; an' the singing birds, an' the humming bees, an' the little lochs that toom their gushing burns to the distant sea o'er the muir o' gorse an' broom. oh! if i had a dwallin' there, biggit laigh by a burnie's side, where ae aik tree, in the summer time, wi' its leaves that hame might hide; oh! i wad rejoice frae day to day, as blithe as a young bridegroom; for dearer than palaces to me is the muir o' gorse an' broom! in a lanely cot on a muirland wild, my mither nurtured me; o' the meek wild-flowers i playmates made, an' my hame wi' the wandering bee. an', oh! if i were far awa' frae your grandeur an' your gloom, wi' them again, an' the bladden gale, on the muir o' gorse an' broom. the bonnie hieland hills. oh! the bonnie hieland hills, oh! the bonnie hieland hills, the bonnie hills o' scotland o! the bonnie hieland hills. there are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms, where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes; but mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills as it wantons along o'er our ain hieland hills. oh! the bonnie hieland hills. there are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair; but o' riches or beauty we mak na our care; wherever we wander ae vision aye fills our hearts to the burstin'--our ain hieland hills. oh! the bonnie hieland hills. in our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are, though born in the midst o' the elements' war; o sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills, as they dash to the sea frae our ain hieland hills. oh! the bonnie hieland hills. on the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand, to fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand; a storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills, that guards frae a' danger our ain hieland hills. oh! the bonnie hieland hills, oh! the bonnie hieland hills; the bonnie hills o' scotland o! the bonnie hieland hills. the bonnie rowan bush. the bonnie rowan bush in yon lane glen, where the burnie clear doth gush in yon lane glen; my head is white and auld, an' my bluid is thin an' cauld; but i lo'e the bonnie rowan bush in yon lane glen. my jeanie first i met in yon lane glen, when the grass wi' dew was wet in yon lane glen; the moon was shining sweet, an' our hearts wi' love did beat, by the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush in yon lane glen. oh! she promised to be mine, in yon lane glen; her heart she did resign, in yon lane glen; an' mony a happy day did o'er us pass away, beside the bonnie rowan bush in yon lane glen. sax bonnie bairns had we in yon lane glen- lads an' lassies young an' spree, in yon lane glen; an' a blither family than ours there cou'dna be, beside the bonnie rowan bush in yon lane glen. now my auld wife's gane awa' frae yon lane glen, an' though summer sweet doth fa' on yon lane glen- to me its beauty's gane, for, alake! i sit alane beside the bonnie rowan bush in yon lane glen. bonnie bessie lee. bonnie bessie lee had a face fu' o' smiles, and mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee; and light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles, o' the flower o' the parochin, our ain bessie lee! wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik, and o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee, till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake- there was life in the blithe blink o' bonnie bessie lee! she grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad, and light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she; and a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had, whilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie bessie lee! she could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins, an' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee- it has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins, where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie bessie lee.[27] and she whiles had a sweetheart, and sometimes had twa, a limmer o' a lassie; but atween you and me, her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa', though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie bessie lee. but ten years had gane since i gazed on her last- for ten years had parted my auld hame and me- and i said to mysel', as her mither's door i passed, will i ever get anither kiss frae bonnie bessie lee? but time changes a' thing--the ill-natured loon! were it ever sae rightly, he 'll no let it be; and i rubbit at my e'en, and i thought i would swoon, how the carle had come roun' about our ain bessie lee! the wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld, twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee, she was douce too, and wise-like--and wisdom's sae cauld; i would rather hae the ither ane than this bessie lee. footnotes: [27] the last four lines of this stanza are not the production of nicoll, but have been contributed for the present work by mr alexander wilson, of perth. the insertion of the lines prevents the occurrence of a half stanza, which has hitherto interfered with the singing of this popular song. archibald stirling irving. archibald stirling irving was born in edinburgh on the 18th of december 1816. his father, john irving, writer to the signet, was the intimate early friend of sir walter scott, and is "the prosperous gentleman" referred to in the general introduction to the waverley novels. having a delicate constitution, young irving was unable to follow any regular profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns of literature. he made himself abundantly familiar with the latin classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished british poets. possessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could repeat some of the longest poems in the language. receiving a handsome annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting localities of scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. he published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of "original songs," of which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a favourable specimen. he died at newmills, near ardrossan, on the 20th september 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. some time before his death, he exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and scriptural reading. he married in october 1850, and his widow still survives. the wild-rose blooms. tune--_"caledonia."_ the wild-rose blooms in drummond woods, the trees are blossom'd fair, the lake is smiling to the sun, and mary wand'ring there. the powers that watch'd o'er mary's birth did nature's charms despoil; they stole for her the rose's blush, the sweet lake's dimpled smile. the lily for her breast they took, nut-brown her locks appear; but when they came to make her eyes, they robb'd the starry sphere. but cruel sure was their design, or mad-like their device- for while they filled her eyes with fire, they made her heart of ice. alexander a. ritchie.[28] alexander abernethy ritchie, author of "the wells o' wearie," was born in the canongate, edinburgh, in 1816. in early youth he evinced a lively appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. his parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the decorative branch of his profession. on the expiry of his apprenticeship, he cultivated painting in a higher department of the art, and his pictures held a highly respectable place at the annual exhibitions of the scottish academy. among his pictures which became favourites may be mentioned the "wee raggit laddie," "the old church road," "the gaberlunzie," "tak' your auld cloak about ye," and "the captive truant." his illustrations of his friend, mr james ballantine's works, "the gaberlunzie's wallet" and "the miller of deanhaugh," and of some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of character. he executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of edinburgh; and contributed to the _illustrated london news_ representations of remarkable events as they occurred in the scottish capital. he died suddenly at st john's hill, canongate, edinburgh, in 1850, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners and his kindly dispositions. he excelled in reading poetry, whether dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. he lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and who survives to lament his loss. shortly before his death he composed the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music:- father of blissfulness, grant me a resting-place now my sad spirit is longing for rest. lord, i beseech thee, deign thou to teach me which path to heaven is surest and best: lonely and dreary, laden and weary, oh! for a home in the land of the blest! father of holiness, look on my lowliness; from this sad bondage, o lord, set me free; grant that, 'mid love and peace, sorrow and sin may cease, while in the saviour my trust it shall be. when death's sleep comes o'er me, on waking--before me the portals of glory all open i 'll see. footnotes: [28] we are indebted to mr james ballantine, of edinburgh, for the particulars contained in this memoir. the wells o' wearie. air--_"bonnie house o' airlie."_ sweetly shines the sun on auld edinbro' toun, and mak's her look young and cheerie; yet i maun awa' to spend the afternoon at the lanesome wells o' wearie. and you maun gang wi' me, my winsome mary grieve, there 's nought in the world to fear ye; for i ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave to gang to the wells o' wearie. oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue e'en, nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie, for i 'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green by the lanesome wells o' wearie. but, mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower at your form in the water sae clearly, or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee flower, and you 'll grow by the wells o' wearie. yestreen as i wander'd there a' alane, i felt unco douf and drearie, for wanting my mary, a' around me was but pain at the lanesome wells o' wearie. let fortune or fame their minions deceive, let fate look gruesome and eerie; true glory and wealth are mine wi' mary grieve, when we meet by the wells o' wearie. then gang wi' me, my bonnie mary grieve, nae danger will daur to come near ye; for i ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave, to gang to the wells o' wearie. alexander laing. one of the simplest and most popular of the living national song-writers, alexander laing, was born at brechin on the 14th may 1787. his father, james laing, was an agricultural labourer. with the exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. sent to tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and writing-materials with him to the fields. his books were procured by the careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of his juvenile tastes. in his sixteenth year, he entered on the business of a flax-dresser, in his native town--an occupation in which he was employed for a period of fourteen years. he afterwards engaged in mercantile concerns, and has latterly retired from business. he now resides at upper tenements, brechin, in the enjoyment of a well-earned competency. mr laing early wrote verses. in 1819, several songs from his pen appeared in the "harp of caledonia"--a respectable collection of minstrelsy, edited by john struthers. he subsequently became a contributor to the "harp of renfrewshire" and the "scottish minstrel," edited by r. a. smith. his lyrics likewise adorn the pages of robertson's "whistle binkie" and the "book of scottish song." he published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a duodecimo volume, under the designation of "wayside flowers." a second edition appeared in 1850. he has been an occasional contributor to the local journals; furnished a number of anecdotes for the "laird of logan," a humorous publication of the west of scotland; and has compiled some useful elementary works for the use of sabbath-schools. his lyrics are uniformly pervaded by graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of his inspiration are love and patriotism. than his song entitled "my ain wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. his "hopeless exile" is the perfection of tenderness. ae happy hour. air--_"the cock laird."_ the dark gray o' gloamin', the lone leafy shaw, the coo o' the cushat, the scent o' the haw; the brae o' the burnie, a' bloomin' in flower, an' twa' faithfu' lovers, make ae happy hour. a kind winsome wifie, a clean canty hame, an' smilin' sweet babies to lisp the dear name; wi' plenty o' labour, an' health to endure, make time to row round aye the ae happy hour. ye lost to affection, whom avarice can move to woo an' to marry for a' thing but love; awa' wi' your sorrows, awa' wi' your store, ye ken na the pleasure o' ae happy hour. lass, gin ye wad lo'e me. air--_"lass, gin i come near you."_ "lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, ye'se be ladye o' my ha', lass, gin ye wad lo'e me. a canty but, a cosie ben, weel plenish'd ye may trow me; a brisk, a blithe, a kind gudeman- lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!" "walth, there 's little doubt ye ha'e, an' bidin' bein an' easy; but brisk an' blithe ye canna be, an' you sae auld an' crazy. wad marriage mak' you young again? wad woman's love renew you? awa', ye silly doitet man, i canna, winna lo'e you!" "witless hizzie, e'en 's you like, the ne'er a doit i 'm carin'; but men maun be the first to speak, an' wanters maun be speerin'. yet, lassie, i ha'e lo'ed you lang, an' now i'm come to woo you; i 'm no sae auld as clashes gang, i think you 'd better lo'e me." "doitet bodie! auld or young, ye needna langer tarry, gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung, he 's no for me to marry. gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel' how ye wad come to woo me, an' mind me i' your latter-will, bodie, gin ye lo'e me!" lass of logie. air--_"lass of arranteenie."_ i 've seen the smiling summer flower amang the braes of yarrow; i 've heard the raving winter wind amang the hills of barra; i 've wander'd scotland o'er and o'er, frae teviot to strathbogie; but the bonniest lass that i ha'e seen is bonnie jean of logie. her lips were like the heather bloom, in meekest dewy morning; her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf, the bloomy brier adorning; her brow was like the milky flower that blossoms in the bogie; and love was laughing in her een- the bonnie lass of logie. i said, "my lassie, come wi' me, my hand, my hame are ready; i ha'e a lairdship of my ain, and ye shall be my ladye. i 've ilka thing baith out and in, to make you blithe and vogie;" she hung her head and sweetly smiled- the bonnie lass of logie! but she has smiled, and fate has frown'd, and wrung my heart with sorrow; the bonnie lass sae dear to me can never be my marrow. for, ah! she loves another lad- the ploughman wi' his cogie; yet happy, happy may she be, the bonnie lass of logie! my ain wife. air--_"john anderson, my jo."_ i wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife i see; for, oh! my dainty ain wife, she 's aye sae dear to me. a bonnier yet i 've never seen, a better canna be; i wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife i see. though beauty is a fadin' flower, as fadin' as it 's fair, it looks fu' well in ony wife, an' mine has a' her share. she ance was ca'd a bonnie lass- she 's bonnie aye to me; i wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife i see. oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek, an' cheery is my jean; i never see her angry look, nor hear her word on ane. she 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun', an' aye gude wi' me; i wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife i see. but oh, her looks sae kindly, they melt my heart outright, when ower the baby at her breast she hangs wi' fond delight. she looks intill its bonnie face, an' syne looks to me; i wadna gi'e my ain wife for ony wife i see. the maid o' montrose. air--_"o tell me the way for to woo."_ o sweet is the calm dewy gloaming, when saftly by rossie-wood brae, the merle an' mavis are hymning the e'en o' the lang summer's day! an' sweet are the moments when o'er the blue ocean, the full moon arising in majesty glows; an' i, breathing o'er ilka tender emotion, wi' my lovely mary, the maid o' montrose. the fopling sae fine an' sae airy, sae fondly in love wi' himsel', is proud wi' his ilka new dearie, to shine at the fair an' the ball; but gie me the grove where the broom's yellow blossom waves o'er the white lily an' red smiling rose, an' ae bonnie lassie to lean on my bosom- my ain lovely mary, the maid o' montrose. o what is the haill warld's treasure, gane nane o' its pleasures we prove? an' where can we taste o' true pleasure, gin no wi' the lassie we love? o sweet are the smiles an' the dimples o' beauty, where lurking the loves an' the graces repose; an' sweet is the form an' the air o' the pretty, but sweeter is mary, the maid o' montrose. o mary, 'tis no for thy beauty, though few are sae bonnie as thee; o mary, 'tis no for thy beauty, though handsome as woman can be. the rose bloom is gane when the chill autumn's low'ring; the aik's stately form when the wild winter blows; but the charms o' the mind are the ties mair enduring- these bind me to mary, the maid o' montrose. jean of aberdeen. air--_"miss forbes's farewell to banff."_ ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier, on stately dee's wild woody knowes; ye 've seen the op'ning lily fair, in streamy don's gay broomy howes: an' ilka bonnie flower that grows, amang their banks and braes sae green- these borrow a' their finest hues frae lovely jean of aberdeen. ye 've seen the dew-ey'd bloomy haw, when morning gilds the welkin high; ye 've heard the breeze o' summer blaw, when e'ening steals alang the sky. but brighter far is jeanie's eye, when we 're amang the braes alane, an' softer is the bosom-sigh of lovely jean of aberdeen. though i had a' the valleys gay, around the airy bennochie; an' a' the fleecy flocks that stray amang the lofty hills o' dee; while mem'ry lifts her melting ee, an' hope unfolds her fairy scene, my heart wi' them i'd freely gie to lovely jean of aberdeen. the hopeless exile. air--_"alas! for poor teddy macshane."_ oh! where has the exile his home? oh! where has the exile his home? where the mountain is steep, where the valley is deep, where the waves of the ohio foam; where no cheering smile his woes may beguile- oh! there has the exile his home. oh! when will the exile return? oh! when will the exile return? when our hearts heave no sigh, when our tears shall be dry, when erin no longer shall mourn; when his name we disown, when his mem'ry is gone- oh! then will the exile return! glen-na-h'albyn.[29] air--_"o rest thee, my darling."_ on the airy ben-nevis the wind is awake, the boat 's on the shallow, the ship on the lake; ah! now in a moment my country i leave; the next i am far away--far on the wave! oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, glen-na-h'albyn! oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, glen-na-h'albyn! i was proud of the power and the fame of my chief, and to build up his house was the aim of my life; and now in his greatness he turns me away, when my strength is decay'd and my locks worn gray. oh! fare thee well! farewell the gray stones of my ancestors' graves, i go to my place 'neath the foam of the waves; or to die unlamented on canada's shore, where none of my fathers were gathered before! oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, glen-na-h'albyn! oh! fare thee well, fare thee well, glen-na-h'albyn! footnotes: [29] "glen-na-h'albyn, or glen-more-na-h'albyn, the great glen of caledonia, is a name applied to the valley which runs in a direction from north-east to south-west, the whole breadth of the kingdom, from the moray firth at inverness to the sound of mull below fort-william, and is almost filled with lakes." alexander carlile. alexander carlile was born at paisley in the year 1788. his progenitors are said to have been remarkable for their acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. his eldest brother, the late dr carlile of dublin attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of paisley, and afterwards in the university of glasgow, the subject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. apart from the avocations of business, much of his time has been devoted to the concerns of literature; he has contributed to the more esteemed periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. at an early period he composed the spirited and popular song, beginning "oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. his only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of "poems," appeared in 1855, and has been favourably received. mr carlile is much devoted to the interests of his native town, and has sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow-townsmen. his unobtrusive worth and elegant accomplishments have endeared him to a wide circle of friends. his latter poetical compositions have been largely pervaded by religious sentiment. wha's at the window?[30] oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha? wha but blithe jamie glen, he 's come sax miles and ten, to tak' bonnie jeannie awa, awa, to tak' bonnie jeannie awa. he has plighted his troth, and a', and a', leal love to gi'e, and a', and a', and sae has she dune, by a' that 's abune, for he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a', 'bune a', he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'. bridal-maidens are braw, braw, bridal-maidens are braw, braw, but the bride's modest e'e, and warm cheek are to me 'bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a', 'bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'. it 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha', it 's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha'; there 's quaffing and laughing, there 's dancing and daffing, and the bride's father 's blithest of a', of a', the bride's father 's blithest of a'. it 's no that she 's jamie's ava, ava, it 's no that she 's jamie's ava, ava, that my heart is sae eerie when a' the lave 's cheerie, but it 's just that she 'll aye be awa, awa, it 's just that she 'll aye be awa. footnotes: [30] the title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a ballad recovered by cromek, and published in his "remains of nithsdale and galloway song," p. 219. the first line of the old ballad runs thus: "oh, who is this under my window."--ed. my brothers are the stately trees. my brothers are the stately trees that in the forests grow; the simple flowers my sisters are, that on the green bank blow. with them, with them, i am a child whose heart with mirth is dancing wild. the daisy, with its tear of joy, gay greets me as i stray; how sweet a voice of welcome comes from every trembling spray! how light, how bright, the golden-wing'd hours i spend among those songs and flowers! i love the spirit of the wind, his varied tones i know; his voice of soothing majesty, of love and sobbing woe; whate'er his varied theme may be, with his my spirit mingles free. i love to tread the grass-green path, far up the winding stream; for there in nature's loneliness, the day is one bright dream. and still the pilgrim waters tell of wanderings wild by wood and dell. or up the mountain's brow i toil beneath a wid'ning sky, seas, forests, lakes, and rivers wide, crowding the wondering eye. then, then, my soul on eagle's wings, to cloudless regions upwards springs! the stars--the stars! i know each one, with all its soul of love, they beckon me to come and live in their tearless homes above; and then i spurn earth's songs and flowers, and pant to breathe in heaven's own bowers. the vale of killean. o yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet as that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; so bland in its beauty, so rich in its green, 'mid scotia's dark mountains--the vale of killean. the flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam, the stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home, that has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close, singing blithe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose. how solemn the broad hills that curtain around this sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found, whose echoes low whisper, "bid the world farewell, and with lowly contentment here peacefully dwell!" then build me a cot by that lake's verdant shore, 'mid the world's wild turmoil i 'll mingle no more, and the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear, of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall i hear. young morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the day, will teach fading hope to rekindle her ray; and pale eve, with her rapture tear, soft will impart to the soul her own meekness--a rich glow to the heart. the heavings of passion all rocked to sweet rest, as repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast; and 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit shall rise, like the mist from the mountain to blend with the skies. john nevay. john nevay, the bard of forfar, was born in that town on the 28th of january 1792. he was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of mr james clarke, sometime master of the burgh school, and the friend and correspondent of burns. fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. he celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. in 1818 he gave to the world a "pamphlet of rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. after an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of "the peasant, a poem in nine cantos, with other poems," in one volume, 12mo. in the following year he published "the child of nature, and other poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. in 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled "rosaline's dream, in four duans, and other poems," which was accompanied with an introductory essay by the rev. george gilfillan. his latest production--"the fountain of the rock, a poem"--appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. he has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to _blackwood's magazine_ and the _edinburgh literary journal_. from the labour of a long career of honourable industry, john nevay is now enjoying the pleasures of retirement. he continues to compose verses with undiminished ardour, and has several ms. poems ready for the press. he has also prepared a lengthened autobiography. as a poet, his prevailing themes are the picturesque objects of nature. his lyrical pieces somewhat lack simplicity. his best production--"the emigrant's love-letter"--will maintain a place in the national minstrelsy. it was composed during the same week with motherwell's "jeanie morrison," which it so peculiarly resembles both in expression and sentiment. the emigrant's love-letter. my young heart's luve! twal' years ha'e been a century to me; i ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard thy voice's melodie. the mony hardships i ha'e tholed sin' i left larocklea, i maun na tell, for it would bring the saut tear in thine e'e. but i ha'e news, an' happy news, to tell unto my love- what i ha'e won, to me mair dear that it my heart can prove. its thochts unchanged, still it is true, an' surely sae is thine; thou never, never canst forget that twa waur ane langsyne. the simmer sun blinks on the tarn, an' on the primrose brae, where we, in days o' innocence, waur wont to daff an' play; an' i amang the mossy springs wade for the hinny blooms- to thee the rush tiara wove, bedeck'd wi' lily plumes. when on the ferny knowe we sat, a happy, happy pair- thy comely cheek laid on my knee, i plaited thy gowden hair. oh! then i felt the holiest thocht that e'er enter'd my mind- it, mary, was to be to thee for ever true an' kind. though fair the flowers that bloom around my dwallin' owre the sea- though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers, they are na _sae_ to me. i hear the bulbul's mellow leed upo' the gorgeous paum- the sweet cheep o' the feather'd bee amang the fields o' baum. but there are nae auld scotland's burds, sae dear to childhood's days- the laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite, that taught us luve's sweet lays. gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think on him that's owre the sea, their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell my heart's luve-thochts to thee. lat joy be in thy leal, true heart, an' bricht smile in thine e'e- the bonnie bark is in the bay, i 'm coming hame to thee; i 'm coming hame to thee, mary, wi' mony a pearl fine, an' i will lay them in thy lap, for the kiss o' sweet langsyne. thomas lyle. thomas lyle, author of the highly popular song, "kelvin grove," is a native of paisley. attending the philosophical and medical classes in the university of glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1816. he commenced medical practice in glasgow, where he remained till 1826, when he removed to the parish of airth in stirlingshire. the latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany; and he frequently proceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession, or the conveniences of his patients. at an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. he was particularly struck with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.[31] at this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the kelvin, about two miles north-west of glasgow;[32] and in consequence, he was led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song, "kelvin grove." "the harp of renfrewshire" was now in the course of being published, in sixpence numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, john sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. in a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. of these he complained to mr sim, who laid the blame on mr john murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and mr lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. on the retirement of mr murdoch, the editorship of "the harp of renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to mr sim in the index of the work. sim died in the west indies before this period;[33] and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, mr purdie, music-seller in edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by robert archibald smith. mr lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on mr sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to messrs motherwell and smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. mr lyle was shortly after invited by mr smith to contribute songs for the "irish minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications. in 1827 mr lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country, in a duodecimo volume, entitled "ancient ballads and songs, chiefly from tradition, manuscripts, and scarce works, with biographical and illustrative notices." of this work, the more interesting portion consists of "miscellaneous poems, by sir william mure, knight of rowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor. having acted as medical practitioner at airth during the period of twenty-eight years, mr lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to glasgow, where he soon found himself actively employed by the medical boards of the city during the prevalence of the asiatic cholera. at the present time he is one of the city district surgeons. a man of the most retiring dispositions, he has hitherto avoided public reputation, and has written verses, as he has studied botany, solely for his amusement. he will, however, be remembered as the writer of some exquisitely sweet and simple lyrics. footnotes: [31] the former words to this air commenced, "oh, the shearing's no for you, bonnie lassie, o!" [32] the wooded scenery of the kelvin will in a few years be included within the boundaries of the city, which has already extended within a very limited space of the "grove" celebrated in the song. [33] see vol. iii., p. 226. kelvin grove. let us haste to kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, o! through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, o! where the rose in all her pride, paints the hollow dingle side, where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, o! let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, o! to the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, o! where the glens rebound the call of the roaring water's fall, through the mountains rocky hall, bonnie lassie, o! o kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, o! when in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, o! there the may pink's crimson plume throws a soft but sweet perfume round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, o! though i dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, o! as the smile of fortune 's thine, bonnie lassie, o! yet with fortune on my side, i could stay thy father's pride, and win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, o! but the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, o! on thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, o! ere yon golden orb of day wake the warblers on the spray, from this land i must away, bonnie lassie, o! then farewell to kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, o! and adieu to all i love, bonnie lassie, o! to the river winding clear, to the fragrant-scented breer, even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, o! when upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, o! should i fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, o! then, helen! shouldst thou hear of thy lover on his bier, to his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, o! the trysting hour. the night-wind's eolian breezes, chase melody over the grove, the fleecy clouds wreathing in tresses, float rosy the woodlands above; then tarry no longer, my true love, the stars hang their lamps in the sky, 'tis lovely the landscape to view, love, when each bloom has a tear in its eye. so stilly the evening is closing, bright dew-drops are heard as they fall, eolian whispers reposing breathe softly, i hear my love call; yes, the light fairy step of my true love the night breeze is wafting to me; over heathbell and violet blue, love, perfuming the shadowy lea. harvest song.[34] the harvest morning breaks breathing balm, and the lawn through the mist in rosy streaks gilds the dawn, while fairy troops descend, with the rolling clouds that bend o'er the forest as they wend fast away, when the day chases cloudy wreaths away from the land. the harvest breezes swell, and the song pours along, from the reapers in the dell, joyous throng! the tiny gleaners come, picking up their harvest home, as they o'er the stubble roam, dancing here, sporting there, all the balmy sunny air is full of song. the harvest evening falls, while each flower round the bower, breathing odour, now recalls the lover's hour. the moon enthroned in blue lights the rippling lake anew, and the wailing owls' whoo! whoo! from the glen again, again, wakes the stillness of the scene on my adieu. footnotes: [34] contributed by mr lyle to the present work. james home. james home, the author of "mary steel," and other popular songs, was born, early in the century, on the farm of hollybush, about a mile south of galashiels. during a period of about thirty years, he has been engaged in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in peeblesshire. he resides in the hamlet of rachan mill in that county, where, in addition to his ordinary employment, he holds the office of postmaster. home has not ventured on a publication, and latterly has abandoned the composition of verses. in youth he was, writes a correspondent, "an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." a number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of scotland. his song entitled "this lassie o' mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. his compositions are replete with pathos; he has skilfully told the lover's tale; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears of human life. some of his best pieces appear in the "unknown poets" of mr alexander campbell,--a work which only reached a single number. of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, home is much respected in private life. of a somewhat sanguine complexion, his countenance betokens superior intellectual power. he enjoys the comfort of a suitable partner in life, and is a respected office-bearer of the free church congregation at broughton. mary steel. i 'll think o' thee, my mary steel, when the lark begins to sing, and a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts are welcoming the spring: when the merle and the blackbird build their nest in the bushy forest tree, and a' things under the sky seem blest, my thoughts shall be o' thee. i 'll think o' thee, my mary steel, when the simmer spreads her flowers, and the lily blooms and the ivy twines in beauty round the bowers; when the cushat coos in the leafy wood, and the lambs sport o'er the lea, and every heart 's in its happiest mood, my thoughts shall be o' thee. i 'll think o' thee, my mary steel, when har'st blithe days begin, and shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field, the foremost rig to win; when the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld, where light-hair'd lasses be, and mony a tale o' love is tauld, my thoughts shall be o' thee. i 'll think o' thee, my mary steel, when the winter winds rave high, and the tempest wild is pourin' doun frae the dark and troubled sky: when a hopeless wail is heard on land, and shrieks frae the roaring sea, and the wreck o' nature seems at hand, my thoughts shall be o' thee! oh, hast thou forgotten? oh, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade, and this warm, true heart o' mine, mary? oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made, when so fondly 't was pressed to thine, mary? oh, hast thou forgotten, what i ne'er can forget, the hours we have spent together? those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet shine on as brightly as ever! oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss, so fraught with the heart's full feeling? as we clung to each other in the last embrace, the soul of love revealing! oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot, where the farewell word was spoken? is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot, the vow and the promise broken? then for ever farewell, thou false fair one; though other arms caress thee, though a fairer youth thy heart should gain, and a smoother tongue should bless thee:- yet never again on thy warm young cheek will breathe a soul more warm than mine, and never again will a lover speak of love more pure to thine. the maid of my heart. air--_"the last rose of summer."_ when the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, the only beloved of my bosom is nigh, i ask not of heaven one bliss to impart, save that which i feel with the maid of my heart. when around and above us there 's nought to be seen, but the moon on the sky and the flower on the green, and all is at rest in the glen and the hill, save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and the rill. then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd, then all i hold dear in this world is possess'd; then i ask not of heaven one bliss to impart, save that which i feel with the maid of my heart. song of the emigrant. oh! the land of hills is the land for me, where the maiden's step is light and free; where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn, awake the joys of the rosy morn. there 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake, that tells how the foamy billows break; there 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood, that tells of dreary solitude. but, oh! when it comes from the mountain fells, where the spirit of song and freedom dwells, where in youth's warm day i woke that strain i ne'er in this world can wake again. the warm blood leaps in its wonted course, and fresh tears gush from their briny source, as if i had hail'd in the passing wind the all i have loved and left behind. this lassie o' mine.[35] tune--_"wattie's ramble."_ o, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine? or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine? or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her e'e? sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me. it 's no that she dances sae light on the green, it 's no the simplicity marked in her mien- but, o! it 's the kind love that speaks in her e'e that keeps me aye happy as happy can be. to meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, when naebody kens, an' when naebody sees; to breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss- on earth sure there 's naething is equal to this. i have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, when friends circle round, and nought to annoy; i have felt every joy which illumines the breast when the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd. but, o! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm in life's early day, when the bosom is warm, when soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss, on earth sure there 's naething is equal to this. footnotes: [35] this song was formerly introduced in this work (vol. ii. p. 70) as the composition of the ettrick shepherd. the error is not ours; we found the song in the latest or posthumous edition of the shepherd's songs, p. 201 (blackie, glasgow), and we had no reason to suspect the authenticity. we have since ascertained that a copy of the song, having been handed to the shepherd by the late mr peter roger, of peebles, hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author, introduced it shortly after in his _noctes bengerianã¦_, in the "edinburgh literary journal" (vol. i. p. 258). being included in this periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that the song was the shepherd's own composition. so much for uncertainty as to the authorship of our best songs! james telfer. james telfer, an ingenious prose writer and respectable poet, was born about the commencement of the century, near the source of the river jed, in the parish of southdean, and county of roxburgh. passionate in his admiration of hogg's "queen's wake," he early essayed imitations of some of the more remarkable portions of that poem. in 1824 he published at jedburgh a volume of "border ballads and miscellaneous poems," which he inscribed to the bard of ettrick. "barbara gray," an interesting prose tale, appeared from his pen in 1835, printed at newcastle. a collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published at london in 1852, with the title of "tales and sketches." he has long been a contributor to the provincial journals. some of mr telfer's ballads are respectable specimens of this class of compositions; and his tales in prose are written with much vigour, the narrative of "barbara gray" being especially interesting. for many years he has taught an adventure school at saughtree, liddisdale; and with emoluments not much beyond twenty pounds a-year, he has contrived to support a family. he has long maintained a literary correspondence with his ingenious friend, mr robert white of newcastle; and his letters, some of which we have seen, abound with curious and interesting speculations. oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me?[36] "oh, will ye walk the wood wi' me? oh, will ye walk the green? or will ye sit within mine arms, my ain kind jean?" "it 's i 'll not walk the wood wi' thee, nor yet will i the green; and as for sitting in your arms, it 's what i dinna mean." "oh! slighted love is ill to thole, and weel may i compleen; but since that better mayna be, i e'en maun thol 't for jean." "gang up to may o' mistycleugh, ye saw her late yestreen; ye'll find in her a lightsome love ye winna find in jean." "wi' bonny may o' mistycleugh i carena to be seen; her lightsome love i'd freely gie for half a blink frae jean." "gang down to madge o' miryfaulds, i ken for her ye green; wi' her ye 'll get a purse o' gowd- ye 'll naething get wi' jean." "for doity madge o' miryfaulds i dinna care a preen; the purse o' gowd i weel could want, if i could hae my jean." "oh, yes! i 'll walk the wood wi' thee; oh, yes! i 'll walk the green; but first ye 'll meet me at the kirk, and mak' me aye your jean." footnotes: [36] portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments of an older ditty.--_note by the author._ i maun gae over the sea. "sweet summer now is by, and cauld winter is nigh, the wan leaves they fa' frae the tree; the hills are white wi' snaw, and the frosty winds blaw, and i maun gie over the sea, mary, and i maun gie over the sea. "but winter will gang by, and summer come wi' joy, and nature again will be free; and wooers you will find, and mair ye 'll never mind the laddie that 's over the sea, mary, the laddie that 's over the sea." "oh, willie, since it 's sae, my heart is very wae to leave a' my friends and countrie; but wi' thee i will gang, though the way it be lang, and wi' thee i 'll cross the saut sea, willie, and wi' thee i 'll cross the saut sea." "the way is vera far, and terrible is war, and great are the hardships to dree; and if i should be slain, or a prisoner ta'en, my jewel, what would come o' thee, mary? my jewel, what would come o' thee? "sae at hame ye maun bide, and should it sae betide that a bride to another ye be, for ane that lo'ed ye dear ye 'll whiles drap a tear; i 'll aften do the same for thee, mary, i 'll aften do the same for thee." the rowan tear down fell, her bosom wasna well, for she sabbit most wofullie; "oure the yirth i wad gang, and never count it lang, but i fear ye carena for me, willie, but i fear ye carena for me." nae langer could he thole, she tore his vera soul, he dighted her bonnie blue e'e; "oh, what was it you said, oh my ain loving maid? i 'll never love a woman but thee, mary, i 'll never love a woman but thee!" the fae is forced to yield, and freedom has the field; "away i will ne'er gang frae thee; only death shall us part, keep sic thoughts frae my heart, but never shall part us the sea, mary, but never shall part us the sea." metrical translations from the modern gaelic minstrelsy. evan maclachlan. one of the most learned of the modern gaelic song-writers, evan maclachlan, was born in 1775, in a small hut called torracaltuin, in the district of lochaber. after struggling with many difficulties in obtaining the means of education, he qualified himself for the duties of an itinerating tutor. in this capacity it was his good fortune to live in the families of the substantial tenantry of the district, two of whom, the farmers at clunes and glen pean, were led to evince an especial interest in his welfare. the localities of those early patrons he has celebrated in his poetry. another patron, the chief of glengarry, supplied funds to enable him to proceed to the university, and he was fortunate in gaining, by competition, a bursary or exhibition at king's college, aberdeen. for a greek ode, on the generation of light, he gained the prize granted for competition to the king's college by the celebrated dr claudius buchanan. having held, during a period of years, the office of librarian in king's college, he was in 1819 elected master of the grammar school of old aberdeen. his death took place on the 29th march 1822. to the preparation of a gaelic dictionary he devoted the most important part of his life. subsequent to his decease, the work was published in two quarto volumes, by the highland society, under the editorial care of dr mackay, formerly of dunoon. the chief amusement of maclachlan's leisure hours was executing translations of homer into gaelic. his translation of the third book of the iliad has been printed. of his powers as a gaelic poet, an estimate may be formed from the following specimens in english verse. a melody of love. the first stanza of this song was the composition of a lady. maclachlan completed the composition in gaelic, and afterwards produced the following version of the whole in english. not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore, can compare with the charms of the maid i adore: not so white is the new milk that flows o'er the pail, or the snow that is shower'd from the boughs of the vale. as the cloud's yellow wreath on the mountain's high brow, the locks of my fair one redundantly flow; her cheeks have the tint that the roses display when they glitter with dew on the morning of may. as the planet of venus that gleams o'er the grove, her blue rolling eyes are the symbols of love: her pearl-circled bosom diffuses bright rays, like the moon when the stars are bedimm'd with her blaze. the mavis and lark, when they welcome the dawn, make a chorus of joy to resound through the lawn: but the mavis is tuneless, the lark strives in vain, when my beautiful charmer renews her sweet strain. when summer bespangles the landscape with flowers, while the thrush and the cuckoo sing soft from the bowers, through the wood-shaded windings with bella i 'll rove, and feast unrestrained on the smiles of my love. the mavis of the clan. these verses are allegorical. in the character of a song-bird the bard relates the circumstances of his nativity, the simple habits of his progenitors, and his own rural tastes and recreations from infancy, giving the first place to the delights of melody. he proceeds to give an account of his flight to a strange but hospitable region, where he continued to sing his songs among the birds, the flocks, the streams, and cultivated fields of the land of his sojourn. this piece is founded upon a common usage of the gaelic bards, several of whom assume the allegorical character of the "mavis" of their own clan. thus we have the mavis of clan-ranald by mac-vaistir-allister--of macdonald (of sleat) by mac codrum--of macleod, and many others. clan lachlan's tuneful mavis, i sing on the branches early, and such my love of song, i sleep but half the night-tide rarely; no raven i, of greedy maw, no kite of bloody beak, no bird of devastating claw, but a woodland songster meek. i love the apple's infant bloom; my ancestry have fared for ages on the nourishment the orchard hath prepared: their hey-day was the summer, their joy the summer's dawn, and their dancing-floor it was the green leaf's velvet lawn; their song was the carol that defiance bade to care, and their breath of life it was the summer's balmiest air. when first my morn of life was born, the pean's[37] silver stream glanced in my eye, and then there lent my view their kinder gleam, the flowers that fringed its side, where, by the fragrant breezes lull'd, as in a cradle-bed i lay, and all my woes were still'd. but changes will come over us, and now a stranger i among the glades of cluaran[38] must imp my wings and fly; yet gratitude forbid complaint, although in foreign grove, since welcome to my haunt i come, and there in freedom rove. by every song-bird charm'd, my ear is fed the livelong day, now from the hollow's deepest dell, now from the top-most spray, the comrades of my lay, they tune their wild notes for my pleasure, and i, can i refrain to swell their diapason's measure? with its own clusters loaded, with its rich foliage dress'd, each bough is hanging down, and each shapely stem depress'd, while nestle there inhabitants, a feather'd tuneful choir, that in the strife of song breathe forth a flame of minstrel fire. o happy tribe of choristers! no interruption mars the concert of your harmony, nor ever harshly jars a string of all your harping, nor of your voices trill notes that are weak for tameness, that are for sharpness shrill. the sun is on his flushing march, his golden hair abroad, it seems as on the mountain's side of beams a furnace glow'd, now melts the honey from all flowers, and now a dew o'erspreads (a dew of fragrant blessedness) all the grasses of the meads. nor least in my remembrance is my country's flowering heather, whose russet crest, nor cold, nor sun, nor sweep of gale may wither; dear to my eye the symbol wild, that loves like me the side of my own highland mountains that i climb in love and pride. dear tribes of nature! co-mates ye of nature's wandering son- i hail the lambs that on the floor of milky pastures run, i hail the mother flocks, that, wrapp'd in their mantle of the fleece, defy the landward tempest's roar, and defy the seaward breeze. the streams they drink are waters of the ever-gushing well, those streams, oh, how they wind around the swellings of the dell! the flowers they browze are mantles spread o'er pastures wide and far, as mantle o'er the firmament the stars, each flower a star! i will not name each sister beam, but clustering there i see the beauty of the purple-bell, the daisy of the lea. of every hue i mark them, the many-spotted kine, the dun, the brindled, and the dark, and blends the bright its shine; and, 'mid the highlands rude, i see the frequent furrows swell, with the barley and the corn that scotland loves so well. * * * * * and now i close my clannish lay with blessings on the shade that bids the mavis sing her song, well nurtured, undismay'd; the shade where bloom and cresses, and the ear-honey'd heather, are smiling fair, and dwelling in their brotherhood together; for the sun is setting largely, and blinks my eye its ken; 't is time to loose the strings, i ween, and close my wild-wood strain. footnotes: [37] the stream that flows through glen pean. [38] the gaelic name of clunes, where the bard was entertained for many years of his tutor life. the three bards of cowal.[39] john brown. one of the bards of cowal is believed to have been born in the parish of inverchaolain about 1750; his family name was brun or broun, as distinguished from the lowland brown, which he assumed. he first appeared as a poet by the publication, at perth, in 1786, of a small volume of gaelic poetry, dedicated to the duke of montrose. the subsequent portion of his career seems to have been chiefly occupied in genealogical researches. in 1792 he completed, in two large sheets, his "historical and genealogical tree of the royal family of scotland;" of which the second edition bears the date 1811. this was followed by similar genealogical trees of the illustrious family of graham, of the noble house of elphinstone, and other families. in these productions he uniformly styles himself, "genealogist to his r. h. the prince of wales, for scotland." brown died at edinburgh in the beginning of the year 1821. he had formed a respectable connexion by marriage, under circumstances which he has commemorated in the annexed specimen of his poetry, but his latter years were somewhat clouded by misfortune. he is remembered as a solicitor for subscriptions to his genealogical publications. footnotes: [39] cowal is that portion of argyllshire bordering the frith of clyde, and extending inland to the margin of lochfine. the sisters of dunolly. the poet had paid his addresses to one of the sisters, but without the consent of her relatives, who ultimately induced her to wed another. after a lapse of time the bard transferred his affection to another daughter of the same distinguished family, and being successful, was compensated for his former trials. the sundown had mantled ben nevis with night, and the stars were attired in the glory of light, and the hope of the lover was shining as day, when dunolly's fair daughter was sprited away. away she has gone at the touch of the helm, and the shadows of darkness her lover o'erwhelm- but, would that his strength as his purpose was true, at dunolly, culloden were battled anew! yes! did they give courtesy, did they give time, the kindred of cowal would meet at the prime, and the _brunach_[40] would joy, in the succour they gave, to win him a bride, or to win him a grave. my lost one! i'm not like the laggard thou'st found, whose puissance scarce carries the sword he has bound; in the flush of my health and my penniless youth, i could well have rewarded thine honour and truth. five years they have pass'd, and the brunach has shaken the burden of woe that his spirit was breaking; a sister is salving a sister's annoy, and the eyes of the brunach are treasured with joy. a bride worth the princesses england is rearing, comes forth from dunolly, a star reappearing; if my heart in dunolly was garner'd before, in dunolly, my pride and my pleasure is more. the lowly, the gentle, the graceful, the mild that in friendship or charity never beguiled, she is mine--to dunduala[41] that traces her stem, as for kings to be proud of, 'tis prouder for them, though donald[42] the gracious be head of her line, and "our exiled and dear"[43] in her pedigree shine. then hearken, ye men of the country i love! despair not, unsmooth though the course of your love, ere ye yield to your sorrow or die in your folly, may ye find, like the brunach, another dunolly. footnotes: [40] brunach--the brown, viz., the poet himself. [41] the macdougalls of dunolly claim descent from the scoto-irish kings who reigned in dunstaffnage. [42] supposed to be the first of our christian kings. [43] prince charles edward. charles stewart, d.d. the rev. dr stewart was born at appin, argyllshire, in 1751. his mother was a daughter of edmonstone of cambuswallace, the representative of an old and distinguished family in the counties of perth and stirling; and his father was brother of stewart of invernachoil, who was actively engaged in the cause of prince charles edward, and has been distinguished in the romance of waverley as the baron of bradwardine. this daring argyllshire chief, whom scott represents as being fed in the cave by "davie gellatly," was actually tended in such a place of concealment by his own daughter, a child about ten years old. on receiving license, dr stewart soon attained popularity as a preacher. in 1779, being in his twenty-eighth year, he was ordained to the pastoral charge of the parish of strachur, argyllshire. he died in the manse of strachur on the 24th of may 1826, in the seventy-fifth year of his age, and the forty-seventh of his ministry. a tombstone was erected to his memory in the parochial burying-ground, by the members of the kirk-session. possessed of superior talents, a vast fund of humour, and a delightful store of traditional information, he was much cherished by a wide circle of admiring friends. faithful in the discharge of the public duties of his office, he was distinguished among his parishioners for his private amenities and acts of benevolence. he was the author only of one song, but this has attained much favour among the gael. luineag--a love carol. no homeward scene near me, no comrade to cheer me, i cling to my dearie, and sigh till i marry. sing ever o, and ra-ill o, ra-ill o, sing ever o, and ra-ill o, was ever a may like my fairy? my youth with the stranger,[44] next on mountains a ranger, i pass'd--but no change, here, will sever from mary. what ringlets discover their gloss thy brows over- forget thee! thy lover, ah, first shall they bury. thy aspect of kindness, thy graces they bind us, and, like feili,[45] remind us of a heaven undreary. than the treasures of spain i would toil more to gain thy love--but my pain, ah, 'tis cruel, my mary! when the shell is o'erflowing, and its dew-drops are glowing, no, never, thy snow on a slander shall tarry. when viols are playing, and dancers are maying, my eyes may be straying, but my soul is with mary. that white hand of thine might i take into mine, could i ever repine, or from tenderness vary? no, never! no, never! my troth on 't for ever, lip to lip, i 'd deliver my being to mary. footnotes: [44] invernahyle removed with his family to edinburgh, and became very intimate with the father of sir walter scott. he seems to have made a great impression on the future poet. [45] festivals, saint-days. angus fletcher. angus fletcher was born at coirinti, a wild and romantic spot on the west bank of loch eck, in june 1776. his education was chiefly conducted at the parish school of kilmodan, glendaruel. from glendaruel he went to bute, in 1791, where he was variously employed till may 1804, when he was elected schoolmaster of dunoon, his native parish. his death took place at dunoon in 1852. the first of the two following songs was contributed anonymously to the _weekly journal_ newspaper, whence it was transferred by turner into his gaelic collection. it soon became popular in the highlands, and the authorship came to be assigned to different individuals. fletcher afterwards announced himself as the author, and completely established his claim. he was the author of various metrical compositions both in gaelic and english. the clachan of glendaruel. thy wily eyes, my darling, thy graces bright, my jewel, have grieved me since our parting at the kirk of glendaruel. 'twas to the kirkton wending bright eyes encounter'd duty, and mavis' notes were blending with the rosy cheeks of beauty. oh, jimpsome is her shapely waist, her arms, her instep queenly; and her sweet parting lips are graced with rows of ivory inly. when busy tongues are railing, lown is her word unsaucy, and with modest grace unfailing she trips it o'er the causey. should royalty prefer me, preferment none i crave, but to live a shepherd near thee, on the howes of corrichnaive. would fortune crown my wishes- the shealing of the hill, with my darling, and the rushes to couch on, were my will. i hear, but not instruction, though faithful lips are pleading- i read thy eyes' perfection, on their dew of mildness feeding. my hand is swiftly scrolling, in the courts of reverend men;[46] but, ah! my restless soul in is triumphing my jean. i fear, i fear their frowning- but though they chased me over where holland's flats[47] are drowning, i 'll live and die thy lover. footnotes: [46] the poet waxes professional. he was session-clerk and clerk-depute of presbytery. [47] the war was raging in holland, under the command of the duke of york. the bard threatens to exchange the pen for the sword. the lassie of the glen. versified from the gaelic original by the author. beneath a hill 'mang birken bushes, by a burnie's dimplit linn, i told my love with artless blushes to the lassie o' the glen. oh! the birken bank sae grassy, hey! the burnie's dimplit linn; dear to me 's the bonnie lassie living in yon rashy glen! lanely ruail! thy stream sae glassy shall be aye my fav'rite theme, for on thy banks my highland lassie first confess'd a mutual flame. what bliss to sit, and nane to fash us, in some sweet wee bow'ry den! or fondly stray amang the rashes, wi' the lassie o' the glen! and though i wander now unhappy, far frae scenes we haunted then, i'll ne'er forget the bank sae grassy, nor the lassie o' the glen. glossary. _aboon_, above. _aumry_, a store-place. _baum_, balm. _beuk_, book. _bicker_, a drinking vessel. _burnie_, a small stream. _caller_, cool. _cled_, clad. _clud_, cloud. _couthy_, frank. _daffin'_, merry-making. _dighted_, wiped. _doit_, a small coin. _doitet_, dotard. _douf_, sad. _dree_, endure. _dwine_, dwindle. _fauld_, fold. _fleechit_, cajoled. _fykes_, troubles, anxieties. _gaed_, went. _gar_, compel. _gate_, way. _glour_, look earnestly. _grannie_, grandmother. _grat_, wept. _grit_, great. _haill_, whole. _haud_, hold, keep. _heuk_, reaping-hook. _hie_, high. _hinny_, honey. _hizzie_, _hussy_, a thoughtless girl. _ken_, know. _knows_, knolls, hillocks. _laith_, loth. _lift_, firmament. _lowin'_, burning. _minnie_, mother. _parochin'_, parish. _pu'_, pull. _roos'd_, praised. _sabbit_, sobbed. _scour_, search. _slee_, sly. _speerin'_, inquiring. _swiggit_, swallowed. _syne_, then. _thole_, endure. _toom_, empty. _troth_, truth, vow. _trow_, believe. _tyne_, lose. _unco_, uncommon. _wag_, shake. _waur_, worse. _ween_, guess. _yirth_, earth. _yowes_, ewes. end of vol. iv. ballantyne and company, printers, edinburgh. [illustration: the modern scottish minstrel; by charles rogers, ll.d. f.s.a. scot. vol. vi. paisley birth place of tannahill, alexander wilson, john wilson, &c. edinburgh: adam & charles black, north bridge, booksellers and publishers to the queen.] * * * * * [illustration: [handwritten: ever yours truly, chas. mackay.]] * * * * * the modern scottish minstrel; or, the songs of scotland of the past half century. with memoirs of the poets, and sketches and specimens in english verse of the most celebrated modern gaelic bards. by charles rogers, ll.d., f.s.a. scot. in six volumes. vol vi. edinburgh: adam & charles black, north bridge, booksellers and publishers to her majesty. mdccclvii. edinburgh: printed by ballantyne and company, paul's work. to charles baillie, esq., sheriff of stirlingshire, convener of the acting committee for rearing a national monument to the illustrious defender of scottish independence, this sixth volume of the modern scottish minstrel is dedicated, with sentiments of the highest respect and esteem, by his very obedient faithful servant, charles rogers. contents. introduction, xi observations on scottish song. by henry scott riddell, xx charles mackay, ll.d., 1 love aweary of the world, 8 the lover's second thoughts on world weariness, 9 a candid wooing, 11 procrastinations, 12 remembrances of nature, 13 believe, if you can, 15 oh, the happy time departed, 17 come back! come back! 17 tears, 18 cheer, boys, cheer, 20 mourn for the mighty dead, 21 a plain man's philosophy, 22 the secrets of the hawthorn, 24 a cry from the deep waters, 25 the return home, 26 the men of the north, 28 the lover's dream of the wind, 29 archibald crawford, 31 bonnie mary hay, 33 scotland, i have no home but thee, 33 george donald, 35 the spring time o' life, 36 the scarlet rose-bush, 37 henry glassford bell, 39 my life is one long thought of thee, 40 why is my spirit sad? 41 geordie young, 42 my fairy ellen, 44 a bachelor's complaint, 45 william bennet, 47 blest be the hour of night, 48 the rose of beauty, 49 i 'll think on thee, love, 50 there 's music in a mother's voice, 51 the brig of allan, 52 george outram, 54 charge on a bond of annuity, 55 henry inglis, 59 weep away, 59 james manson, 61 ocean, 61 the hunter's daughter, 63 an invitation, 63 cupid and the rose-bud, 64 robin goodheart's carol, 65 james hedderwick, 67 my bark at sea, 68 sorrow and song, 69 the land for me, 70 the emigrants, 72 first grief, 73 the linnet, 76 william brockie, 78 ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair, 78 alexander m'lachlan, 80 the lang winter e'en, 80 thomas young, 81 antoinette; or, the falls, 81 robert wilson, 84 away, away, my gallant bark, 84 love, 85 edward polin, 87 a good old song, 88 alexander buchanan, 89 i wander'd alane, 89 katie blair, 91 david taylor, 92 my ain gudeman, 92 robert cathcart, 94 mary, 94 william jamie, 96 auld scotia's sangs, 96 john crawford, 98 my auld wifie jean, 102 the land o' the bonnet and plaid, 103 sing on, fairy devon, 104 ann o' cornylee, 105 my mary dear, 106 the waes o' eild, 107 john stuart blackie, 109 song of ben cruachan, 115 the braes of mar, 117 my loves, 118 liking and loving, 120 william stirling, m.p., 121 ruth, 122 shallum, 126 thomas c. latto, 127 the kiss ahint the door, 128 the widow's ae bit lassie, 129 the yellow hair'd laddie, 130 tell me, dear, 131 william cadenhead, 133 do you know what the birds are singing, 134 an hour with an old love, 135 allan gibson, 137 the lane auld man, 138 the wanderer's return, 139 thomas elliott, 141 up with the dawn, 142 clyde boat song, 143 dimples and a', 144 bubbles on the blast, 145 a serenade, 146 a song of little things, 147 my ain mountain land, 148 when i come hame at e'en, 149 william logan, 151 jeanie gow, 151 james little, 153 our native hills again, 154 here 's a health to scotia's shore, 155 the days when we were young, 156 lizzy frew, 158 colin rae brown, 159 charlie 's comin', 160 the widow's daughter, 161 robert leighton, 163 my muckle meal-pock, 163 james henderson, 165 the wanderer's deathbed, 165 the song of time, 167 the highland hills, 168 my native land, 169 james maclardy, 171 the sunny days are come, my love, 172 oh, my love was fair, 173 andrew james symington, 176 day dream, 177 fair as a star of light, 179 nature musical, 180 isabella craig, 182 our helen, 182 going out and coming in, 184 my mary an' me, 185 a song of summer, 186 robert duthie, 187 song of the old rover, 187 boatman's song, 189 lisette, 190 alexander stephen wilson, 192 things must mend, 193 the wee blink that shines in a tear, 194 flowers of my own loved clime, 195 james macfarlan, 196 isabelle, 197 household gods, 198 poor companions, 199 william b. c. riddell, 201 lament of wallace, 202 oh! what is in this flaunting town, 203 margaret crawford, 205 my native land, 206 the emigrant's farewell, 207 the stream of life, 207 day-dreams of other years, 209 affection's faith, 211 george donald, jun., 212 our ain green shaw, 212 eliza, 213 john jeffrey, 215 war-cry of the roman insurrectionists, 216 patrick scott, 218 the exile, 218 john bathurst dickson, 220 the american flag, 221 evan m'coll, 222 the hills of the heather, 223 james d. burns, 224 rise, little star, 224 though long the wanderer may depart, 225 george henderson, 227 i canna leave my native land, 228 horatius bonar, d.d., 229 the meeting-place, 230 trust not these seas again, 233 john halliday, 234 the auld kirk bell, 234 the auld aik-tree, 236 james dodds, 238 trial and death of robert baillie of jervieswoode, 239 metrical translations from the modern gaelic minstrelsy. duncan macfarlan, 249 the beauty of the shieling, 250 john munro, 251 the highland welcome, 252 john macdonald, jun., 254 mary, the fair of glensmole, 254 evan m'coll, 256 the child of promise, 256 index, 257 introduction. as if pointing to a condition of primeval happiness, poetry has been the first language of nations. the lyric muse has especially chosen the land of natural sublimity, of mountain and of flood; and such scenes she has only abandoned when the inhabitants have sacrificed their national liberties. edward i., who massacred the minstrels of wales, might have spared the butchery, as their strains were likely to fall unheeded on the ears of their subjugated countrymen. the martial music of ireland is a matter of tradition; on the first step of the invader the genius of chivalric song and melody departed from erin. scotland retains her independence, and those strains which are known in northern europe as the most inspiriting and delightful, are recognised as the native minstrelsy of caledonia. the origin of scottish song and melody is as difficult of settlement as is the era or the genuineness of ossian. there probably were songs and music in scotland in ages long prior to the period of written history. preserved and transmitted through many generations of men, stern and defiant as the mountains amidst which it was produced, the minstrelsy of the north has, in the course of centuries, continued steadily to increase alike in aspiration of sentiment and harmony of numbers. the spirit of the national lyre seems to have been aroused during the war of independence,[1] and the ardour of the strain has not since diminished. the metrical chronicler, wyntoun, has preserved a stanza, lamenting the calamitous death of alexander iii., an event which proved the commencement of the national struggle. "quhen alysandyr oure kyng wes dede, that scotland led in luve and le, away wes sons of ale and brede, of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle: oure gold wes changyd into lede. cryst, borne in-to virgynytã© succour scotland and remede, that stad is in perplexytã©." the antiquity of these lines has been questioned, and it must be admitted that the strain is somewhat too dolorous for the times. stung as they were by the perfidious dealings of their own nobility, and the ruthless oppression of a neighbouring monarch, the minstrels sought every opportunity of astirring the patriotic feelings of their countrymen, while they despised the efforts of the enemy, and anticipated in enraptured pã¦ans their defeat. at the siege of berwick in 1296, when edward i. began his first expedition against scotland, the scottish minstrels ridiculed the attempt of the english monarch to capture the place in some lines which have been preserved. the ballad of "gude wallace" has been ascribed to this age; and if scarcely bearing the impress of such antiquity, it may have had its prototype in another of similar strain. many songs, according to the elder scottish historians, were composed and sung among the common people both in celebration of wallace and king robert bruce. the battle of bannockburn was an event peculiarly adapted for the strains of the native lyre. the following bardic numbers commemorating the victory have been preserved by fabyan, the english chronicler:- "maydens of englande, sore may ye morne, for your lemmans, ye haue lost at bannockysburne. with heue-a-lowe, what weneth the king of england, so soon to have won scotland? wyth rumbylowe." rhymes in similar pasquinade against the south were composed on the occasion of the nuptials of the young prince, david bruce, with the daughter of edward ii., which were entered into as a mean of cementing the alliance between the two kingdoms. after the oblivion of a century, the scottish muse experienced a revival on the return, in 1424, of james i. from his english captivity to occupy the throne. of strong native genius, and possessed of all the learning which could be obtained at the period, this chivalric sovereign was especially distinguished for his skill in music and poetry. by tassoni, the italian writer, he has been designated a composer of sacred music, and the inventor of a new kind of music of a plaintive character. his poetical works which are extant--"the king's quair," and "peblis to the play"--abound not only in traits of lively humour, but in singular gracefulness. to his pen "christ's kirk on the green" may also be ascribed. the native minstrelsy was fostered and promoted by many of his royal successors. james iii., a lover of the arts and sciences, delighted in the society of roger, a musician; james iv. gave frequent grants to henry the minstrel, cherished the poet dunbar, and himself wrote verses; james v. composed "the gaberlunzie man" and "the jollie beggar," ballads which are still sung; queen mary loved music, and wrote verses in french; and james vi., the last occupant of the scottish throne, sought reputation as a writer both of latin and english poetry. under the patronage of the royal house of stewart, epic and lyric poetry flourished in scotland. the poetical chroniclers barbour, henry the minstrel, and wyntoun, are familiar names, as are likewise the poets henryson, dunbar, gavin douglas, and sir david lyndsay. but the authors of the songs of the people have been forgotten. in a droll poem entitled "cockelby's sow," ascribed to the reign of james i., is enumerated a considerable catalogue of contemporary lyrics. in the prologue to gavin douglas' translation of the ã�neid of virgil, written not later than 1513, and in the celebrated "complaynt of scotland," published in 1549, further catalogues of the popular songs have been preserved. the poetic gift had an influence upon the reformation both of a favourable and an unfavourable character. by exposing the vices of the popish clergy, sir david lyndsay and the earl of glencairn essentially tended to promote the interests of the new faith; while, on the event of the reformation being accomplished, the degraded condition of the muse was calculated to undo the beneficial results of the ecclesiastical change. the church early attempted to remedy the evil by sanctioning the replacement of profane ditties with words of religious import. of this nature the most conspicuous effort was wedderburne's "book of godly and spiritual ballads," a work more calculated to provoke merriment than to excite any other feeling. on the union of the crowns a new era arose in the history of the scottish muse. the national spirit abated, and the poets rejoiced to write in the language of their southern neighbours. in the time of barbour, the scottish and english languages were almost the same; they were now widely dissimilar, and the scottish poets, by writing english verse, required to translate their sentiments into a new tongue. their poetry thus became more the expression of the head than the utterance of the heart. the national bards of this period, the earl of stirling, sir robert aytoun, and drummond of hawthornden, have, amidst much elegant versification, left no impression on the popular mind. other poets of that and the succeeding age imitated buchanan, by writing in latin verse. though a considerable portion of our elder popular songs may be fairly ascribed to the seventeenth century, the names of only a few of the writers have been preserved. the more conspicuous song writers of this century are francis semple, lord yester, lady grizzel baillie, and lady wardlaw. the taste for national song was much on the wane, when it was restored by the successful efforts of allan ramsay. he revived the elder ballads in his "evergreen," and introduced contemporary poets in his "tea table miscellany." the latter obtained a place on the tea table of every lady of quality, and soon became eminently popular. among the more conspicuous promoters of scottish song, about the middle of last century, were mrs alison cockburn, miss jane elliot of minto, sir gilbert elliot, sir john clerk of pennycuik, dr austin, dr alexander geddes, alexander ross, james tytler, and the rev. dr blacklock. the poet robert fergusson, though peculiarly fond of music, did not write songs. scottish song reached its climax on the appearance of robert burns, whose genius burst forth meteor-like amidst circumstances the most untoward. he so struck the chord of the scottish lyre, that its vibrations were felt in every bosom. the songs of caledonia, under the influence of his matchless power, became celebrated throughout the world. he purified the elder minstrelsy, and by a few gentle, but effective touches, completely renovated its fading aspects. "he could glide like dew," writes allan cunningham, "into the fading bloom of departing song, and refresh it into beauty and fragrance." contemporary with burns, being only seven years his junior, though upwards of half a century later in becoming known, carolina oliphant, afterwards baroness nairn, proved a noble coadjutor and successor to the rustic bard in renovating the national minstrelsy. possessing a fine musical ear, she adapted her lyrics with singular success to the precise sentiments of the older airs, and in this happy manner was enabled rapidly to supersede many ribald and vulgar ditties, which, associated with stirring and inspiring music, had long maintained a noxious popularity among the peasantry. of burns' immediate contemporaries, the more conspicuous were, john skinner, hector macneill, john mayne, and richard gall. grave as a pastor, skinner revelled in drollery as a versifier; macneill loved sweetness and simplicity; mayne, with a perception of the ludicrous, was plaintive and sentimental; gall was patriotic and graceful. sir walter scott, the great poet of the past half century, if his literary qualifications had not been so varied, had obtained renown as a writer of scottish songs; he was thoroughly imbued with the martial spirit of the old times, and keenly alive to those touches of nature which give point and force to the productions of the national lyre. joanna baillie sung effectively the joys of rustic social life, and gained admission to the cottage hearth. lady anne barnard aroused the nation to admiration by one plaintive lay. allan cunningham wrote the scottish ballad in the peculiar rhythm and with the power of the older minstrels. alike in mirth and tenderness, sir alexander boswell was exquisitely happy. tannahill gave forth strains of bewitching sweetness; hogg, whose ballads abound with supernatural imagery, evinced in song the utmost pastoral simplicity; motherwell was a master of the plaintive; robert nicoll rejoiced in rural loves. among living song-writers, charles mackay holds the first place in general estimation--his songs glow with patriotic sentiment, and are redolent in beauties; in pastoral scenes, henry scott riddell is without a competitor; james ballantine and francis bennoch have wedded to heart-stirring strains those maxims which conduce to virtue. the scottish harp vibrates to sentiments of chivalric nationality in the hands of alexander maclagan, andrew park, robert white, and william sinclair. eminent lyrical simplicity is depicted in the strains of alexander laing, james home, archibald mackay, john crawford, and thomas c. latto. the best ballad writers introduced in the present work are robert chambers, john s. blackie, william stirling, m.p., mrs ogilvy, and james dodds.[2] amply sustained is the national reputation in female lyric poets, by the compositions of mrs simpson, marion paul aird, isabella craig, and margaret crawford. the national sports are celebrated with stirring effect by thomas t. stoddart, william a. foster, and john finlay. sacred poetry is admirably represented by such lyrical writers as horatius bonar, d.d., and james d. burns. many thrilling verses, suitable for music, though not strictly claiming the character of lyrics, have been produced by thomas aird, so distinguished in the higher walks of poetry, henry glassford bell, james hedderwick, andrew j. symington, and james macfarlan. of the collections of the elder scottish minstrelsy, the best catalogue is supplied by mr david laing in the latest edition of johnson's musical museum. of the modern collections we would honourably mention, "the harp of caledonia," edited by john struthers (3 vols. 12mo); "the songs of scotland, ancient and modern" (4 vols. 8vo), edited by allan cunningham; "the scottish songs" (2 vols. 12mo), edited by robert chambers; and, "the book of scottish song," edited by alexander whitelaw. most of these works contain original songs, but the amplest collections of these are m'leod's "original national melodies," and the several small volumes of "whistle binkie."[3] the more esteemed modern collections with music are "the scottish minstrel," edited by r. a. smith[4] (6 vols. 8vo); "the songs of scotland, adapted to their appropriate melodies arranged with pianoforte accompaniments," edited by g. f. graham, edinburgh: 1848 (3 vols. royal 8vo); "the select songs of scotland, with melodies, &c." glasgow: w. hamilton, 1855 (1 vol. 4to); "the lyric gems of scotland, a collection of scottish songs, original and selected, with music," glasgow: 1856 (12mo). of district collections of minstrelsy, "the harp of renfrewshire," published in 1820, under the editorship of motherwell, and "the contemporaries of burns," containing interesting biographical sketches and specimens of the ayrshire bards, claim special commendation. the present collection proceeds on the plan not hitherto attempted in this country, of presenting memoirs of the song writers in connexion with their compositions, thus making the reader acquainted with the condition of every writer, and with the circumstances in which his minstrelsy was given forth. in this manner, too, many popular songs, of which the origin was generally unknown, have been permanently connected with the names of their authors. in the preparation of the work, especially in procuring materials for the memoirs and biographical notices, the editor has been much occupied during a period of four years. the translations from the gaelic minstrelsy have been supplied, with scarcely an exception, by a gentleman, a native of the highlands, who is well qualified to excel in various departments of literature. footnotes: [1] thomas of ercildoune, better known as the rhymer, lived in the reign of alexander iii. no lyric of his composition has been preserved. [2] the ballads of professor aytoun, it is hardly necessary to remark, would have been an ornament to any age. [3] the publisher of this meritorious little work, mr david robertson of glasgow, was a native of port of menteith, perthshire; he died at glasgow on the 6th of october 1854. mr robertson maintained an extensive correspondence with the humbler bards, and succeeded in recovering many interesting lyrics, which would otherwise have perished. he was also reputed as the publisher of the facetious collection of anecdotes which appeared under the title of the "laird of logan." [4] robert archibald smith, so justly celebrated in connexion with the modern history of scottish music, was born at reading, berkshire, on the 16th november 1780. in his twentieth year he settled in paisley, where he formed the acquaintance of tannahill, whose best songs he subsequently set to music. in 1823, he became precentor in st george's church, edinburgh, on the recommendation of its celebrated pastor, the late dr andrew thomson. his numerous musical works continue to be held in high estimation. his death took place at edinburgh on the 3d january 1829. observations on scottish song: with remarks on the genius of lady nairn, the ettrick shepherd, and robert tannahill. by henry scott riddell. songs are the household literature of the scottish people; they are especially so as regards the rural portion of the population. till of late years, when collections of song have become numerous, and can be procured at a limited price, a considerable trade was carried on by itinerant venders of halfpenny ballads. children who were distant from school, learned to read on these; and the aged experienced satisfaction in listening to words and sentiments familiar to them from boyhood. that the scots, a thoughtful and earnest people, should have evinced such a deep interest in minstrelsy, is explained in the observation of mr carlyle, that "serious nations--all nations that can still listen to the mandates of nature--have prized song and music as the highest." deep feeling, like powerful thought, seeks and finds relief in expression; the wisdom of divine benevolence has so arranged, that what brings relief to one, generally affords peace or pleasure to another. and, further, where there is a susceptibility, a capacity of enjoyment, there will be efforts made in order to its gratification. the human heart loves the things of romance, and in the exercise of its native privilege, delights to feel. scottish song has been written in harmony with nature, scenery, and circumstances; and fledged in its own melodies, which seem no less the outpouring of native sensibility, has borne itself onward from generation to generation. respecting these airs or melodies, a few remarks may be offered. the genius of our mountain land, as if prompted alike by thought and feeling, has in these wrought a spell of matchless power--a fascination, which, reaching the hearts both of old and young, maintains an imperishable sway over them. one has said,- "'tis not alone the scenes of glen and hill, and haunts and homes beside the murmuring rill; nor all the varied beauties of the year, that so can scotland to our hearts endear- the merry both and melancholy strain, their power assert, and o'er the spirit reign; indebted more to nature than to art, they reach the ear to fascinate the heart; and waken hope that, animating, cheers, or bathe our being in the flow of tears." native, as well as foreign writers, assert that king james the first was the inventor of a new kind of music, which they further characterise as being sweet and plaintive. these terms certainly indicate the leading features of scottish music. there is something not only of wild sweetness, but touches of pathos even in its merriest measures. though termed a new kind of music, however, it was not new. the king took up the key-note of the human heart--the primitive scale, or what has been defined the scale of nature, and produced some of those wild and plaintive strains which we now call scottish melodies. his poetry was descriptive of, and adapted to the feelings, customs, and manners of his countrymen; and he followed, doubtless, the same course in the music which he composed. by his skill and education, he rendered his compositions more regular and palpable, than those songs and their airs which had been framed and sung by the sad-hearted swain on the hill, or the love-lorn maiden in the green wood. not in music only, but in the words of song, some of the scottish kings had such a share as to stamp the art and practice of song-writing with royal sanction. thus encouraged, the native minstrelsy was fostered by the whole community, receiving accessions from succeeding generations. a people who, along with their heroic leader, possessed sufficient courage to face, with such appalling odds, the foe at bannockburn--who, at an after date, fought at flodden against both their better wit and will, rather than gainsay their king--and who, in more recent times, protected him whom they regarded as their rightful prince, at the risk of life and fortune, were not likely to fail in advancing what royalty had loved, especially when it was deemed so essential to their happiness. the poetic spirit entered in and arose out of the heart of the people. the song and air produced in the court, represented the sentiment of the cottage. it is still the same. rights and privileges have been lost, manners and customs have changed, but song, the forthgiving of the heart, does not on the heart quit its claim. within the modern period, the harp of caledonia gives forth similar utterances in the hands of lady nairn, the ettrick shepherd, and robert tannahill. different in station and occupations--even in motives to composition--these three great lyrists were each deeply influenced by that peculiar acquaintance with scottish feeling which, brilliantly illustrated by their genius, has deeply impressed their names on the national heart. lady nairn, highly born and educated, delighted to sympathise with the people. if among these she found the forthgivings of human nature less sophisticated, the principles upon which she proceeded impelled her to write for the humbler classes of society, and the result has been that she has written for all. in every class human nature is essentially the same; and though hearts may have wandered far from the primitive truths which belong to the life and character of mankind in common, they may yet be brought back by that which tells winningly upon them--by that which awakens native feeling and early associations. there is much of this kind of efficiency in song, when song is what it ought to be. if, when the true standard is adhered to by those who exercise their powers in producing it, and who have been born and bred in circumstances of life so different, it can establish a unity of sentiment--it must necessarily effect, in a greater or less degree, the same thing among those who learn and sing the lays which they produce. and, indeed, it would seem a truth that, by the congenial influences of song, the hearts of a nation are more united--more willing to be subdued into acquiescence and equality, than by any other merely human instrumentality. if, in scotland till of late years, writing for fortune was rather than otherwise regarded as disreputable, writing for fame was never so accounted. but even than for fame lady nairn had a higher motive. she knew that the minstrels of ruder times had composed, and, through the aid of the national melodies, transmitted to posterity strains ill fitted to promote the interests of sound morality, yet that the love of these sweet and wild airs made the people tenacious of the words to which they were wedded. her principal, if not her sole object, was to disjoin these, and to supplant the impurer strains. doubtless that capacity of genius, which enabled her to write as she has done, might, as an inherent stimulus, urge her to seek gratification in the exercise of it; but, even in this case, the virtue of her main motive underwent no diminution. she was well aware how deeply the scottish heart imbibed the sentiments of song, so that these became a portion of its nature, or of the principles upon which the individuals acted, however unconsciously, amid the intercourse of life. lessons could thus be taught, which could not, perhaps, be communicated with the same effect by any other means. this pleasing agency of education in the school of moral refinement lady nairn has exercised with genial tact and great beauty; and, liberally as she bestowed benefactions on her fellow-kind in many other respects, it may be said no gifts conferred could bear in their beneficial effects a comparison to the songs which she has written. her strains thrilled along the chords of a common nature, beguiling ruder thought into a more tender and generous tone, and lifting up the lower towards the loftier feeling. if feeling constitutes the nursery of much that is desirable in national character, it is no less true that well assorted and confirmed nationality will always prove the most trustworthy and lasting safeguard of freedom. it is the combination of heart--the universal unity of sentiment--which renders a people powerful in the preservation of right and privilege, home and hearth; and few things of merely human origin will serve more thoroughly to promote such unity, than the songs of a song-loving people. the continual tendency of these is to imbue all with the same sentiment, and to awaken, and keep awake, those sympathies which lead mankind to a knowledge of themselves individually, and of one another in general, thus preventing the different grades of society from diverging into undue extremes of distinction. nor ought the observation to be omitted, that if a lady of high standing in society, of genius, refined taste and feeling, and withal of singular purity of heart, could write songs that the inhabitants of her native land could so warmly appreciate as by their singing to render them popular, it would evince no inconsiderable worth in that people that she could so sympathise and so identify herself with them. from the position and circumstances of lady nairn, those of the ettrick shepherd were entirely different. hogg was one of the people. to write songs calculated to be popular, he needed only to embody forth in poetic shape what he felt and understood from the actual experiences of life amid the scenes and circumstances in which he had been born and bred; his compeers, forming that class of society in which it has been thought the nature of man wears least disguise, were his first patrons. he required, therefore, less than lady nairn the exercise of that sympathy by which we place ourselves in the circumstances of others, and know how in these, others think and feel. his poetic effusions were homely and graphic, both in their sprightful humour and more tender sentiment. they were sung by the shepherd on the hill, and the maiden at the hay-field, or when the _kye cam' hame_ at "the farmer's ingle," and in the _bien_ cottage of the _but_ and _ben_, where at eventide the rustics delighted to meet. as experience gave him increased command over the hill harp, his ambition to produce strains of greater beauty and refinement also increased. by and by his minstrel numbers manifested a vigour and perfection which rendered them the admiration of persons of higher rank, and more competent powers of judgment. if, with the very simple and seemingly insignificant weapon of scottish song, the baroness nairn "stooped," the shepherd stood up "to conquer." both adhered to the dictates of nature, and in both cases the result was the same; nor could the most marked inconveniences which circumstances imposed hinder that result. a time comes when false things shew their futility, and things depending upon truth assert their supremacy. the difference between the authoress and the author lay in those external circumstances of station and position which could not long, much less always, be of avail. their minds were directed by a power of nature to do essentially the same thing; the difference only being that each did it in her and his own way. we may suppose that while lady nairn in her baronial hall wrote- "bonnie charlie 's now awa', safely ower the friendly main, mony a heart will break in twa should he ne'er come back again;" the ettrick shepherd seated on "a moss-gray stane," or a heather-bush, and substituting his knee for his writing desk, might be furnishing forth for the world's entertainment the lament, commencing- "far over yon hills of the heather sae green, and down by the corrie that sings to the sea, the bonnie young flora sat sighing alane, wi' the dew on her plaid and the tear in her e'e." or when the lady was producing "the land o' the leal," a lay which has reached and sunk so deeply into all hearts, the shepherd might be singing among the wild mountains the affecting and popular ditty, the truth of which touched his own heart so powerfully, of "the moon was a' waning," or saying to the skylark- "bird of the wilderness, blithesome and cumberless, sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea; emblem of happiness, blest is thy dwelling-place, oh! to abide in the desert with thee!" tannahill has likewise written a number of songs which have been deservedly admired, loved, and sung. allan cunningham used to say, that if he could only succeed in writing two songs which the inhabitants of his native land would continue to sing, he would account it sufficient fame. tannahill has accomplished this, and much more. in temperament, as well as circumstances, he differed widely both from lady nairn and the ettrick shepherd. amiable and good in all her ways, lady nairn's career appears to have been lovely and alluring as the serene summer eve; the shepherd was rich as autumn, in the enjoyment of life itself, and all that life could bring; but tannahill's nature was cloudy, sensitive, and uncertain as the april day. lady nairn, ambitious of doing good and promoting happiness, dwelt, in heart at least, "among her own people," giving and receiving alike those charms of unbroken delight which spring from the kindness of the kind, and fearing nothing so much as public notoriety. hogg loved fame, yet took no pains to secure it. fame, nevertheless, reached him; but when found, it was with him a possession much resembling the child's toy. his heart to the last appeared too deeply imbued with the unsuspicious simplicity and carelessness of the boy to have much concern about it. on this point tannahill was morbidly sensitive; his was an unfortunate cast of temperament, which, deepening more and more, surrounded him with imaginary evils, and rendered life insupportable. lady nairn was too modest not to be distrustful of the extent of her genius, and presumed only to exercise it in composing words to favourite melodies. the genius of tannahill was more circumscribed, and he was consequently more timid and painstaking. hogg, ambitious of originality, was bold and reckless. he had the power of assuming many distinct varieties of style, his mind, taking the tone of the subject entered upon, as easily as the musician passes from one note to another. in education, tannahill had the advantage over the shepherd, but in nothing else. the shepherd's occupation was much more calculated to inspire him with the feelings, and more fitted in everything to urge to the cultivation of poetry, than the employment at which tannahill was doomed to labour. the beauty and grandeur of nature, solemn and sublime, surround the path of him who tends the flocks. though occasionally called upon to face the blast, and wrestle with the storm, he still experiences a charm. but when the broad earth is green below, and the wide bending sky blue above, the voice of nature in the sounding of streams, the song of birds, and the bleating of sheep differ widely from what the susceptible and poetic mind is destined to experience amidst the clanking din of shuttles in the dingy, narrow workshop of the handloom weaver. here the breath of the light hill breeze cannot come; the form is bowed down, and the cheek is pale. life, however buoyant and aspiring at first, necessarily ere long becomes saddened and subdued. to poor tannahill it became a burden--more than he could bear. yet it was among these circumstances that he contrived to compose those chaste and beautiful songs which have delighted, and still continue to delight, the hearts of so many. though not marked with much that can be termed strikingly original, this, instead of militating against them, may have told in their favour. wayward conceits, fanciful thoughts and expressions in songs, are like the hectic hue on the cheek of the unhealthy; it may appear to give a surpassing beauty, but it is a beauty which forebodes decay. "oh, are ye sleeping, maggie?" may be regarded as the most original of tannahill's songs. it is more ardent in tone, and in every respect more poetic, than his other lyrics. the imagery is not only striking, but true to nature, though in maintaining the simple and tender, it does more than approach the sublime. his style is uniformly distinguished by a chaste simplicity, and well sustained power. in these observations, we have pointed to that affinity of mind which unites in sentiment those possessing it, in spite of worldly distinctions. and song, too, we have found, is a prevalent and far-pervading agency, which become the mean of binding together a nation's population on the ground of that which is true to nature. it, therefore, does so in a manner more congenial and pleasurable than most other ties which bind; those of interest and necessity may be stronger, indeed, but these ties being much more selfish, are also, in most instances, much less harmonious. song-writing is the highest attribute of poetic genius. the epic poet has to do with the exercise of energies, which produce deeds that are decided, together with the operation of passions and feelings which are borne into excess. these are more easily depicted than the gentler sentiments and feelings, together with the lights and shades of national character which constitute the materials of song. nor will strains which set forth the actions of mankind as operating in excess, ever be so popular as simple song. though communities are liable to periods of excitement, this is not their natural condition. songs founded upon such, may be popular while the excitement lasts, but not much longer. philosophers and inquiring individuals may revert to and dwell upon them, but the generality of the people will renounce them. those who linger over them, will do so through a disposition to ascertain the causes which gave them birth, and how far these were natural in the circumstances. he who sings, feels that the same ardour cannot be re-awakened; and the sentiments which the poet has expressed become as things that are false and foolish. nearly all the poems of burns proceed on the same principles upon which popular song proceeds. he approved himself considerably original and singularly interesting, by taking up and saying, in the language best suited for the purpose, what his countrymen had either already, to one extent or other, thought and felt, or were, at his suggestion, fully prepared to think and feel. it is thus that song becomes the truest history of a people; they, properly speaking, have rarely any other historian than the poet. history, in its stateliness, does not deign to dwell upon their habits, their customs and manners, and, therefore, cannot unfold their usual modes of thinking and feeling; it only notices those more anomalous emergencies when the ebullitions of high passion and excitement prevail; and such not being the natural condition of any people, a true representation of their real character is not given. if song equally tends to strengthen the bonds of nationality, it is also that from which the true cast of a land's inhabitants can be gathered. from habits and training, together with the native shades of peculiar character, there is in human nature great variety; so, consequently, is there also in song, for perhaps it might be difficult to fix upon one of these peculiarities, whether of outward manner or inward disposition, which song has not taken up and illustrated in its own way. every song, of course, has an aim or leading sentiment pervading it. it either tells a tale calculated to interest human nature and revive feeling, or sets forth a sentiment which human nature entertains, so that it shall be turned to better account. this involves the field which song has it in its power to cultivate and improve. but neither the pure moralist, nor the accomplished critic, must expect a very great deal to be done on this field at once. the song-writer has difficulties to contend with, both in regard to those by whom he would have his songs sung, and the airs to which he writes them. if in the latter case he would willingly substitute classical and sounding language for monosyllables and contracted words, the measures which the air require will not allow him; and should he suddenly lift up and bear high the standard of moral refinement, those who should attend may fail to appreciate the movement, and refuse to follow him. if he can contrive, therefore, to interest and entertain with what is at least harmless, it is much, considering how wide a field even one popular song occupies, and how many of an undesirable kind it may meanwhile displace and eventually supersede. the tide of evil communications cannot be barred back at once, and song remedy the evil which song in its impurer state has done. nor is the critic, who weighs these disadvantages, likely to pronounce a very decided judgment upon the superiority and inferiority of songs, whether in general or individually. few of the different classes of society may view them in the same light, and estimate them on the same grounds that he does. if he _thinks_, the people _feel_; and they overturn his decisions by the songs which they adopt and render popular. it is by no means so much the correct beauty of the composition, as the suitableness of the sentiment, which insures their patronage. few of the songs of burns are so correctly and elegantly composed as "the lass of ballochmyle;" yet few of his songs have been more rarely sung. the modern scottish minstrel. charles mackay, ll.d.[5] our first volume contained the portrait of sir walter scott; our sixth and concluding volume is adorned by the portrait of charles mackay. in these distinguished men there is not only a strong mental similarity, but also a striking physical resemblance. those who are curious in such matters will do well to compare the two portraits. the one was the most prolific and popular writer at the commencement of the century; the other is the most prolific and popular song-writer of the present day. wherever the english language is heard and patriotic songs are sung, charles mackay will be present in his verse. he rejoices in his english songs; but scotland claims him as a son. charles mackay is of ancient and honourable extraction. his paternal ancestors were the mackays of strathnaver, in sutherlandshire; while, on the mother's side, he is descended from the roses of kilravock, near inverness, for many centuries the proprietors of one of the most interesting feudal strongholds in the highlands. the mrs rose of kilravock, whose name appears in the "correspondence" of burns, was charles mackay's maternal grandmother. he was born at perth in 1814; but his early years were spent in london, his parents having removed to the metropolis during his infancy. there he received the rudiments of an education which was completed in the schools of belgium and germany. his relation, general mackay, intended that he should adopt the military profession; but family arrangements and other circumstances prevented the fulfilment of that intention. the poetical faculty cannot be acquired; it must be born with a man, growing with his growth, and strengthening with his strength, until developed by the first great impulse that agitates his being, and generally that is love. there are versifiers innumerable who are not poets, but there are no poets whose hearts remain unstirred by the exciting passion of irrepressible love, when song becomes the written testimony of the inner life. whether it was so with charles mackay we have not ascertained, nor have we cared to inquire. his love-songs, however, are exquisitely touching, and among the purest compositions in the language. certain it is that the poetical power was early manifested; for we find that, in 1836, he gave his first poems to the public. the unpretending volume attracted the attention of john black, who was then the distinguished editor of the _morning chronicle_. ever ready to recognise genius wherever it could be found, and always prepared to lend a hand to lift into light the unobtrusive author who laboured in the shade, he offered young mackay a place on the paper, which was accepted, and filled with such ability that he was rapidly promoted to the responsible position of sub-editor. he soon became one of the marked men of the time in connexion with the press; and, in 1844, he undertook the editorship of the _glasgow argus_, a journal devoted to the advocacy of advanced liberal opinions. this paper he conducted for three years, and returned to london, where he received the appointment of editor of the _illustrated london news_, a situation which, considering the peculiar character of the paper, he fills with consummate tact. some of the great organs of public opinion may thunder forth embittered denunciations, others, in the silkiest tone, will admonish so gently that they half approve the misconduct of people in power if their birth happens to have been sufficiently elevated. the distinguishing characteristics of the political articles written by charles mackay are their manly and thoroughly independent spirit, avoiding alike fulsome adulation and indiscriminate abuse. his censure and his praise are always governed by strictest impartiality. whether he condemns or whether he applauds he secures the respect even of those from whom he differs the most. it is no small merit to possess such a power in the conflict and strife of politics. we happen to know a circumstance which speaks volumes on this subject. the peculiarities of the press of england were being discussed in the presence of a foreign nobleman, of high rank and political influence, who expressed himself to this effect:--"some of your newspapers are _feared_, some simply tolerated, some detested, and some merit our contempt, but the _illustrated london news_ is respected. it is admitted everywhere, it is read everywhere; and, although it is sometimes severe, its very severity is appreciated, because it is the expression of earnest conviction and sterling good sense; the result is, that it has, on the continent, a wider influence than any paper published in england." mackay's works have been numerous and various. without presuming to be perfectly accurate, we shall attempt a list of his several publications. his first, as we have already stated, was a small volume of "poems," published in 1836. this was followed by the "hope of the world," a poem, in heroic verse, published in 1839. soon afterwards appeared "the thames and its tributaries," a most suggestive, agreeable, and gossiping book. in 1841 appeared his "popular delusions," a work of considerable merit; and next came, in 1842, his romance of "longbeard, lord of london," so well conceived and cleverly executed, that an archã¦ologist of considerable pretensions mistook it for a genuine historical record of the place on which it was written. his next work, and up till that period his noblest poem, "the salamandrine, or love and immortality," appeared in 1843. as there is no hesitation in his thought, there is no vagueness in his language; it is terse, clear, and direct in every utterance. an enemy to spasms in every form, he abhors the spasmodic school of poets. if the true poet be the seer--the far seer into futurity--he should see his way clear before him. he should write because he has a thought to utter, and ought to utter it in the clearest and the fittest language, and this is the principle which manifestly governs the compositions of charles mackay. the "salamandrine" lifted his works high in the poetic scale, and permanently fixed him, not only in the ranks, but marked him as a leader of the host of eminent british poets. his residence in scotland enabled him to visit many places famous in scottish history. the results were his "legends of the isles," published in 1845 and his "voices from the mountains" in 1846. a few months before the publication of the last named volume, the university of glasgow conferred upon him the degree of ll.d. when the london _daily news_ was started, he contributed some stirring lyrics, under the title of "voices from the crowd." they arrested the attention of the public, and tended greatly to popularise and establish the reputation of that journal. in 1847 appeared his "town lyrics," a series of ballads which harrowed the soul by laying bare many of the secret miseries of the town. in 1850 was published his exquisite poem of "egeria," probably the most refined and artistic of all his productions; and in 1856 he gave to the world "the lump of gold," and "under green leaves," two volumes of charming poetry; the first tracing the evils that flow from unrestrained cupidity; the second the delights of the country, under every circumstance that can or does occur. latterly he has composed some popular airs, set to his own lyrics; thus giving to the melody he has conceived the immortality of his verse. with the late sir henry bishop he was associated in re-arranging a hundred of the choicest old english melodies. the music has been re-arranged; and many a lovely air, inadmissible to cultivated society from its being associated with vulgar or debasing words, has been re-admitted to the social circle, and is fast floating into public favour in union with the words composed by mackay. here we stop. this is not the time, nor is it the place, to discuss, with any great elaboration, the merits or peculiarities of charles mackay as an author. we have to do with him as the most successful of song-writers. two of his songs, perhaps not among his best, have obtained a world-wide popularity. his "good time coming," and his "cheer, boys, cheer," have been ground to death by barrel-organs, but only to experience a resurrection to immortality. on the wide sea, amid the desert, across the prairies, in burning india, in far australia, and along the frozen steppes of russia are floating those imperishable airs suggested by the "lyrics" whose names they bear. the soldier and the sailor, conscious of impending danger, think of beloved ones at home; unconsciously they hum a melody, and comfort is restored. the emigrant, forced by various circumstances to leave his native land, where, instead of inheriting food and raiment, he had experienced hunger, nakedness, and cold, endeavours to express his feelings, and is discovered crooning over the tune that correctly interprets his emotions, and thrills his heart with gladness. the poet's song has become incorporated with the poor man's nature. you may see that it fills his eyes with tears; but they are not of sorrow. his cheek is flushed with hope, and a radiant expectation, founded on experience, which seems to illuminate and gild his future destiny. marvellous, indeed, are the influences of a true song; and while they are rare, they are by fashion rarely appreciated. in it are embodied the best thoughts in the best language. by it the best of every class in every clime are swayed. in it they find expression for sensations, which, but for the poet, might have slumbered unexpressed till the day of doom. whether we think of charles mackay as a journalist, as a novelist, as a poet, or as a musician, he wins our admiration in all. possessing, as he does in a high degree, a fine imagination, allied to the kindliest feelings springing from a sensitive and considerate heart, he is beloved by his friends, and cares little for the vulgar admiration of the crowd. the pomp, and circumstance, and self-exaltation, so current now-a-days, he utterly despises. but the kindliness, the glowing sympathies of a few kindred spirits gladden him and make him happy. though modest and retiring in his disposition, he has no shamefacedness. his conversation is like his verse; there is neither tinsel nor glitter, but genuine, solid stuff. something that bears examination; something you can take up and handle; something to brood over and reflect upon; something that wins its way by its truthfulness, and compels you to accept it as a principle; something that sticks close, and springs up in the future a very fountain of pure and unadulterated joy; from all this it will be inferred that no man can remain long in his company without feeling that he is not only a wiser, but a better man for the privilege enjoyed. he is still in the prime of life and the maturity of his intellect. may we not, in concluding this slight notice of his life and character, express a hope which we know to be a general one--that he may yet live to write many more poems and many more songs, as good or better than those which he has already given to the world? footnotes: [5] the present memoir has been prepared, at our request, by francis bennoch, esq. love aweary of the world. oh! my love is very lovely, in her mind all beauties dwell; she, robed in living splendour, grace and modesty attend her, and i love her more than well. but i 'm weary, weary, weary, to despair my soul is hurl'd; i am weary, weary, weary, i am weary of the world! she is kind to all about her, for her heart is pity's throne; she has smiles for all men's gladness, she has tears for every sadness, she is hard to me alone. and i 'm weary, weary, weary, from a love-lit summit hurl'd; i am weary, weary, weary, i am weary of the world! when my words are words of wisdom all her spirit i can move, at my wit her eyes will glisten, but she flies and will not listen if i dare to speak of love. oh! i 'm weary, weary, weary, by a storm of passions whirl'd; i am weary, weary, weary, i am weary of the world! true, that there are others fairer- fairer?--no, that cannot be- yet some maids of equal beauty, high in soul and firm in duty, may have kinder hearts than she. why, by heart, so weary, weary, to and fro by passion whirl'd?- why so weary, weary, weary, why so weary of the world? were my love but passing fancy, to another i might turn; but i 'm doom'd to love unduly one who will not answer truly, and who freezes when i burn. and i 'm weary, weary, weary, to despair my soul is hurl'd; i am weary, weary, weary, i am weary of the world! the lover's second thoughts on world weariness. heart! take courage! 'tis not worthy for a woman's scorn to pine, if her cold indifference wound thee, there are remedies around thee for such malady as thine. be no longer weary, weary, from thy love-lit summits hurl'd; be no longer weary, weary, weary, weary of the world! if thou must be loved by woman, seek again--the world is wide; it is full of loving creatures, fair in form, and mind, and features- choose among them for thy bride. be no longer weary, weary, to and fro by passion whirl'd; be no longer weary, weary, weary, weary of the world! or if love should lose thy favour, try the paths of honest fame, climb parnassus' summit hoary, carve thy way by deeds of glory, write on history's page thy name. be no longer weary, weary, to the depth of sorrow hurl'd; be no longer weary, weary, weary, weary of the world! or if these shall fail to move thee, be the phantoms unpursued, try a charm that will not fail thee when old age and grief assail thee- try the charm of doing good. be no longer weak and weary, by the storms of passion whirl'd; be no longer weary, weary, weary, weary of the world! love is fleeting and uncertain, and can bate where it adored, chase of glory wears the spirit, fame not always follows merit, goodness is its own reward. be no longer weary, weary, from thine happy summit hurl'd; be no longer weary, weary, weary, weary of the world! a candid wooing. i cannot give thee all my heart, lady, lady, my faith and country claim a part, my sweet lady; but yet i 'll pledge thee word of mine that all the rest is truly thine;- the raving passion of a boy, warm though it be, will quickly cloy- confide thou rather in the man who vows to love thee all he can, my sweet lady. affection, founded on respect, lady, lady, can never dwindle to neglect, my sweet lady; and, while thy gentle virtues live, such is the love that i will give. the torrent leaves its channel dry, the brook runs on incessantly; the storm of passion lasts a day, but deep, true love endures alway, my sweet lady. accept then a divided heart, lady, lady, _faith_, _friendship_, _honour_, each have part, my sweet lady. while at one altar we adore, _faith_ shall but make us love the more; and _friendship_, true to all beside, will ne'er be fickle to a bride; and _honour_, based on manly truth, shall love in age as well as youth, my sweet lady. procrastinations. if fortune with a smiling face strew roses on our way, when shall we stoop to pick them up? to-day, my love, to-day. but should she frown with face of care, and talk of coming sorrow, when shall we grieve--if grieve we must? to-morrow, love, to-morrow. if those who 've wrong'd us own their faults and kindly pity pray, when shall we listen and forgive? to-day, my love, to-day. but if stern justice urge rebuke, and warmth from memory borrow, when shall we chide--if chide we dare? to-morrow, love, to-morrow. if those to whom we owe a debt are harm'd unless we pay, when shall we struggle to be just? to-day, my love, to-day. but if our debtor fail our hope, and plead his ruin thorough, when shall we weigh his breach of faith? to-morrow, love, to-morrow. if love, estranged, should once again his genial smile display, when shall we kiss his proffer'd lips? to-day, my love, to-day, but, if he would indulge regret, or dwell with bygone sorrow, when shall we weep--if weep we must? to-morrow, love, to-morrow. for virtuous acts and harmless joys the minutes will not stay; we 've always time to welcome them to-day, my love, to-day. but care, resentment, angry words, and unavailing sorrow come far too soon, if they appear to-morrow, love, to-morrow. remembrances of nature. i remember the time, thou roaring sea, when thy voice was the voice of infinity- a joy, and a dread, and a mystery. i remember the time, ye young may flowers, when your odours and hues in the fields and bowers fell on my soul as on grass the showers. i remember the time, thou blustering wind, when thy voice in the woods, to my youthful mind, seem'd the sigh of the earth for human kind. i remember the time, ye suns and stars, when ye raised my soul from its mortal bars and bore it through heaven on your golden cars. and has it then vanish'd, that happy time? are the winds, and the seas, and the stars sublime deaf to thy soul in its manly prime? ah, no! ah, no! amid sorrow and pain, when the world and its facts oppress my brain, in the world of spirit i rove--i reign. i feel a deep and a pure delight in the luxuries of sound and sight- in the opening day, in the closing night. the voices of youth go with me still, through the field and the wood, o'er the plain and the hill, in the roar of the sea, in the laugh of the rill. every flower is a lover of mine, every star is a friend divine: for me they blossom, for me they shine. to give me joy the oceans roll, they breathe their secrets to my soul, with me they sing, with me condole. man cannot harm me if he would, i have such friends for my every mood in the overflowing solitude. fate cannot touch me: nothing can stir to put disunion or hate of her 'twixt nature and her worshipper. sing to me, flowers! preach to me, skies! ye landscapes, glitter in mine eyes! whisper, ye deeps, your mysteries! sigh to me, wind! ye forests, nod! speak to me ever, thou flowery sod! ye are mine--all mine--in the peace of god. believe if you can. _music by the author._ hope cannot cheat us, or fancy betray; tempests ne'er scatter the blossoms of may; the wild winds are constant, by method and plan; oh! believe me, believe me, believe if you can! young love, who shews us his midsummer light, spreads the same halo o'er winter's dark night; and fame never dazzles to lure and trepan; oh! believe me, believe me, believe if you can! friends of the sunshine endure in the storm; never they promise and fail to perform. and the night ever ends as the morning began; oh! believe me, believe me, believe if you can! words softly spoken no guile ever bore; peaches ne'er harbour a worm at the core; and the ground never slipp'd under high-reaching man; oh! believe me, believe me, believe if you can! seas undeceitful, calm smiling at morn, wreck not ere midnight the sailor forlorn. and gold makes a bridge every evil to span; oh! believe me, believe me, believe if you can. oh, the happy time departed! _air by sir h. r. bishop._ oh, the happy time departed! in its smile the world was fair; we believed in all men's goodness; joy and hope were gems to wear; angel visitants were with us, there was music in the air. oh, the happy time departed! change came o'er it all too soon; in a cold and drear november died the leafy wealth of june; winter kill'd our summer roses; discord marr'd a heavenly tune. let them pass--the days departed- what befell may ne'er befall; why should we with vain lamenting seek a shadow to recall? great the sorrows we have suffer'd- hope is greater than them all. come back! come back! come back! come back! thou youthful time, when joy and innocence were ours, when life was in its vernal prime, and redolent of sweets and flowers. come back--and let us roam once more, free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways, and gather garlands as of yore- come back--come back--ye happy days! come back! come back!--'twas pleasant then to cherish faith in love and truth, for nothing in dispraise of men had sour'd the temper of our youth. come back--and let us still believe the gorgeous dream romance displays, nor trust the tale that men deceive- come back--come back--ye happy days! come back!--oh, freshness of the past, when every face seem'd fair and kind, when sunward every eye was cast, and all the shadows fell behind. come back--'twill come; true hearts can turn their own decembers into mays; the secret be it ours to learn- come back--come back--ye happy days! tears. _music by sir h. r. bishop._ o ye tears! o ye tears! that have long refused to flow, ye are welcome to my heart--thawing, thawing, like the snow; i feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring, and the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing. o ye tears! o ye tears! i am thankful that ye run; though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun; the rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, and the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all. o ye tears! o ye tears! till i felt you on my cheek, i was selfish in my sorrow, i was stubborn, i was weak. ye have given me strength to conquer, and i stand erect and free, and know that i am human by the light of sympathy. o ye tears! o ye tears! ye relieve me of my pain; the barren rock of pride has been stricken once again; like the rock that moses smote, amid horeb's burning sand, it yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land. there is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, and the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago- o ye tears! happy tears! i am thankful that ye flow. cheer, boys! cheer! cheer, boys! cheer! no more of idle sorrow; courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! hope points before, and shews the bright to-morrow- let us forget the darkness of to-day! so farewell, england! much as we may love thee, we 'll dry the tears that we have shed before; why should we weep to sail in search of fortune? so farewell, england! farewell evermore! cheer, boys! cheer! for england, mother england! cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand; cheer, boys! cheer! there 's work for honest labour, cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land! cheer, boys! cheer! the steady breeze is blowing, to float us freely o'er the ocean's breast; the world shall follow in the track we 're going, the star of empire glitters in the west. here we had toil and little to reward it, but there shall plenty smile upon our pain; and ours shall be the mountain and the forest, and boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain. cheer, boys! cheer! for england, mother england! cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand! cheer, boys! cheer! there 's wealth for honest labour, cheer, boys! cheer! in the new and happy land! mourn for the mighty dead. _music by sir h. r. bishop._ mourn for the mighty dead, mourn for the spirit fled, mourn for the lofty head- low in the grave. tears such as nations weep hallow the hero's sleep; calm be his rest, and deep- arthur the brave! nobly his work was done; england's most glorious son, true-hearted wellington, shield of our laws. ever in peril's night heaven send such arm of might- guardian of truth and right- raised in their cause! dried be the tears that fall; love bears the warrior's pall, fame shall his deeds recall- britain's right hand! bright shall his memory be! star of supremacy! banner of victory! pride of our land. a plain man's philosophy. _music by the author._ i 've a guinea i can spend, i 've a wife, and i 've a friend, and a troop of little children at my knee, john brown; i 've a cottage of my own, with the ivy overgrown, and a garden with a view of the sea, john brown; i can sit at my door by my shady sycamore, large of heart, though of very small estate, john brown; so come and drain a glass in my arbour as you pass, and i 'll tell you what i love and what i hate, john brown. i love the song of birds, and the children's early words, and a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, john brown; and i hate a false pretence, and the want of common sense, and arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, john brown; i love the meadow flowers, and the brier in the bowers, and i love an open face without guile, john brown; and i hate a selfish knave, and a proud, contented slave, and a lout who 'd rather borrow than he 'd toil, john brown. i love a simple song that awakes emotions strong, and the word of hope that raises him who faints, john brown; and i hate the constant whine of the foolish who repine, and turn their good to evil by complaints, john brown; but ever when i hate, if i seek my garden gate, and survey the world around me, and above, john brown, the hatred flies my mind, and i sigh for human kind, and excuse the faults of those i cannot love, john brown. so, if you like my ways, and the comfort of my days, i will tell you how i live so unvex'd, john brown; i never scorn my health, nor sell my soul for wealth, nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, john brown; i 've parted with my pride, and i take the sunny side, for i 've found it worse than folly to be sad, john brown; i keep a conscience clear, i 've a hundred pounds a-year, and i manage to exist and to be glad, john brown. the secrets of the hawthorn. _music by the author._ no one knows what silent secrets quiver from thy tender leaves; no one knows what thoughts between us pass in dewy moonlight eves. roving memories and fancies, travellers upon thought's deep sea, haunt the gay time of our may-time, o thou snow-white hawthorn-tree! lovely was she, bright as sunlight, pure and kind, and good and fair, when she laugh'd the ringing music rippled through the summer air. "if you love me--shake the blossoms!" thus i said, too bold and free; down they came in showers of beauty, thou beloved hawthorn-tree! sitting on the grass, the maiden vow'd the vow to love me well; vow'd the vow; and oh! how truly, no one but myself can tell. widely spreads the smiling woodland, elm and beech are fair to see; but thy charms they cannot equal, o thou happy hawthorn-tree! a cry from the deep waters. from the deep and troubled waters comes the cry; wild are the waves around me- dark the sky: there is no hand to pluck me from the sad death i die. to one small plank, that fails me, clinging low, i am dash'd by angry billows to and fro; i hear death-anthems ringing in all the winds that blow. a cry of suffering gushes from my lips as i behold the distant white-sail'd ships o'er the white waters gleaming where the horizon dips. they pass; they are too lofty and remote, they cannot see the spaces where i float. the last hope dies within me, with the gasping in my throat. through dim cloud-vistas looking, i can see the new moon's crescent sailing pallidly: and one star coldly shining upon my misery. there are no sounds in nature but my moan, the shriek of the wild petrel all alone, and roar of waves exulting to make my flesh their own. billow with billow rages, tempest trod; strength fails me; coldness gathers on this clod; from the deep and troubled waters i cry to _thee_, my god! the return home. the favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, and our keel flies as fast as the shadow of clouds; the land is in sight, on the verge of the sky, and the ripple of waters flows pleasantly by,- and faintly stealing, booming, pealing, chime from the city the echoing bells; and louder, clearer, softer, nearer, ringing sweet welcome the melody swells; and it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past- we are home in the land of our fathers at last. how oft with a pleasure akin to a pain, in fancy we roam'd through thy pathways again, through the mead, through the lane, through the grove, through the corn, and heard the lark singing its hymn to the morn; and 'mid the wild wood, dear to childhood, gather'd the berries that grew by the way; but all our gladness died in sadness, fading like dreams in the dawning of day;- but we 're home! we are home! all our sorrows are past- we are home in the land of our fathers at last. we loved thee before, but we 'll cherish thee now with a deeper emotion than words can avow; wherever in absence our feet might delay, we had never a joy like the joy of to-day; and home returning, fondly yearning, faces of welcome seem crowding the shore- england! england! beautiful england! peace be around thee, and joy evermore! and it 's home! and it 's home! all our sorrows are past- we are home in the land of our fathers at last. the men of the north. fierce as its sunlight, the east may be proud of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud; mild as its breezes, the beautiful west may smile like the valleys that dimple its breast; the south may rejoice in the vine and the palm, in its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm: fair though they be, there 's an isle in the sea, the home of the brave and the boast of the free! hear it, ye lands! let the shout echo forth- the lords of the world are the men of the north! cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies, there 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes; dauntless and patient, to dare and to do- our watchword is "duty," our maxim is "through!" winter and storm only nerve us the more, and chill not the heart, if they creep through the door: strong shall we be in our isle of the sea, the home of the brave and the boast of the free! firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth, we 'll stand in our courage--the men of the north! sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine, in the face of the slave and the coward may shine; roses may blossom where freedom decays, and crime be a growth of the sun's brightest rays. scant though the harvest we reap from the soil, yet virtue and health are the children of toil: proud let us be of our isle of the sea, the home of the brave and the boast of the free! men with true hearts--let our fame echo forth- oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the north! the lover's dream of the wind. i dream'd thou wert a fairy harp untouch'd by mortal hand, and i the voiceless, sweet west wind, a roamer through the land. i touch'd, i kiss'd thy trembling strings, and lo! my common air, throbb'd with emotion caught from thee, and turn'd to music rare. i dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom, and i the gale of spring, that sought the odours of thy breath, and bore them on my wing. no poorer thou, but richer i- so rich, that far at sea, the grateful mariners were glad, and bless'd both thee and me. i dream'd thou wert the evening star, and i a lake at rest, that saw thine image all the night reflected on my breast. too far!--too far!--come dwell on earth! be harp and rose of may;- i need thy music in my heart, thy fragrance on my way. archibald crawford. archibald crawford, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit, was born at ayr in 1785. in his ninth year, left an orphan, he was placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in london. with no greater advantages than the somewhat limited school education then given to the sons of burgesses of small provincial towns, his ardent love of literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the works of the more distinguished british authors, as well as the best translations of the classics. at the expiry of eight years he returned to ayr, and soon after entered the employment of charles hay, esq., of edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. in honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shewn him much kindness during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of "bonnie mary hay," which, subsequently set to music by r. a. smith, has become extremely popular. he was afterwards in the employment of general hay of rannes, with whom he remained several years. at the close of that period he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the honourable east india company, which, however, he respectfully declined. in 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of the capital he had embarked in trade. he afterwards exchanged this business for that of auctioneer and general merchant. the literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up, and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite studies. with the exception of some fugitive pieces, he did not however seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem, entitled "st james's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. this composition intended to support the extreme political opinions then in vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the printer. to the columns of the _ayr and wigtonshire courier_ he now began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the west of scotland; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with the title, "tales of a grandmother," which was published by subscription. in the following year the tales, with some additions, were published, in two duodecimo volumes, by constable and co.; but the subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the profits of the sale. crawford, along with two literary coadjutors, next started a weekly serial at ayr, entitled _the correspondent_, but the publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. a similar periodical, under the designation of _the gaberlunzie_, appeared under his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. he latterly contributed articles in prose and verse to the _ayr advertiser_, a weekly newspaper published in that town. his death took place at ayr on the 6th january 1843, in his 58th year. much esteemed for his hearty, social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. his second son, mr william crawford, has attained distinction as an artist. bonnie mary hay. bonnie mary hay, i will lo'e thee yet, for thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet; the snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek; o! bonnie mary hay, i will lo'e thee yet. bonnie mary hay, will you gang wi' me, when the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree; to the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den, and i 'll tell you, mary, how i lo'e you then? bonnie mary hay, it 's haliday to me, when thou art couthie, kind, and free; there 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky, my bonnie mary hay, when thou art nigh. bonnie mary hay, thou maunna say me nay, but come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae; but come to the bower, and i 'll tell you a' what 's true, how, mary, i can ne'er lo'e ane but you. scotland, i have no home but thee! scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains, are famous in story--the birth-place of song; thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest, well may thy pilgrims long for their home. trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, the grave of my fathers! the land of the free! joy to the rising race! heaven send them ev'ry grace; scotland, dear scotland, i have no home but thee! glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes to pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave; scotland, to thee i 'll twine, with all thy varied clime, for the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave. trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, the grave of my fathers! the land of the free! joy to the rising race! heaven send them ev'ry grace; scotland, dear scotland, i have no home but thee! george donald. george donald was born at glasgow on the 19th january 1800. his parents being in circumstances of indigence, he was sent to labour in a factory so early as his eighth year. a limited attendance at school he supplemented by devoting his intervals of toil to self-instruction. he began to contribute verses to the public journals in his eighteenth year, and soon after composed a series of poems, entitled "lays of the covenanters," which appeared in one of the glasgow newspapers. of extreme political opinions, he upheld his peculiar views in a series of satirical compositions both in prose and verse, which, by leading dissolute persons to seek his society, proved the commencement of a most unfortunate career. habits of irregularity were contracted; he ceased to engage in the duties of his calling: and leaving his wife and family of young children without any means of support, he became a reckless wanderer. he afterwards emigrated to the united states, but at the expiry of sixteen months re-appeared in glasgow. he now became steady; and joining the total abstinence society, advocated the cause of sobriety in a number of temperance songs. renouncing his pledge, he soon returned to his former habits. he proceeded to ireland, where he supported himself as a public reciter of popular scottish ballads. he contributed to the _banner of ulster_ a narrative of his experiences in america; and published at belfast, in a separate volume, his "lays of the covenanters," two abridged editions of which were subsequently printed and circulated in glasgow. returning to his native city, he was fortunate in receiving the kindly patronage of dr john smith of the _examiner_ newspaper, who paid him a stipulated salary as a contributor. after a period of illness, his death took place at the village of thornliebank, near glasgow, on the 7th december 1851. in "the songs for the nursery," an interesting little work published by mr david robertson of glasgow in 1846, ten pieces are from his pen. a poem which he composed in his latter years entitled "the progress of society, in five books," is still in ms. amidst all his failings donald maintained a sense of religion. evincing a sincere regret for the errors of his life, he died in christian hope. the spring time o' life. air--_"o wat ye wha i met yestreen?"_ the summer comes wi' rosy wreaths, and spreads the mead wi' fragrant flowers, while furthy autumn plenty breathes, and blessings in abundance showers. e'en winter, wi' its frost and snaw, brings meikle still the heart to cheer, but there's a season worth them a', and that's the spring-time o' the year. in spring the farmer ploughs the field that yet will wave wi' yellow corn, in spring the birdie bigs its bield in foggy bank or budding thorn; the burn and brae, the hill and dell, a song of hope are heard to sing, and summer, autumn, winter, tell, wi' joy or grief, the work o' spring. now, youth 's the spring-time o' your life, when seed is sown wi' care and toil, and hopes are high, and fears are rife, lest weeds should rise the braird to spoil. i 've sown the seed, my bairnies dear, by precept and example baith, and may the hand that guides us here preserve it frae the spoiler's skaith! but soon the time may come when you shall miss a mother's tender care, a sinfu' world to wander through, wi' a' its stormy strife to share; then mind my words, whare'er ye gang, let fortune smile or thrawart be, ne'er let the tempter lead ye wrang- if sae ye live, ye'll happy dee. the scarlet rose-bush. air--_"there grows a bonnie brier bush."_ come see my scarlet rose-bush my father gied to me, that's growing in our window-sill sae fresh and bonnilie; i wadna gie my rose-bush for a' the flowers i see, nor for a pouchfu' o' red gowd, sae dear it is to me. i set it in the best o' mould ta'en frae the moudie's hill, and covered a' the yird wi' moss i gather'd on the hill; i saw the blue-bell blooming, and the gowan wat wi' dew, but my heart was on my rose-bush set, i left them where they grew. i water 't ilka morning wi' meikle pride and care, and no a wither'd leaf i leave upon its branches fair; twa sprouts are rising frae the root, and four are on the stem, three rosebuds and six roses blawn- 'tis just a perfect gem! come, see my bonnie, blooming bush my father gied to me, wi' roses to the very top, and branches like a tree. it grows upon our window-sill, i watch it tentilie; o! i wadna gie my dear rose-bush for a' the flowers i see. henry glassford bell. henry glassford bell is the son of james bell, esq., advocate. his mother was the daughter of the rev. john hamilton, minister of cathcart. he was born at glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. having studied at the university of edinburgh, he passed advocate in 1832. prior to his commencing the study of law, he much devoted himself to literary pursuits. in 1828 he published, in "constable's miscellany," a "life of mary, queen of scots," in two volumes, of which work several editions have since appeared. about the same time he established the _edinburgh literary journal_, which he conducted for several years with much acceptance to the public. his other publications are, "my old portfolio," a volume of miscellaneous prose and verse, and "summer and winter hours," a volume of lyric poems and songs. both these works are out of print. mr bell has contributed to the principal periodicals, and associated with the leading literary men of his time. since 1839 he has resided in glasgow, holding the appointment of a sheriff-substitute of lanarkshire. my life is one long thought of thee. say wilt thou, leila, when alone, remember days of bliss gone by? wilt thou, beside thy native rhone, e'er for our distant streamlets sigh? beneath thy own glad sun and sky, ah! leila, wilt thou think of me? she blush'd, and murmur'd in reply, "my life is one long thought of thee." sweet girl! i would not have it so; my destiny must not be thine, for wildly as the wild waves flow, will pass this fleeting life of mine. "and let thy fate be weal or woe, my thoughts," she smiling said, "are free; and well the watchful angels know my life is one long thought of thee." then, leila, may thy thoughts and prayers be with me in my hour of need, when round me throng the cold world's cares, and all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed! "why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed? for full of joy thy years shall be; and mine shall share the blissful meed, for life is one long thought of thee." why is my spirit sad? why is my spirit sad? because 'tis parting, each succeeding year, with something that it used to hold more dear than aught that now remains; because the past, like a receding sail, flits into dimness, and the lonely gale o'er vacant waters reigns! why is my spirit sad? because no more within my soul there dwell thoughts fresh as flowers that fill the mountain dell with innocent delight; because i am aweary of the strife that with hot fever taints the springs of life, making the day seem night! why is my spirit sad? alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead, who loved with me of yore green paths to tread- the paths of young romance; ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies, nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes- the eden of their glance. why is my spirit sad? have not the beautiful been ta'en away- are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay- wither'd in root and stem? i see that others, in whose looks are lit the radiant joys of youth, are round me yet, but not--but not like them! i would not be less sad; my days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow the sheaf of care in sickly paleness now; the present is around me; would that the future were both come and gone, and that i lay where, 'neath a nameless stone, crush'd feelings could not wound me! geordie young. i 'll no walk by the kirk, mother, i 'll no walk by the manse; i aye meet wi' the minister, wha looks at me askance. what ails ye at the minister?- a douce and sober lad; i trow it is na every day that siclike can be had. i dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair, nor yet his pawkie face; i dinna like a preacher, mother, but in a preaching place. then ye 'll gang down by holylee- ye needna look sae scared- for wha kens but at holylee ye 'll aiblins meet the laird? i canna bide the laird, mother, he says sic things to me; ae half he says wi' wily words, and ae half wi' his e'e. awa! awa! ye glaikit thing! it 's a' that geordie young; the laird has no an e'e like him, nor the minister a tongue! he 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae, for nane but him ye care; but love can ne'er be lasting, bairn, that aye gangs cauld and bare. the faithfu' heart will aye, mother, put trust in ane above, and how can folks gang bare, mother, wrapp'd in the faulds o' love? weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn, and walk ye slow and sly; my certie! weel ye ken the gate that geordie young comes by! his plighted troth is mine, mother, and lang afore the spring i 'll loose my silken snood, mother, and wear the gowden ring. my fairy ellen. beautiful moon! wilt thou tell me where thou lovest most to be softly gleaming? is it on some rich bank of flowers where 'neath each blossom a fay lies dreaming? or is it on yonder silver lake where the fish in green and gold are sparkling? or is it among those ancient trees where the tremulous shadows move soft and darkling? oh, no! said the moon, with a playful smile, the best of my beams are for ever dwelling in the exquisite eyes, so deeply blue, and the eloquent glance of the fairy ellen. gentlest of zephyrs! pray tell me how thou lovest to spend a serene may morning, when dew-drops are twinkling on every bough, and violets wild each glade adorning? is it in kissing the glittering stream, o'er its pebbly channel so gaily rippling? is it in sipping the nectar that lies in the bells of the flowers--an innocent tippling? oh no! said the zephyr, and softly sigh'd, his voice with a musical melody swelling, all the mornings of may 'mong the ringlets i play that dance on the brow of the fairy ellen. white little lily! pray tell me when thy happiest moments the fates allow thee? thou seemest a favourite with bees and men, and all the boys and butterflies know thee; is it at dawn or at sunset hour that pleasantest fancies are o'er thee stealing? one would think thee a poet, to judge by thy looks, or at least a pale-faced man of feeling? oh no! said the lily, and slightly blush'd, my highest ambition 's to be sweet smelling, to live in the sight, and to die on the breast of the fairest of beings, the fairy ellen. oh! would that i were the moon myself, or a balmy zephyr, fresh fragrance breathing; or a white-crown'd lily, my slight green stem slily around that dear neck wreathing! worlds would i give to bask in those eyes, stars, if i had them, for one of those tresses, my heart and my soul, and my body to boot, for merely the smallest of all her kisses! and if she would love me, oh heaven and earth! i would not be jove, the cloud-compelling, though he offer'd me juno and venus both in exchange for one smile of my fairy ellen! a bachelor's complaint. they 're stepping off, the friends i knew, they 're going one by one; they 're taking wives to tame their lives, their jovial days are done; i can't get one old crony now to join me in a spree; they've all grown grave, domestic men, they look askance on me. i hate to see them sober'd down, the merry boys and true, i hate to hear them sneering now at pictures fancy drew; i care not for their married cheer, their puddings and their soups, and middle-aged relations round, in formidable groups. and though their wife perchance may have a comely sort of face, and at the table's upper end conduct herself with grace, i hate the prim reserve that reigns, the caution and the state, i hate to see my friend grow vain of furniture and plate. oh, give me back the days again, when we have wander'd free, and stole the dew from every flower, the fruit from every tree; the friends i loved they will not come, they've all deserted me; they sit at home and toast their toes, look stupid and sip tea. alas! alas! for years gone by, and for the friends i've lost; when no warm feeling of the heart was chill'd by early frost. if these be hymen's vaunted joys, i'd have him shun my door, unless he quench his torch, and live henceforth a bachelor. william bennet. william bennet was born on the 29th september, 1802, in the parish of glencairn, and county of dumfries. he first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. in his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connexion with the newspaper press. he became a regular contributor to the _dumfries courier_, edited by the ingenious john m'diarmid; and in 1825 and the following year conducted the _dumfries magazine_, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. in december 1826, he became editor of the _glasgow free press_, which supported the liberal cause during the whole of the reform bill struggle. along with sir daniel sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the whig party, and established the _glasgow constitutional_, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. in 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, "bennet's glasgow magazine." continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, "songs of solitude." his other separate works are, "pictures of scottish scenes and character," in three volumes; "sketches of the isle of man;" and "the chief of glen-orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of highland manners and mythology in the middle ages. mr bennet, subsequent to leaving glasgow, resided successively in ireland, and london. he afterwards lived several years in galloway, and has latterly fixed his abode at greenmount, near burntisland. he is understood to be engaged in a new translation of the scriptures. blest be the hour of night. blest be the hour of night, when, his toils over, the swain, with a heart so light, meets with his lover! sweet the moon gilds their path, arm in arm straying; clouds never rise in wrath, chiding their staying. gently they whisper low: unseen beside them, good angels watch, that no ill may betide them. silence is everywhere, save when the sighing is heard, of the breeze's fall, fitfully dying. how the maid's bosom glows, while her swain 's telling the love, that 's been long, she knows, in his heart swelling! how, when his arms are thrown tenderly round her, fears she, in words to own what he hath found her! when the first peep of dawn warns them of parting, and from each dewy lawn blythe birds are starting, fondly she hears her swain vow, though they sever, soon they shall meet again, mated for ever. the rose of beauty. amang the breezy heights and howes where winds the milk[6] sae clearly, a rose o' beauty sweetly grows, a rose i lo'e most dearly. wi' spring's saft rain and simmer's sun how blooms my rose divinely! and lang ere blaws the winter wun', this breast shall nurse it kin'ly. may heaven's dew aye freshly weet my rose at ilka gloamin', and oh, may nae unhallow'd feet be near it ever roamin'! i soon shall buy a snug wee cot, and hae my rose brought thither; and then, in that lowne sunny spot, we'll bloom and fade thegither. footnotes: [6] a beautiful sylvan stream, falling from the uplands into the annan, between ecclefechan and lockerbie. i 'll think on thee, love. i 'll think on thee, love, when thy bark hath borne thee far across the deep; and, as the sky is bright or dark, 'twill be my fate to smile or weep; for oh, when winds and waters keep in trust so dear a charge as thee, my anxious fears can never sleep till thou again art safe with me! i 'll think on thee, love, when each hour of twilight comes, with pensive mood, and silence, like a spell of power, rests, in its depth, on field and wood; and as the mingling shadows brood still closer o'er the lonely sea, here, on the beach where first we woo'd, i 'll pour to heaven my prayers for thee. then haply on the breeze's wing, that to me steals across the wave, some angel's voice may answer bring that list'ning heaven consents to save. and oh, the further boon i crave perchance may also granted be, that thou, return'd, no more shalt brave the wanderer's perils on the sea! there 's music in a mother's voice. there 's music in a mother's voice, more sweet than breezes sighing; there 's kindness in a mother's glance, too pure for ever dying. there 's love within a mother's breast, so deep, 'tis still o'erflowing, and for her own a tender care, that 's ever, ever growing. and when a mother kneels to heaven, and for her child is praying, oh, who shall half the fervour tell that burns in all she 's saying! a mother, when she, like a star, sets into heaven before us, from that bright home of love, all pure, still minds and watches o'er us. the brig of allan. come, memory, paint, though far away, the wimpling stream, the broomy brae, the upland wood, the hill-top gray, whereon the sky seems fallin'; paint me each cheery, glist'ning row of shelter'd cots, the woods below, where airthrie's healing waters flow by bonny brig of allan. paint yonder grampian heights sublime, the roman eagles could not climb, and stirling, crown'd in after time with royalty's proud dwallin'; these, with the ochils, sentry keep, where forth, that fain in view would sleep, tries, from his links, oft back to peep at bonny brig of allan. oh, lovely, when the rising sun greets stirling towers, so steep and dun, and silver forth's calm breast upon the golden beams are fallin'! then, trotting down to join his flood, through rocky steeps, besprent with wood, how bright, in morning's joyous mood, appears the stream of allan! upon its banks how sweet to stray, with rod and line, the livelong day, or trace each rural charm, away from cark of every callin'! there dove-like, o'er my path would brood the spirit pure of solitude; for native each rapt, genial mood is to the beauteous allan. oh, witching as its scenes, and bright as is its cloudless summer light, be still its maids, the soul's delight of every truthful callan'! be health around it ever spread, to light the eye, to lift the head, and joy on every heart be shed that beats by brig of allan! george outram. the author of "legal lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed for private circulation, george outram, was born in the vicinity of glasgow in 1805. his father, a native of england, was partner and manager in the clyde iron works. in 1827 he was called to the scottish bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. to the character of an orator he made no pretensions, but he evinced great ability as a chamber counsel. he accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the _glasgow herald_, and continued the principal conductor of this journal till the period of his death. he died at rosemore, on the shores of the holy loch, on the 16th september 1856, in his fifty-first year. his remains were interred in warriston cemetery, edinburgh. of most retiring disposition, mr outram confined his intercourse to a limited circle of friends, by whom he was esteemed for his genial worth and interesting conversation. by the late lord cockburn he was especially beloved. he has left in ms. several interesting songs, which are likely to be published by his executors. his cousin-german, general sir james outram, is well known for his military services in india. charge on a bond of annuity.[7] air--_"duncan davidson."_ i gaed to spend a week in fife, an unco week it proved to be, for there i met a waesome wife, lamenting her viduity. her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell, i thought her heart wad burst the shell; and, i was sae left to mysel, i sell't her an annuity. the bargain lookit fair eneugh, she just was turned o' saxty-three; i couldna guess'd she 'd prove sae teugh by human ingenuity. but years have come, and years have gane, and there she 's yet as stieve 's a stane; the auld wife 's growing young again since she got her annuity. she 's crined awa to bane an' skin, but that it seems is nought to me; she 's like to live, although she 's in the last stage o' tenuity. she munches wi' her wizen'd gums, an' stumps about on legs o' thrums, but comes--as sure as christmas comes- to ca' for her annuity. she jokes her joke, an' cracks her crack, as spunkie as a growin' flea; an' there she sits upon my back a livin' perpetuity. she hurkles by her ingle side, an' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide; lord kens how lang she yet may bide to ca' for her annuity. i read the tables drawn wi' care for an insurance company; her chance o' life was stated there wi' perfect perspicuity. but tables here, or tables there, she 's lived ten years beyond her share; an 's like to live a dozen mair to ca' for her annuity. i gat the loon that drew the deed, we spell'd it ower richt carefully; in vain he yerk'd his souple head to find an ambiguity. it 's dated, tested, a' complete; the proper stamp, nae word delete; and diligence, as on decreet, may pass for her annuity. * * * * * i thought that grief might gar her quit, her only son was lost at sea; but aff her wits behuved to flit an' leave her in fatuity. she threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet for a' the tellin' she can get; but catch the doited wife forget to ca' for her annuity. if there 's a sough o' cholera or typhus, wha sae gleg as she! she buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', in siccan superfluity! she doesna need--she's fever proof- the pest walked o'er her very roof; she tauld me sae, and then her loof held out for her annuity. ae day she fell, her arm she brak, a compound fracture as could be; nae leech the cure wad undertak, whate'er was the gratuity. it 's cured! she handles 't like a flail, it does as weel in bits as hale; but i 'm a broken man mysel' wi' her and her annuity. her broozled flesh and broken banes are weel as flesh and banes can be, she beats the taeds that live in stanes an' fatten in vacuity! they die when they 're exposed to air, they canna thole the atmosphere; but her! expose her onywhere, she lives for her annuity. * * * * * the water-drap wears out the rock as this eternal jade wears me; i could withstand the single shock, but not the continuity. it 's pay me here, an' pay me there, an' pay me, pay me evermair; i 'll gang demented wi' despair; i 'm _charged_ for her annuity. footnotes: [7] this facetious composition, in the original form, extends to considerably greater length. henry inglis. henry inglis is the son of william inglis, esq. of glaspin, w.s., and was born in edinburgh on the 6th november 1806. his early years were spent at middleton, his father's residence in linlithgowshire. completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the high school of edinburgh, he entered the university of that city. at the close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted himself to legal pursuits, and became a writer to the signet. in 1851 he published "marican, and other poems," in one volume octavo. another poetical work, entitled "the briar of threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. mr inglis is at present engaged with pieces illustrative of the history of the covenant, which may afterwards be offered to the public. the representative of the old border family of inglis of branxholme, mr inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated colonel gardiner, who fell on the field of preston in 1745. weep away. weep away, heart, weep away! let no muleteer be afraid to weep; for a brave heart may lament for a dear, fickle maid. the lofty sky weeps in cloud, the earth weeps in dews from its core; the diamond brooks weep aloud, the flowers change the hues which they wore. the grass mourns in the sunbeam, in gums weep the trees and in dye; and if mourn meadow and stream- inanimate these- may not i? the wood-pigeon mourns his mate, the caged birds bewail freedom gone; shall not man mourn over fate? dumb sorrow assail him alone? then weep on, heart, weep away! let no muleteer be afraid to weep; for a brave heart may lament for a dear, fickle maid. james manson. james manson, one of the conductors of the _glasgow herald_, has composed a number of lyrics, some of which have been set to music. mr manson was born in the parish of kilwinning, ayrshire, about the year 1812. he was bred to a laborious handicraft occupation, at which he wrought industriously during a course of years. ocean. _set to music by h. lambeth._ on shore--calm. summer ocean, placid ocean, soft and sweet thy lullaby; shadows lightly, sunbeams brightly, flicker o'er thee noiselessly. resting gently on thy bosom, snowy sea-gulls preen thy wings, while perfumed sighs, from many a blossom, float around the strain the skylark sings. love's emotion, summer ocean, like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies, glances brightly, dances lightly till the fond illusion flies. at sea--storm. winter ocean, furious ocean, fierce and loud thy choral lay: storm-clouds soaring, whirlwinds roaring o'er thy breast in madness play. homeless petrels shriek their omen harshly 'mid thy billows' roar; fleshless bones of shipwreck'd seamen dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore. war's commotion, winter ocean, like thyself, when tempest driven, by passion hurl'd, would wreck the world, and mock the wrath-scowling heaven. the hunter's daughter. _set to music by herr kã¼cken._ when loud the horn is sounding along the distant hills, then would i rove, ne'er weary, the hunter's daughter near me, by flowery margin'd rills. 'mid stately pines embosom'd there stands the hunter's cot, from which this maiden daily at morning peeps so gaily, contented with her lot. this hunter and his daughter make everything their prey; he slays the wild roe bounding, her eyes young hearts are wounding- no shafts so sure as they! an invitation. _music arranged by julius siligmann._ the skylark sings his matin lay, the waking flowers at dawning day, with perfumed breath, sigh, come! come! come! oh, haste, love, come with me, to the wild wood come with me. hark, the wing'd warblers singing, come with me; beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging, wait for thee! the sunlight sleeps upon the lea, and sparkles o'er the murmuring sea, the wanton wind sighs, come! come! come! oh, haste, love, come with me, to the wild wood come with me- come and gather luscious berries, come with me; clustering grapes and melting cherries wait for thee! my bird of love, my beauteous flower, come, reign the queen of yonder bower, 'tis true-love whispers, come! come! come! oh, haste, then, come with me, to the wild wood come with me. life's first fairest hours are fleeting- come with me; hope, and joy, and love's fond greeting wait for thee! cupid and the rose-bud. _set to music by h. lambeth._ young love once woo'd a budding rose, (_sing hey down ho, the bleak winds blow._) with fond delight his bosom glows, (_how softly fall the flakes of snow._) love watch'd the flower whose ruby tips peep'd coyly forth, like pouting lips, then nearer to the rose he trips; (_the stately oak will soon lie low._) young love was fond and bashful too, (_sing hey down ho, the sea rolls aye._) he sigh'd and knew not what to do; (_life like an arrow flies away._) then whispering low his cherish'd wish, the rose-bud trembled on her bush, while redder grew her maiden blush; (_ruddy eve forecasts the brightest day._) to pull this rose young love then tried; (_'tis sweet to hear the skylark sing._) her blush of hope she strove to hide; (_joy soars aloft on painted wing._) love press'd the rose-bud to his breast, he felt the thorn, but well he guess'd such "nay" meant "yea," 'twas fond love's jest; (_'tis honey soothes the bee's fell sting._) robin goodheart's carol. tune--_"the brave old oak."_ 'tis yule! 'tis yule! all eyes are bright, and joyous songs abound; our log burns high, but it glows less bright than the eyes which sparkle round. the merry laugh, and the jocund tale, and the kiss 'neath the mistletoe, make care fly as fast as the blustering gale that wreaths the new fallen snow. 'tis yule! 'tis yule! all eyes are bright, and joyous thoughts abound; the log burns high, but it glows less bright than the eyes which sparkle round. 'tis yule! 'tis yule! see the old grandsire forgets his weight of years; he laughs with the young, and a fitful fire beams through his unbidden tears. with tremulous tenor he joins the strain- the song of his manhood's prime; for his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again, while his aged head nods time. 'tis yule! 'tis yule! &c. 'tis yule! 'tis yule! and the infant's heart beats high with a new delight, and youths and maidens, with guileless art, make merry the livelong night. the time flies on with gladsome cheer, and welcomes pass around- 'tis the warmest night of all the year, though winter hath chain'd the ground. 'tis yule! 'tis yule! &c. james hedderwick. james hedderwick, proprietor and editor of the _glasgow citizen_, was born at glasgow on the 18th january 1814. his father, who bore the same christian name, was latterly queen's printer in that city. at an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. his tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodicals. in his sixteenth year he spent some time in london, in the course of which he attended the rhetoric class of the london university, and carried off the first prize. when little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the _scotsman_ newspaper. he now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the _scotsman_, were copied into _chambers' edinburgh journal_, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. one of these, entitled "first grief," was lately quoted in terms of approbation by a writer in _fraser's magazine_. others have found their way, in an anonymous shape, into a london publication entitled "beautiful poetry." in 1842 mr hedderwick returned to his native city, and started the _glasgow citizen_--a weekly newspaper which continues to maintain an honourable position. previous to leaving edinburgh he was entertained at a public dinner, attended by men of letters and other leading individuals. the drudgery of newspaper life has left mr hedderwick little leisure for contributions to polite literature. while in edinburgh, however, he wrote one number of "wilson's tales of the border," and has since contributed occasionally to other works. in 1844 he published a small collection of poems, but in too costly a form for general circulation. my bark at sea. away, away, like a child at play, like a living ocean-child, through the feathery spray she cleaves her way to the billows' music wild; the sea is her wide-spread pleasure ground, and the waves around her leap, as with joyous bound, to their mystic sound, she dances o'er the deep! sometimes at rest, on the water's breast, she lies with folded wing, but now, wind-chased and wave-caress'd, she moves a joyous thing! and away she flies all gleaming bright, while a wave in lofty pride, like a gallant knight, in plumage white, is bounding by her side! for her glorious path the sea she hath, and she wanders bold and free, and the tempest's breath and the billows' wrath are her mighty minstrelsy! a queen the crested waves among, a light and graceful form, she sweeps along, to the wild-winds' song, like the genius of the storm! sorrow and song. weep not over poet's wrong, mourn not his mischances; sorrow is the source of song, and of gentle fancies. rills o'er rocky beds are borne ere they gush in whiteness; pebbles are wave-chafed and worn ere they shew their brightness. sweetest gleam the morning flowers when in tears they waken; earth enjoys refreshing showers when the boughs are shaken. ceylon's glistening pearls are sought in its deepest waters; from the darkest mines are brought gems for beauty's daughters. through the rent and shiver'd rock limpid water breaketh; 'tis but when the chords are struck that their music waketh. flowers, by heedless footstep press'd, all their sweets surrender; gold must brook the fiery test ere it shew its splendour. when the twilight, cold and damp, gloom and silence bringeth, then the glow-worm lights its lamp, and the night-bird singeth. stars come forth when night her shroud draws as daylight fainteth; only on the tearful cloud god his rainbow painteth. weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, mourn not his mischances; sorrow is the source of song and of gentle fancies. the land for me. i 've been upon the moonlit deep when the wind had died away, and like an ocean-god asleep the bark majestic lay; but lovelier is the varied scene, the hill, the lake, the tree, when bathed in light of midnight's queen; the land! the land! for me. the glancing waves i 've glided o'er when gently blew the breeze; but sweeter was the distant shore, the zephyr 'mong the trees. the murmur of the mountain rill, the blossoms waving free, the song of birds on every hill; the land! the land! for me. the billows i have been among when they roll'd in mountains dark, and night her blackest curtain hung around our heaving bark; but give me, when the storm is fierce, my home and fireside glee, where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; the land! the land! for me. and when around the lightning flash'd i 've been upon the deep, and to the gulf beneath i 've dash'd adown the liquid steep; but now that i am safe on shore, there let me ever be; the sea let others wander o'er; the land! the land! for me. the emigrants. the daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, and eerie the face of the fast-falling night, but closing the shutters, we made ourselves cheery with gas-light and fire-light, and young faces bright. when, hark! came a chorus of wailing and anguish! we ran to the door and look'd out through the dark; till gazing, at length we began to distinguish the slow-moving masts of an ocean-bound bark. alas! 'twas the emigrants leaving the river, their homes in the city, their haunts in the dell; from kindred and friends they had parted for ever, but their voices still blended in cries of farewell. we saw not the eyes that their last looks were taking; we heard but the shouts that were meant to be cheers, but which told of the aching of hearts that were breaking, a past of delight and a future of tears. and long as we listen'd, in lulls of the night breeze, on our ears the sad shouting in faint music fell, till methought it seem'd lost in the roll of the white seas, and the rocks and the winds only echoed farewell. more bright was our home-hearth, more bright and more cosy, as we shut out the night and its darkness once more; but pale were the cheeks, that so radiant and rosy, were flush'd with delight a few moments before. so i told how the morning, all lovely and tender, sweet dew on the hills, and soft light on the sea, would follow the exiles and float with its splendour, to gild the far land where their homes were to be. in the eyes of my children were gladness and gleaming, their little prayer utter'd, how calm was their sleep! but i in my dreaming could hear the wind screaming, and fancy i heard hoarse replies from the deep. and often, when slumber had cool'd my brow's fever, a dream-utter'd shriek of despair broke the spell; 'twas the voice of the emigrants leaving the river, and startling the night with their cries of farewell. first grief. they tell me first and early love outlives all after dreams; but the memory of a first great grief to me more lasting seems; the grief that marks our dawning youth to memory ever clings, and o'er the path of future years a lengthen'd shadow flings. oh, oft my mind recalls the hour when to my father's home death came--an uninvited guest- from his dwelling in the tomb! i had not seen his face before, i shudder'd at the sight, and i shudder still to think upon the anguish of that night! a youthful brow and ruddy cheek became all cold and wan; an eye grew dim in which the light of radiant fancy shone. cold was the cheek, and cold the brow, the eye was fix'd and dim; and one there mourn'd a brother dead who would have died for him! i know not if 'twas summer then, i know not if 'twas spring, but if the birds sang on the trees i did not hear them sing! if flowers came forth to deck the earth their bloom i did not see; i look'd upon one wither'd flower, and none else bloom'd for me! a sad and silent time it was within that house of woe, all eyes were dull and overcast, and every voice was low! and from each cheek at intervals the blood appear'd to start, as if recall'd in sudden haste to aid the sinking heart! softly we trod, as if afraid to mar the sleeper's sleep, and stole last looks of his pale face for memory to keep! with him the agony was o'er, and now the pain was ours, as thoughts of his sweet childhood rose like odour from dead flowers! and when at last he was borne afar from the world's weary strife, how oft in thought did we again live o'er his little life! his every look--his every word- his very voice's tone- came back to us like things whose worth is only prized when gone! the grief has pass'd with years away and joy has been my lot; but the one is oft remember'd, and the other soon forgot. the gayest hours trip lightest by, and leave the faintest trace; but the deep, deep track that sorrow wears time never can efface! the linnet. tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves; ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat; how the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, while from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, and the summer in the heavens is afloat! wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings; weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills! in his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, as over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, giving gladness to the music of the rills! ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound; lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day! there is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, and the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay! jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme! peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while? does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, to soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, or waiting for her lover at the stile? pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary? bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows? the maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, with her little household nestled 'mong the boughs! william brockie. william brockie was born in the parish of smailholm, roxburghshire. he entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, entitled _the galashiels weekly journal_. he subsequently edited _the border watch_, a newspaper originated at kelso on behalf of the free church. this concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at prestonkirk, east lothian, the editorship of the _shields gazette_. compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, mr brockie has latterly established a private academy at south shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "history of south shields," and a poem, entitled, "the dusk and the dawn." ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair. what ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain? i 've gien ye my word, and i 'll gie ye 't again. there 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie; i 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane. we 're sune to be married--i needna say mair; our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare; in a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain, an' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair. we needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung; the warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young; an' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind- sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung. folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share, but we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair; sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part, an' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair. while we live for each other, our lot will be blest; an' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd; we 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien, an' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd. a couple that strive to be honest and fair may be rich without siller, and guid without lear; be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue, nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair. alexander m'lachlan. alexander m'lachlan, author of the following song was born at pinshall, in the parish of st ninians, stirlingshire. he has resided, since 1825, at muirside in the vicinity of his native place. the lang winter e'en. sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair; the ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare; to the cot wee robin returns for a screen frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en. but charms there are still, though nature has nane, when the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane, then round the fireside social hearts do convene, and pleasantly pass the lang winter e'en. o' warldly wealth i hae got little share, yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care; just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien', to crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en. the thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear, like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear, but chiefly the bliss i ha'e shared wi' my jean in some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en. thomas young. the author of "the four pilgrims, or, life's mission; and other poems," a volume of respectable poetry, published at dundee in 1849, thomas young, was born at tulliebeltane, in the parish of auchtergaven, perthshire, in 1815. receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the _dundee advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. he now proceeded to new york, where he remained about eighteen months. disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than rio de janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of â£300. the climate of rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to australia, where he readily found occupation at mount alexander. he has been successful at the gold diggings. antoinette; or, the falls. by niagara's flood antoinette stood, and watch'd the wild waves rush on, as they leapt below into vapoury snow, or fell into flakes of foam. the sun's last beams fell in golden gleams on water and wave-girt isle, and in tinge all fair dipp'd the girl's bright hair and heighten'd her happy smile. away--away! in wild ecstasy she threads the abyss's brink, where waters--black- of the cataract into drifted snow-waves sink. a father's eye looketh anxiously on the freaks of his favour'd child, till her spirit appals his soul, and he calls "antoinette" in accents wild. a bolder heart loves the girl's free sport, and he grasps her by the gown, then tosseth her high in the twilight sky- but, heavens! she falleth down! she sinks in the wave; he swimmeth to save! oh, never was mortal arm more manfully braced, as it grasps her slim waist, and struggles in frantic alarm! in vain does he strike- the fresh waves break, and the doom'd ones are downward borne! yet the swimmer's eye seemeth still to defy the might of the merciless storm. more loud than before is the cataract's roar, and the furrow'd wave is bright with many a pearl from the shining swirl of the water's lucid light. and down below is the woolly snow of niagara's wrathful bed, but the lip of the bold hath never told the secrets that there lie hid. a strong arm, press'd round a maiden's waist on the doleful morrow is seen, and her oozy hair laves his forehead bare with the waft of the wavy stream. robert wilson. robert wilson was born in the parish of carnbee, and county of fife. he practised for some time as a surgeon in st andrews. he has contributed many pieces of descriptive verse to the periodicals. in 1856, a duodecimo volume of "poems" from his pen was published at boston, u.s. his other publications are a small volume on "the social condition of france," "lectures on the game laws," and several _brochures_ on subjects of a socio-political nature. he has latterly resided at aberdour, fifeshire. away, away, my gallant bark. away, away, my gallant bark! the waves are white and high; and fast the long becalmã¨d clouds are sailing in the sky. the merry breeze which wafts them on, and chafes the billow's spray, will urge thee in thy watery flight: my gallant bark, away! now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes, are spread thy wingã¨d sails, to soar above the mountain waves, and scoop their glassy vales; and, like the bird, thou 'lt calmly rest, thy azure journey o'er, the shadow of thy folded wings upon the sunny shore. away, away, my gallant bark! across the billow's foam; i leave awhile, for ocean's strife, the quiet haunts of home; the green fields of my fatherland for many a stormy bay; the blazing hearth for beacon-light: my gallant bark, away! love. what fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart! resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart, pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core, that thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before. and o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extending far and wide, through passion's troubled realm does love with angel sway preside; and smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year, and whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near. with promises of fairyland this daylight world teems, and sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams; and there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh, and, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye. and hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new; but if the favour'd one prove false, oh! who can then be true? our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train, and we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again. edward polin. a writer of prose and poetry, edward polin was born at paisley on the 29th december 1816. he originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native town. fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals. he subsequently became sub-editor of the _edinburgh weekly chronicle_. in 1843 he accepted the editorship of the _newcastle courant_--a situation which, proving unsuitable, he retained only a few months. resolved to adventure on the literary field of london, he sailed from newcastle in august 1843. the vessel being at anchor off yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. he had left the vessel only a few yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. one of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. this closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d august 1843, when the poet had attained only his 27th year. his remains were interred in st george's churchyard, cripplegate, london. a young man of no inconsiderable genius, polin afforded indication of speedily attaining a literary reputation. by those to whom he was intimately known his premature death was deeply lamented. many of his ms. compositions are in the hands of friends, who may yet give them to the world. a good old song. i have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, and have revell'd amid their flowers; i have lived in the light of italian eyes, and dream'd in italian bowers, while the wondrous strains of their sunny clime have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, but, oh, how i longed for the song and the time when my heart could respond with its tears. then sing me a song, a good old song- not the foreign, the learn'd, the grand- but a simple song, a good old song of my own dear fatherland. i have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay all, all they would have me adore of that music divine that, enraptured, they say can be equall'd on earth never more. and it may be their numbers indeed are divine, though they move not my heart through mine ears, but a ballad old of the dear "langsyne" can alone claim my tribute of tears. i have come from a far and a foreign clime to mine own loved haunts once more, with a yearning for all of my childhood's time and the dear home-sounds of yore; and here, if there yet be love for me, oh, away with those stranger lays, and now let my only welcome be an old song of my boyhood's days. alexander buchanan. alexander buchanan was the son of a maltster at bucklyvie, stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. he attended a school in glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. in his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. for a period he carried on business as a draper in cowcaddens, glasgow. retiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of govan. his death took place on the 8th february 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small glasgow publication, entitled, "lays of st mungo." numerous poems from his pen remain in ms. in the possession of his widow, who continues to reside at govan. i wander'd alane. air--_"lucy's flittin'."_ i wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', the dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa'; the sun rose in glory, the gray hills adornin', a' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw; adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded kelvin, while nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, an' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', kennin' thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en. i leant me against an auld mossy-clad palin', an' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my e'e, i look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin'- though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me; i thought on my riches, yet feckless the treasure, i tried to forget, but the labour was vain; my wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, an' they to the grave baith thegither had gane. the thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sorrow, the laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, an', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, it open'd anew the saft channel o' tears. i grat an' i sabb'd till i thocht life wad lea' me, an' happy i then could hae parted wi' life- for naething on earth sic enjoyment could gie me as the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife. oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, leavin' me lane, the last leaf on the tree; nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gie me- i 'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me. i wander me aften to break melancholy, on ilk thing that 's leevin' the maxim i see, not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly; sae, burden'd wi' grief, i maun gang till i die. katie blair.[8] i 've met wi' mony maidens fair in kintras far awa, i 've met wi' mony here at hame, baith bonny dames an' braw; but nane e'er had the power to charm my love into a snare till ance i saw the witchin' e'e an' smile o' katie blair. she wons by kelvin's bonnie banks, whar' thick the greenwoods grow, whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves while merrily they row. they drouk the lily an' the rose, an' mony flowerets fair, yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet as winsome katie blair. she is a queen owre a' the flowers o' garden an' o' lea- her ae sweet smile mair cheering is than a' their balms to me. as licht to morn she's a' to me, my bosom's only care; an' worthy o' the truest love is winsome katie blair. footnotes: [8] printed from the author's ms. david taylor. david taylor was born, in april 1817, in the parish of dollar, and county of clackmannan. in early life his parents, having removed to the village of st ninians, near stirling, he was there apprenticed to a tartan manufacturer. he has continued to reside at st ninians, and has been chiefly employed as a tartan weaver. he has written numerous poems and lyrics, and composed music to some of the more popular songs. latterly he has occupied himself as a teacher of vocal music. my ain gudeman. o dear, dear to me is my ain gudeman, for kindly, frank, an' free is my ain gudeman. an' though thretty years ha'e fled, an' five sin' we were wed, nae bitter words i 've had wi' my ain gudeman. i 've had seven bonnie bairns to my ain gudeman, an' i 've nursed them i' their turns for my ain gudeman; an' ane did early dee, but the lave frae skaith are free, an' a blessin' they 're to me an' my ain gudeman. i cheerie clamb the hill wi' my ain gudeman; an', if it 's heaven's will, wi' my ain gudeman, in life's calm afternoon, i wad toddle cannie doun, syne at the foot sleep soun' wi' my ain gudeman. robert cathcart. robert cathcart was born in 1817, and follows the occupation of a weaver in paisley. besides a number of fugitive pieces of some merit, he published, in 1842, a small collection of verses entitled, "the early blossom." mary sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom, spreadin' owre the lea, mary; sweeter far thy love in bloom, whilk blaws alane for me, mary. when the woods in silence sleep, and is hid in dusk the steep, when the flowers in sorrow weep i 'll sigh and smile wi' thee, mary. when love plays in rosy beams roun' the hawthorn-tree, mary, then thine e'e a language gleams whilk tells o' love for me, mary. when thy sigh blends wi' my smile, silence reigns o'er us the while, then my heart, 'mid flutt'ring toil, tells thy love's bloom'd for me, mary. when our hands are join'd in love, ne'er to part again, mary, till death ance mair his arrows prove and tak us for his ain, mary; then our joys are crown'd wi' bliss! in a hallow'd hour like this, we in rapture join to kiss and taste o' heaven again, mary. william jamie. william jamie was born on the 25th december 1818, in the parish of marykirk, kincardineshire. he received his education at the parish school of maryculter, aberdeenshire, whither his father removed during his boyhood. after working for some time with his father as a blacksmith, he engaged for several years in the work of tuition. from early manhood a writer of verses, he published, in 1844, at laurencekirk, a small volume of poems, entitled, "the muse of the mearns," which passed through two editions. of his various subsequent publications may be enumerated, "the emigrant's family, and other poems;" "the musings of a wanderer," and a prose tale, entitled, "the jacobite's son." since 1851 he has resided at pollockshaws, in the vicinity of glasgow. on the sale of his poetical works he is wholly dependent for subsistence. auld scotia's sangs. although the lays o' ither lands ha'e mony an artfu' air, they want the stirrin' melody an auld man lo'es to hear. auld scotia's sangs hae winnin' charms which maks the bosom fain; and to her sons, that 's far awa', wi' thochts o' hame again. sweet bygane scenes, and native charms, they fondly bring to min' the trystin'-tree and bonny lass, wi a' love's dreams langsyne. oh! lilt me owre some tender strain, for weel i lo'e to hear- be 't bonny "broom o' cowdenknowes," and "bush aboon traquair." or "banks and braes o' bonny doon," whaur robin tuned his lyre; and "roslin castle's" ruined wa's- oh! sing, and i'll admire! for i hae heard auld scotia's sangs sung owre and owre wi' glee; and the mair i hear their artless strains they dearer grow to me. enchanting strains again they bring, fond memory glints alang to humble bards wha woke the lyre, and wove the patriot's sang. oh! leeze me on our ain auld sangs, the sangs o' youth and glee; they tell o' bruce and glorious deeds, which made our country free. john crawford. a poet possessing, in an eminent degree, the lyrical simplicity and power of the bard of coila, john crawford was, in the year 1816, born at greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of burns' "highland mary," his mother's cousin. with only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of alloa. of strong native genius, he early made himself acquainted with general literature, while he has sought recreation in the composition of verses. in 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, "doric lays; being snatches of song and ballad." this little work was much commended by lord jeffrey, and received the strong approbation of the late amiable miss mitford. "there is," wrote the latter to a correspondent, "an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of burns.... this is the true thing--a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. will you tell mr crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?" crawford is an occasional contributor to the public journals. he is at present preparing an historical and descriptive work, to be entitled, "memorials of the town and parish of alloa." the following poetical epistle in tribute to his genius is from the pen of mr scott riddell. the days, when write wad minstrel men to ane anither thus, are gone, and days ha'e come upon us when bards praise nae anthems but their own: but i will love the fashion old while breath frae heaven this breast can draw, and joy when i my tale have told anent the bard of alloa. thou, crawford, sung hast mony a lay. far mair through nature's power than art's, pouring them frae thine ain, that they might reach and gladden other hearts; therefore our hearts shall honour thee, and say't alike in cot and ha'- sublime thro' pure simplicity is he--the bard of alloa. though far o'er earth these lays shall roam, and make to mankind their appeal; 'tis not because they 'll lack a home, while scottish hearts, as wont, can feel: the swains shall sing them on the hill, the maidens in the greenwood-shaw, and mothers bless, wi' warm guid-will, the gifted bard of alloa. e'en weans, wi' their shauchled shoon, and clouted hose, and pinafores, will lilt, methinks, these lays, sae soon as they can staucher 'boot the doors: sae shall they sing anent themsells to nature true, as its ain law; for minstrel nane on earth excels in this the bard of alloa. fresh as the moorland's early dews, and glowing as the woodland rose, of hearts, his thought gives forth the hues, as richly bright as heaven's ain bow 's- with me, my native land, rejoice, and let the bard thy bosom thaw, as spring's sweet breathing comes the voice of him wha sings frae alloa. then rest thee, crawford, on the lawn, and thus, if song thy soul shall sway, i'll bless thee, while thy toil-worn han' pu's for itsel' a flower or twa; 'tis idle--gowd-gear hearts will say- but maist for whilk will tear-drops fa' when death has come, and flowers shall bloom aboon the bard of alloa? oh, sing, ye bards, to nature true, and glory shall your brows adorn, and else than this, by none or few, the poet's wreath will long be worn. cauld fa' the notes o' him wha sings o' scenes whilk man yet never saw- pour then, frae nature's ain heart-strings, your strains like him of alloa. possess maun he a poet's heart, and he maun ha'e a poet's mind wha deftly plays the generous part that warms the cauld, and charms the kind. nor scorn, ye frozen anes, the powers whilk hinder other hearts to fa' into a sordid sink--like yours- but bless the bard of alloa. ah! little ye may trow or ken the mony cares, and waes, and toils, 'mang hearts and hames o' lowly men whilk nought save poetry beguiles; it lifts fu' mony fortune 'boon, when she begins her face to thraw, that ne'er sae sweet a harp could tune as his that sounds frae alloa. and as for me, ere this i'd lain where mark'd my head a mossy stane, had it not made the joys my ain when a' life's other joys were gane. if 'mang the mountains lone and gray, unknown, my early joys i sung, when cares and woes wad life belay, how could my harp away be flung? the dearest power in life below, is life's ain native power of song, as he alone can truly know, to whom it truly may belong. lighten'd hath it fu' mony a step, and lessen'd hath it mony a hill, and lighted up the rays o' hope, ay, and it up shall light them still. lo! avarice cauld can gowd secure, ambition win the wreath o' fame, wealth gies reputed wit and power, and crowns wi' joy the owner's aim. but be my meed the generous heart, for nought can charm this heart o' mine, like those who own the undying art that gies a claim to ossian's line. hale be thy heart, dear crawford--hale be every heart belonging thee,- the day whan fortune gies ye kale out through the reek, may ye ne'er see. ilk son o' song is dear to me; and though thy face i never saw, i'll honour till the day i dee the gifted bard o' alloa. my auld wifie jean. air--_"there 'll never be peace till jamie comes hame."_ my couthie auld wifie, aye blythsome to see, as years slip awa' aye the dearer to me; for ferlies o' fashion i carena ae preen when i cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie jean. the thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me, and mair sae when love lights my auld wifie's e'e; for then i can speak o' the days i ha'e seen when care found nae hame i' the heart o' my jean. a hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss, frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when i stole the first kiss, when i read a response to my vows in thy e'en. an, blushin', i prest to my bosom my jean. like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek, thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek, when the laird o' drumlochie, sae lithless and lean, wad ha'e gane a lang mile for ae glisk o' my jean. thy mither was dead, and thy faither was fain that the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain; but auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween the vows i had niffer'd wi' bonnie young jean. i canna weel work, an' ye 're weary an' worn, the gudes and the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne; but we ha'e a hame, an' we 're cozie and bein, and the thrift i've to thank o' my auld wifie jean. baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a' kind ha'e we, a sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gie, a bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien', was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie jean. the puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast, 'yont our hallan he 's houft till the gurl gaed past, an' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean, he 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie jean. our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen; though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en; the thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our e'en, and aft i 've to comfort my auld wifie jean. the paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust, since the first hairst i shore, since the first clod i cuist; and soon we'll lie laigh; but aboon we 've a frien', and bright days are comin' for me an' my jean. the land o' the bonnet and plaid. hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, the land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae; where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade- the land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid. hurra! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn, where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern; there freedom in triumph an altar has made for holiest rites in the land o' the plaid. a coronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom, to garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb: shall their names ever perish--their fame ever fade who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid? oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love! the haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove; and honour'd forever be matron and maid in the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid. hurra! for the land o' the deer and the rae, o' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae, where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade- dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid. sing on, fairy devon.[9] sing on, fairy devon, 'mong gardens and bowers, where love's feast lies spread in an eden o' flowers. what visions o' beauty my mind has possess'd, in thy gowany dell where a seraph might rest. sing on, lovely river, to hillock and tree a lay o' the loves o' my jessie and me; for nae angel lightin', a posie to pu', can match the fair form o' the lassie i lo'e. sweet river, dear river, sing on in your glee, in thy pure breast the mind o' my jessie i see. how aft ha'e i wander'd, as gray gloamin' fell, rare dreamin's o' heaven my lassie to tell. sing on, lovely devon, the sang that ye sung when earth in her beauty frae night's bosom sprung, for lanesome and eerie this warld aye would be did clouds ever fa' atween jessie and me. footnotes: [9] written for the present work. ann o' cornylee. gaelic air--_"soraiadh slan do'un ailleagan."_ i 'll twine a gowany garland wi' lilies frae the spring; the fairest flowers by clutha's side in a' their bloom i 'll bring. i 'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade my lassie's scornfu' e'e- for oh, i canna bide the frown o' ann o' cornylee. nae gilded ha', nae downie bed my lowly lot maun cheer, a sheilin' on the banks o' gryfe is a' my worldly gear; a lanely cot, wi' moss o'ergrown, is a' i ha'e to gie; a leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn o' ann o' cornylee. the linty 'mang the yellow broom, the laverock in the lift ha'e never sang the waes o' love o' hope and joy bereft; nor has the mavis ever sang the ills i ha'e to dree, for lovin' o' a paughty maid, fair ann o' cornylee. my mary dear.[10] tune--_"annie laurie."_ the gloamin' star was showerin' its siller glories doun, and nestled in its mossy lair the lintie sleepit soun'; the lintie sleepit soun', and the starnies sparklet clear, when on a gowany bank i sat aside my mary dear. the burnie wanders eerie roun' rock and ruin'd tower, by mony a fairy hillock and mony a lanely bower; roun' mony a lanely bower, love's tender tale to hear, where i in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd and won my mary dear. oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness frae me for ever ta'en! wi' summer's flowery loveliness ye come na back again! ye come na back again, the waefu' heart to cheer, for lang the greedy grave has closed aboon my mary dear. footnotes: [10] written for the present work. the waes o' eild. (_for an old gaelic air._) the cranreuch 's on my heid, the mist 's now on my een, a lanesome life i lead, i'm no what i ha'e been. ther 're runkles on my broo, ther 're furrows on my cheek, my wither'd heart fills fu' whan o' bygane days i speak. for i 'm weary, i 'm weary, i 'm weary o' care- whare my bairnies ha'e gane, oh, let me gang there. i ance was fu' o' glee, and wha was then sae gay, whan dreamin' life wad be but ae lang simmer day? my feet, like lichtnin', flew roun' pleasure's dizzy ring, they gimply staucher noo aneath a feckless thing. for i 'm weary, i 'm weary, i 'm weary o' care- whare my first luve lies cauld, oh, let me lie there. the ourie breath o' eild has blown ilk frien' frae me; they comena near my beild i ha'e dauted on my knee; they hand awa their heids, my frailties no to see; my blessing on them, ane and a'- i 've naething else to gie. for i 'm weary, i 'm weary, i 'm weary and worn- to the friens o' my youth i maun soon, soon return. john stuart blackie.[11] john stuart blackie, professor of greek in the university of edinburgh, was born at glasgow in the year 1809. his father, who had originally come from kelso, removed from glasgow to aberdeen, as agent for the commercial bank in that city, while his son was still very young. at the grammar school of aberdeen, then under the rectorship of dr melvin, the boy began his classical education, and subsequently, according to the ridiculous scottish custom, the folly of which he has done his best to expose, he became, in his twelfth year, a student in marischal college. he was a student of arts for five years in aberdeen and edinburgh--and then he attended theological classes for three years. in 1829 he proceeded to the continent, and studied at gottingen and berlin, where he mastered the german language, and dived deep into the treasures of german literature. from germany he went to rome, where he spent fifteen months, devoting himself to the italian language and literature, and to the study of archã¦ology. his first publication testifies to his success in both studies. it is entitled, "osservazioni sopra un antico sarcophago." it was written in italian, and published in the _annali del instituto archã¦ologico, roma_, 1831. mr blackie had given up the idea of entering the church, and on his 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 archã¦ological 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 ã�schylus 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 ã�schylus. translations of several odes of horace have appeared in various publications. the translation of all the dramas of ã�schylus appeared in 1850. it was dedicated to the chevalier bunsen and edward gerhard, royal archã¦ologist, "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 ã�schylus 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 ã�schylus and homer, in the _encyclopã¦dia 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 domã¨d 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 waxã¨d 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 trancã¨d 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 feignã¨d 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 athenã¦um. 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. the author of several meritorious poetical works, patrick scott was born at macao in china, but is eminently of scottish descent. his father, helenus scott, m.d., a cadet of the ducal house of buccleuch, was a distinguished member of the medical board of bombay, of which he was some time president. receiving an elementary education at the charterhouse, london, the subject of this notice entered, in his sixteenth year, the east india college at haileybury. at the age of eighteen he proceeded to india, to occupy a civil appointment at bombay. in 1845, after eleven years' service, he returned to britain in impaired health, and he has since resided chiefly in london. mr scott first appeared as an author in 1851, by the publication of "lelio, and other poems," a volume which was received with warm encomiums by the press. in 1853, he published "love in the moon: a poem," which was followed in the same year by "thomas ã¡ becket, and other poems." his latest poetical publication appeared in 1854, under the title of "a poet's children." the exile. with drooping heart he turn'd away to seek a distant clime, where friends were kind, and life was gay, in early boyhood's time. and still with years and seas between, to one fond hope he clung- to see once more, as he had seen, the home he loved when young. his youthful brow was touch'd with thought, and life had lost its morn, when glad again the wanderer sought the soil where he was born. alas! that long expected shore denied the wonted joy, and the man felt not, as of yore had felt the happier boy. for formal friends scarce grasp'd his hand- the friends he knew of old; what cared he for a sunny land, if human hearts were cold? again he cast his alter'd lot 'mid alien tribes to roam; and fail'd to find another spot so foreign as his home. his heavy grief no bosom shared, no eye would weep his fall; what matter if _his_ life were spared, who lived unloved by all! and when had ceased his earthly toil upon that distant shore, his bones were gather'd to the soil- his heart had died before. john bathurst dickson. an able theologian and accomplished writer of verses, john bathurst dickson was born on the 25th december 1823, in the town of kelso, roxburghshire. his father was a respectable writer or attorney in that place. having studied at the university of edinburgh, and passed through a theological curriculum at the new college of that city, he became, in 1851, a licentiate of the free church. in june 1852, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of the free high church, paisley. during the period of his attendance at college, mr dickson was an extensive contributor to _tait's magazine_, and different religious periodicals. in 1855, he published "theodoxia; or, glory to god an evidence for the truth of christianity;" and in 1857 appeared from his pen "the temple lamp," a periodical publication. he has written verses on a variety of topics. his song, "the american flag," has been widely published in the united states. the american flag. float forth, thou flag of the free; flash far over land and sea, proud ensign of liberty- hail, hail to thee! the blue of the heavens is thine, the stars on thy canvas shine; thy heraldry tells thee divine- hail, hail to thee! thy white proclaims thee unstain'd, thy crimson thy love unfeign'd to man, by despots enchain'd- hail, hail to thee! under thy god-given light our fathers went forth to fight 'gainst sceptred wrong for the right- hail, hail to thee! the lion of england no more 'gainst thy proud eagle shall roar: peace strideth from shore to shore- hail, hail to thee! float forth, thou flag of the free- flash far over land and sea, till the world shout, liberty- hail, hail to thee! evan m'coll. a writer both of english and gaelic songs, evan m'coll was born in 1808, at kenmore, lochfineside, argyllshire. his father, dugald m'coll, followed an industrial occupation, but contrived to afford his son a somewhat liberal education. the leisure hours of the youthful poet were ardently devoted to literary culture. in 1837, he became a contributor of gaelic poetry to a glasgow periodical, and his compositions began to excite an interest in the highlands. two influential highland gentlemen secured him an appointment in the customs at liverpool. he subsequently emigrated to america, and is now resident at kingston. besides many fugitive pieces, mr m'coll has published a volume of lyrics, entitled "the mountain minstrel," and a volume of gaelic poetry. a specimen of his gaelic minstrelsy will be found among the translations at the end of the present volume. the hills of the heather. give the swains of italia 'mong myrtles to rove, give the proud, sullen spaniard his bright orange grove; give gold-sanded streams to the sons of chili, but, oh! give the hills of the heather to me. the hills where the hunter oft soundeth his horn, where sweetest the skylark awakens the morn; the gray cliff, the blue lake, the stream's dashing glee, endear the red hills of the heather to me. there health, rosy virgin, for ever doth dwell; there love fondly whispers to beauty his tale; there freedom's own darling! the gael, lives free, then, oh! give the hills of the heather to me. james d. burns. one of the most interesting sacred poets of the present age, james d. burns, was born at edinburgh on the 18th february 1823. a pupil of heriot's hospital, he became a student in the university of edinburgh, where he took the degree of master of arts, and completed, with marked distinction, a course of theology. receiving license as a probationer of the free church, he was in 1845 ordained to the ministry at dunblane. having resigned his charge from bad health in 1848, he proceeded to madeira, where he undertook the pastoral superintendence of a presbyterian congregation. he subsequently travelled in spain and italy. in 1854 he published "the vision of prophecy, and other poems," a collection of his poetical compositions, of which the greater number are of a scriptural or sacred character. mr burns is now minister of a presbyterian church at hampstead, middlesex. rise, little star! rise, little star! o'er the dusky hill,- see the bright course open thou hast to fulfil. climb, little star! higher still and higher. with a silent swiftness and a pulse of fire. stand, little star! on the peak of heaven; but for one brief moment is the triumph given. sink, little star! yet make heaven bright, even while thou art sinking, with thy gentle light. set, little star! gladly fade and die, with the blush of morning coming up the sky. each little star crieth, life, o man! should have one clear purpose shining round its span. though long the wanderer may depart. though long the wanderer may depart, and far his footsteps roam, he clasps the closer to his heart the image of his home. to that loved land, where'er he goes, his tend'rest thoughts are cast, and dearer still through absence grows the memory of the past. though nature on another shore her softest smile may wear, the vales, the hills, he loved before to him are far more fair. the heavens that met his childhood's eye, all clouded though they be, seem brighter than the sunniest sky of climes beyond the sea. so faith, a stranger on the earth, still turns its eye above; the child of an immortal birth seeks more than mortal love. the scenes of earth, though very fair, want home's endearing spell; and all his heart and hope are where his god and saviour dwell. he may behold them dimly here, and see them as not nigh, but all he loves will yet appear unclouded to his eye. to that fair city, now so far, rejoicing he will come, a better light than bethlehem's star guides every wanderer home. george henderson. george henderson was born on the 5th may 1800, in the parish of bunkle and county of berwick. with a rudimentary education obtained at different schools, he entered, in his nineteenth year, the university of edinburgh. after the close of his second session, he temporarily abandoned literary pursuits. resolving to adopt the medical profession, he subsequently resumed attendance at the university. in 1829 he obtained his diploma from the royal college of surgeons. he has since engaged in medical practice in the village of chirnside, berwickshire. by the cultivation of polite literature, mr henderson has experienced relaxation from the active duties of his profession. in 1856 he published a volume of curious researches, entitled "the popular rhymes, &c., of the county of berwick." he is understood to be preparing for the press a volume of his poetical compositions, to be entitled "lays and legends of the merse." i canna leave my native land. i canna leave my native land, i canna sail the sea; the trees around my cottage stand, the gowans deck the lea; the primrose blooms beside the burn, the wild flower on the brae; to leave them a' my heart wad mourn, i canna gang away. the dew-draps gem the clover leaves, the laverock sings aboon, the blae-berry bush wi' spring revives, and it will blossom soon; i canna leave the bonnie brae where waves the new-sprung fern, where oft i 've pass'd the summer's day, and look'd upon the burn. i canna leave the green-croft well, its waters cool and clear, for oft its pleasant murmurs dwell like music in mine ear; the elder bush, the garden bower, where robin sings sae sweet, the auld gray dike, the bee-house tower, the cosie garden seat. horatius bonar, d.d. one of the most esteemed of living scottish theological writers, horatius bonar, is likewise favourably known as a sacred lyric poet. he is a native of edinburgh, where his father, the late james bonar, esq., a man of eminent piety and accomplished scholarship, held the office of a solicitor of excise. his ancestors for several successive generations were ministers of the church of scotland. he was educated at the high school and the university of his native city. after engaging for some time in missionary labour at leith, he was ordained to the ministry at kelso in november 1837, and has since prosecuted his pastoral duties in that place. his first literary efforts appeared in the shape of religious tracts, now published in a volume under the title of "the kelso tracts." he next published the work by which he has become most widely known, "the night of weeping," which was followed by other two works of the same series, "the morning of joy," and "the eternal day." of his subsequent publications, the more conspicuous are, "prophetical landmarks," "the coming and the kingdom of the lord jesus," "a stranger here," "man; his religion and his world," "the story of grace," "the blood of the cross," and "the desert of sinai, or notes of a tour from cairo to beersheba." dr bonar was for many years editor of the _presbyterian review_; he now edits _the quarterly journal of prophecy_. the following spiritual songs, well adapted for music, are from his volume entitled "hymns of faith and hope." the meeting place. where the faded flower shall freshen, freshen never more to fade; where the shaded sky shall brighten, brighten never more to shade: where the sun-blaze never scorches, where the star-beams cease to chill; where no tempest stirs the echoes of the wood, or wave, or hill: where the morn shall wake in gladness, and the noon the joy prolong, where the daylight dies in fragrance, 'mid the burst of holy song: brother, we shall meet and rest 'mid the holy and the blest! where no shadow shall bewilder, where life's vain parade is o'er, where the sleep of sin is broken, and the dreamer dreams no more; where the bond is never sever'd, partings, claspings, sob and moan, midnight waking, twilight weeping, heavy noontide, all are done: where the child has found its mother, where the mother finds the child, where dear families are gather'd that were scatter'd on the wild: brother, we shall meet and rest 'mid the holy and the blest! where the hidden wound is healã¨d, where the blighted life re-blooms, where the smitten heart the freshness of its buoyant youth resumes; where the love that here we lavish on the withering leaves of time, shall have fadeless flowers to fix on in an ever spring-bright clime: where we find the joy of loving, as we never loved before, loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd, loving once and evermore: brother, we shall meet and rest 'mid the holy and the blest! where a blasted world shall brighten underneath a bluer sphere, and a softer, gentler sunshine, shed its healing splendour here; where earth's barren vales shall blossom, putting on their robe of green, and a purer, fairer eden, be where only wastes have been: where a king in kingly glory, such as earth has never known, shall assume the righteous sceptre, claim and wear the holy crown: brother, we shall meet and rest 'mid the holy and the blest! trust not these seas again. trust not these seas again, though smooth and fair; trust not these waves again, shipwreck is there. trust not these stars again, though bright and fair; trust not these skies again, tempest is there. trust not that breeze again, gentle and fair; trust not these clouds again, lightning is there. trust not that isle again, flower-crown'd and fair; trust not its rocks again, earthquake is there. trust not these flowers again, fragrant and fair; trust not that rose again, blighting is there. trust not that earth again, verdant and fair; trust not its fields again, winter is there. trust not these hopes again, sunny and fair; trust not that smile again, peril is there. trust not this world again, smiling and fair; trust not its sweets again, wormwood is there; trust not its love again, sparkling and fair; trust not its joy again, sorrow is there. john halliday. a song-writer of merit, john halliday was born on the 18th july 1821, at hawickshielsgate, near hawick, roxburghshire. his father was an agricultural labourer; and, with an ordinary education at school, he was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant farmer in his native district. inheriting from his mother a taste for the elder scottish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. in his thirteenth year he essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. encouraged by a numerous list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, "the rustic bard," a duodecimo volume of poems and songs. after being several years resident at hopekirk, roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to bridge of allan, where he is well employed as a florist and landscape gardener. the auld kirk bell. in a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow, and the green ferns nod when the wild winds blow, stands the roofless kirk in the auld kirkyard, where the gowans earliest gem the swaird; and the gray, gray moss on ilk cauld through stane shrouds in oblivion the lang, lang gane- where the ance warm heart is a cauld, cauld clod, and the beauteous and brave give a green to the sod- on a time-worn tower, where the dim owls dwell, tuneless and torn, hangs the auld kirk bell. on the auld kirk floor is the damp night dew, where warm words flow'd in a worship true; is the sugh o' the breeze, and the hum o' the bee as it wings and sings in its taintless glee through the nettles tall to the thistles red, where they roughly wave o'er each deep, dark bed; and it plies its task on the wa'-flowers tall, which bloom in the choir and wave on the wall; then, soaring away with a sweep and a swell, it covers its combs in the auld kirk bell. by the crumbling base of the auld kirk tower is the broad-leaved dock and the bright brae flower; and the adders hiss o'er the lime-bound stones, and playfully writhe round mouldering bones: the bat clingeth close to the binewood's root, where its gnarlã¨d boughs up the belfry shoot, as, hiding the handworks of ruthless time, it garlands in grandeur and green sublime the hoary height, where the rust sae fell bends, as with a burden, the auld kirk bell. oh, red is the rust, and a ruin is come to the auld kirk bell--ance and ever it 's dumb; on the brink of the past 'tis awaiting a doom, for a wauf o' the wind may awaken its tomb, as, bearing its fragments, all dust-like, away, to blend with water, the wood and the clay, till lost 'mid the changes of manners and men; then ne'er ane will think, nor ere ane will ken, that a joyfu' jowl and a waefu' knell, as it swung, had been rung by the auld kirk bell. the auld aik-tree. oh, we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, and we hae daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair, and lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see, yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree. it 's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green, for simmer sairs it little now--it's no what it has been, sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea, and bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree. it 's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit, for we hae seen them blum as braw in mony a ither bit; nor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning glee sae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik-tree. but there 's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart, which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part, and ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing glee we 've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree. for we hae play'd aneath its shade a chuffie-cheekit bairn, unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern, and ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free; then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik-tree? we 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green, to catch the pyet in her nest amidst the grays o' e'en; and watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae wee atween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree. and we hae tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threw out o'er the glen her misty gray in kindly drippin' dew, and felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our e'e, when pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree. our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel, and gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal! where are they? where my childhood's hearth --those hearts sae kind and free,- when a' is unco groun save the auld aik-tree? james dodds. a man of elegant and varied accomplishments, and one of the most eloquent public-speakers of the age, james dodds was born in 1815, in the county of roxburgh. he was at first intended by some influential friends for the church, and proceeded through part of the college curriculum, but some changes occurring, he ultimately devoted himself to the study of law. probably his ambition was for the bar; but overruling circumstances led him, about twelve years ago, to enter on the profession of parliamentary solicitor in london, in which he has met with much success. from his youth a devoted student, he has, amidst the exigencies of business, sedulously kept up his literary pursuits. he has produced no independent work, but has largely contributed, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. among these contributions, a series of poems, chiefly ballads on incidents connected with the times of the covenant, which appeared in several of the edinburgh magazines, about thirteen years since, attracted much attention. one of these lays we have transferred to the present work. mr dodds has lately prepared a series of lectures on the fifty years' struggle of the covenanters, which will probably be presented to the public. he has evinced a deep interest in the cause of raising a national monument to sir william wallace, and has, under the auspices of the central committee, addressed public meetings on the subject in many of the principal towns. trial and death of robert baillie of jervieswoode. 'twas when december's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast, and vile men high in place were more unpitying than the blast, before their grim tribunal's front, firm and undaunted stood that patriot chief of high renown, the noble jervieswoode. the hand of death is on him press'd--the seal of death is there! oh, the savage of the wilderness those weak old limbs would spare! frail, frail his step, and bent his frame, and ye may plainly trace the shadow of death's wing upon his pale and sunken face. these twenty long and dreary months in the dungeon he hath lain, long days of sickness, weary nights of languishing and pain; for whom no gale hath breathed its balm, no sun hath bless'd the year, no friendly hand to smooth his couch, nor friendly voice to cheer; his lady in their lonely hall doth mournful vigils keep, and where he sat and where he walk'd his children watch and weep. yet o'er his weakness and decay an ancient grandeur falls, like the majesty that lingers round some mould'ring palace walls; the light of calm and noble thoughts is bright within his eye, and, purged of earthly taint, his soul prepares to mount on high. nor is he left alone--a sister faithful to him clung with woman's heart, with home-born love, with angel look and tongue; there in that golgotha she sits, so tender, so benign- fair as the moon's sweet glimpses through the cloudy tempest shine. the court is met, the assize are set: the robes of state look brave, yet the proudest and the lordliest there is but a tyrant's slave- blood-hirelings they who earn their pay by foul and treach'rous deeds- for swift and fell the hound must be whom the hunter richly feeds. what though no act of wrong e'er stain'd the fame of jervieswoode, shall it protect him in those times that he is wise and good? so wise--so good--so loved of all, though weak and worn with care, though death comes fast he is the last whom antichrist would spare! for his the bold and freeborn mind, the wisdom of a sage, the glow of youth still cherish'd in the sober breast of age; the soul of chivalry is his, and honour pure from stain- a heart that beats for liberty, and spurns each galling chain, whether entwined by hands that bear the crozier or the sword; for he would see all nations free in christ who is their lord. and once, with england's patriot band, by tyrant power oppress'd, he had dream'd of free and happy homes in the forests of the west- to breathe the uncorrupted air, to tread the fresh green sod, and where the broad savannah rolls in peace to worship god! these are his crimes! the treason this for which he now is tried; but though the forms of law are kept all justice is denied. woe! that a land so favour'd once should witness such disgrace! shame! that a land so powerful yet should brook a scene so base! unroll your parchments black with lies--shut fast your coward doors- and brand the aged chief with crimes his generous heart abhors: when truth avails not, well you know how to supply the lack with secret tales and with wild words extorted by the rack! there is an hour for every power--an hour of darkness this! spur on, ye slaves of antichrist! or ye the goal may miss! his strength, increasing with his need, he raises bold and high, and fixes on mackenzie[15] a clear and searching eye: "how canst thou thus, my lord, 'gainst me such accusations bring, that i have been a man of strife in plots against the king? i hate the way of violence--the anarchist i spurn; who scatters firebrands little knows where they may fall and burn. in my degree i have been bold to guard the nation's right, and keep alive within these realms the lamp of gospel light: but in my gloomy dungeon laid, didst thou not visit me, and solemnly avow that i from wicked plots was free? how canst thou, then, unto my charge such grievous actions lay, and all thou hast so solemn said as solemnly unsay?" the whole assembled multitude full on mackenzie turn'd, that even his harden'd countenance with shame and anger burn'd: "true, jervieswoode, i told thee so, as my own private view- here i discharge the functions which to the crown are due." "if thou hast a conscience for thyself, and another for this place, i leave thee to the god of heaven and his all pardoning grace! my lords, i add no more--proceed--right well i know my doom: death hath no terrors for my soul--the grave it hath no gloom!" 'tis one from old saint giles! the blasts of midnight shake the hall, hoarse sounding like a demon's voice, which the stoutest hearts appal! his doom is utter'd!--"twelve hours hence thy traitorous head shall fall, and for a terror be exposed upon the city wall; thy limbs shall quarter'd be, and hung, all mutilate and bare, at jedburgh, and lanark town, at glasgow, and at ayr; that all good subjects thence may learn obedience to the state, their duty to our gracious king, and bloody treason's fate." a horror seizes every breast--a stifled cry of dread: "who sheds the blood of innocence, the blood on his own head!" that pack'd and perjured jury shrink in conscience-struck dismay, and wish their hands as clear of guilt as they were yesterday. mackenzie's cold and flinty face is quivering like a leaf, whilst with quick and throbbing finger he turns o'er and o'er his brief; and the misnamed judges vainly try their rankling thoughts to hide beneath an outward painted mask of loftiness and pride. even she, the sweet heroic one! aye watchful at his side, whose courage ne'er hath blanch'd as yet, though sorely, sharply tried- even she is crush'd beneath the weight of this last and deadly blow, and sinks upon her brother's neck, o'erwhelm'd in speechless woe. he, he alone, is calm of soul! powers of no mortal birth are gently loosening every tie that links him to the earth; and inward faith gives outward force--strong is his deep dark eye- and his brow and lip are beautiful as in the days gone by. meekly he rises to depart, but pauses for a space, and looks upon his cowering foes with calm and saintly grace: "the time is short, the sentence sharp--your malice i forgive; for god hath made me fit to die, as ye, my lords, to live!" and meekly he departs! his toils, his work, and warfare done- and his martyr chariot waits him, and his triumphs are begun! and twelve hours thence, upon the block, his reverend head did fall, and for a terror was exposed upon the city wall; his limbs were quarter'd, and were hung, all mutilate and bare, at jedburgh, and lanark town, at glasgow, and at ayr: and thus through all broad scotland these martyr'd relics go, like a fiery cross to rouse the land to the tyrant's overthrow! the ancient halls of jervieswoode are desolate and gray, and its ancient oaks and lime trees are sinking in decay; these are of things that perish, and their place soon knows them not, but a glory from the past illumes this consecrated spot. to him who braves the martyr's death is deathless honour given, for the faith that breeds heroic deeds is dear to earth and heaven; and through all succeeding ages, amongst the wise and good, enshrined shall be the memory of the noble jervieswoode. footnotes: [15] sir george mackenzie of rosehaugh, the king's advocate. metrical translations from the modern gaelic minstrelsy. duncan macfarlan. duncan macfarlan was a native of rannoch, in perthshire. he was born in 1750, and became, early in life, chaplain to one of the highland regiments. he was subsequently admitted to the pastoral charge of the gaelic church, perth. he executed some of the translations of ossianic remains published by h. & j. m'callum in 1816, under the auspices of the highland society of london. he died about the year 1834. our translator remembers him as a venerable old gentleman, of polished manners and intelligent conversation. the following specimen of his poetical compositions is, in the original, extremely popular among the gael. the beauty of the shieling. my beauty of the shieling, thy graceful air, like arrow-shaft, a fiery flame concealing, has left me to the marrow chaf'd. so winsome is thy smiling, thy love-craft so beguiling, it binds me like the wilding, and i yield, in dule and sorrow left. thy brown locks rank'd in order, so spiral, rich, and clustering! thy face, of flowers a border, 'neath feather'd eyebrows mustering! two drops of dewy splendour those lids of beauty under! and that kiss--a fragrant wonder, as fruits of india western! john munro. john munro was born in 1791, in the parish of criech, sutherlandshire. his father was superintendent of a manufacturing establishment. on the premature death of her husband, his mother proceeded to glasgow, where the family were enabled to obtain a suitable education. in 1827, the poet commenced business as an accountant. the hours of relaxation from business he sedulously devoted to the concerns of literature, especially poetry. he produced some religious tracts, and composed verses, chiefly of a devotional character. he died in 1837, and his remains were consigned to the necropolis of the city. admiring friends reared an appropriate monument over his grave. the highland welcome. "my dearest, wilt thou follow, and mount with me the billow? wilt thou with me pass o'er the sea to the land of hill and hollow?" "no, highlandman! i leave not my kindred for another, nor go with thee across the sea from the children of my mother. "no, highlandman! i will not fly my own beloved border; for poortith dwells and famine pales in your highlands of disorder. "i will not wed a gael- his house is but a shieling; oh, best unborn, than all forlorn mid your crags to have my dwelling!" "the house i call mine own house, a better was not born in; and land and sea will smile on thee, in the highlands of thy scorning. "i do not boast the wheaten wealth of our glens and hills, my dearie! but enow is health, and grass is wealth, in the land of mead and dairy. "i 've store of kine, my darling, nor any lilting sweeter thine ear can know, than is their low, and the music of the bleater. "i have no ship on ocean with merchant treasure sailing; but my tight boat, and trusty net, whole loads of fish are trailing. "and, for dress, is none, my beauty, than the tartan plaiding warmer, for its colours bright, oh, what delight to see them deck my charmer! "and ne'er was highland welcome more hearty than thy greeting, each day, the rein, and courteous swain, thy pleasure will be meeting. "and thou shalt wear the healthy hue that give the highland breezes, and not a bird but will be heard to sing the song that pleases. "no summer morn is blyther, with all its burst of glory, than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd, pined--shall, caress'd, adore thee." "stay, highlander! my heart, my hand, my vow and all i render, a highland lay has won the day, and i will hie me yonder." john macdonald, jun. john macdonald, author of the following song, is described in "mackenzie's collection" as having rented the farm of scoraig, lochbroom, and subsequently fixed his residence in the island of lewis. the present translation is from the pen of mr d. macpherson of london. mary, the fair of glensmole. sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells, sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree, sweeter is young mary of glensmole to me. sweet, oh, sweet! with mary o'er the wilds to stray, when glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of may; and, when weary roving through the greenwood glade, softly to recline beneath the birken shade. sweet the rising mountains, &c. there to fix my gaze in raptures of delight, on her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light; on her bosom, purer than the silver tide, fairer than the _cana_ on the mountain side. sweet the rising mountains, &c. what were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men, to the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen? here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing, there the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing. sweet the rising mountains, &c. what were all the splendour of the proud and great, to the simple pleasures of our green retreat? from the crystal spring fresh vigour we inhale, rosy health does court us on the mountain gale. sweet the rising mountains, &c. were i offer'd all the wealth that albion yields, all her lofty mountains and her fruitful fields, with the countless riches of her subject seas, i would scorn the change for blisses such as these! sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells, sweet the snowy blossom of the thorny tree, sweeter is young mary of glensmole to me. evan m'coll.[16] footnotes: [16] for biographical sketch, see p. 222. the child of promise. she died--as die the roses on the ruddy clouds of dawn, when the envious sun discloses his flame, and morning 's gone. she died--like waves of sun-glow fast by the shadows chased: she died--like heaven's rainbow by gushing showers effaced. she died--like flakes appearing on the shore beside the sea; thy snow as bright! but, nearing, the ground-swell broke on thee. she died--as dies the glory of music's sweetest swell: she died--as dies the story when the best is still to tell. she died--as dies moon-beaming when scowls the rayless wave: she died--like sweetest dreaming, that hastens to its grave. she died--and died she early: heaven wearied for its own. as the dipping sun, my mary, thy morning ray went down! index to the first lines of the songs. a bonnie rose bloom'd wild and fair, vol. iv., 112. adieu--a long and last adieu, vol. iii., 207. adieu, lovely summer, i see thee declining, vol. i., 273. adieu, romantic banks of clyde, vol. iii., 30. adieu, ye streams that smoothly glide, vol. i., 42. adieu, ye wither'd flow'rets, vol. iv., 207. admiring nature's simple charms, vol. ii., 239. ah! do not bid me wake the lute, vol. ii., 283. adown the burnie's flowery bank, vol. ii., 227. ae morn, last ouk, as i gaed out, vol. i., 118. ae morn of may, when fields were gay, vol. iii., 31. ah! faded is that lovely bloom, vol. ii., 276. afar from the home where his youthful prime, vol. vi., 165. afore the lammas tide, vol. iv., 197. afore the muircock begin to craw, vol. ii., 67. again the laverock seeks the sky, vol. v., 82. ages, ages have departed, vol. i., 258. a health to caberfae, vol. i., 357. alake for the lassie! she's no right at a', vol. ii., 317. a lassie cam' to our gate yestreen, vol. ii., 184. alas! how true the boding voice, vol. v., 87. allen-a-dale has no faggot for burning, vol. i., 300. ah! little did my mother think, vol. i., 234. a lively young lass had a wee pickle tow, vol. i., 142. all lovely and bright, 'mid the desert of time, vol. iv., 173. all night, by the pathway that crosses the muir, vol. iv., 141. alone to the banks of the dark rolling danube, vol. ii., 264. along by levern stream so clear, vol. ii., 201. although the lays o' ither lands, vol. vi., 96. amang the birks sae blithe an' gay, vol. ii., 227. amang the breezy heights and howes, vol. vi., 49. ah! mary, sweetest maid, farewell, vol. ii., 211. and can thy bosom bear the thought, vol. iv., 100. and dost thou speak sincere, my love, vol. ii., 116. and hast thou sought thy heavenly home, vol. iii., 245. ah no! i cannot say farewell, vol. iii., 79. ah, peggie, since thou 'rt gane away, vol. ii., 72. a pretty young maiden sat on the grass, vol. iii., 251. argyle is my name, and you may think it strange, vol ii., 216. as clear is luther's wave, i ween, vol. iii., 224. as i sat by the grave, at the brink of its cave, vol. i., 326. as lockfasted in slumber's arms, vol. i., 330. as o'er the highland hills i hied, vol. i., 37. a song, a song, brave hearts, a song, vol. v., 8. as sunshine to the flowers in may, vol. v., 99. at hame or afield, i 'm cheerless and lone, vol. iii., 124. ah! the wound of my breast sinks my heart to the dust, vol. ii., 343. at waking so early, vol. i., 311. at willie's weddin' on the green, vol. ii., 210. auld peter macgowan cam' down the craft, vol. v., 10. awake, thou first of creatures, indignant in their frown, vol. iii., 123. away, away, like a child at play, vol. vi., 68. away, away, my gallant bark, vol. vi., 84. away on the breast of the ocean, vol. vi., 211. away on the wings of the wind she flies, vol. iv., 160. away to the highlands, where lomond is flowing, vol. v., 254. a weary lot is thine, fair maid, vol. i., 300. a wee bird cam' to our ha' door, vol. iii., 128. a wee bird sits upon a spray, vol. iv., 190. a wee bit laddie sits wi' a bowl upon his knees, vol. vi., 145. a wet sheet and a flowing sea, vol. iii., 15. a young gudewife is in my house, vol. i., 141. bare was our burn brae, vol. v., 65. beautiful moon, wilt thou tell me where, vol. vi., 44. be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, vol. v., 209. behave yoursel' before folk, vol. iii., 74. believe me or doubt me, i dinna care whilk, vol. ii., 108. ben cruachan is king of the mountains, vol. vi., 115. beneath a hill, 'mang birken bushes, vol. iv., 294. bird of the wilderness, vol. i., 52. blaw saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur, vol. i., 243. blest be the hour of night, vol. vi., 48. blink over the burn, my sweet betty, vol. ii., 171. blink over the burn, sweet betty, vol. iii., 140. blithe be the mind of the ploughman, vol. v., 176. blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, o, vol. ii., 148. blithe young bess to jean did say, vol. ii., 82. blue are the hills above the spey, vol. v., 212. bonnie bessie lee had a face fu' o' smiles, vol. iv., 233. bonnie bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, vol. v., 207. bonnie charlie 's now awa, vol. i., 218. bonnie clouden, as ye wander, vol. ii., 230. bonnie lassie, blithesome lassie, vol. ii., 188. bonnie mary hay, i will lo'e thee yet, vol. vi., 33. born where the glorious starlights trace, vol. iv., 150. bring the rod, the line, the reel, vol. v., 221. brither jamie cam' west wi' a braw burn trout, vol. ii., 109. built on time's uneven sand, vol. vi., 198. by logan's streams, that rin sae deep, vol. i., 110. by niagara's flood, vol. vi., 81. by the lone mankayana's margin gray, vol. iii., 107. by yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam, vol. i, 212. caledonia! thou land of the mountain and rock, vol. ii., 53. calm sleep the village dead, vol. v., 260. cam' ye by athol, lad wi' the philabeg, vol. ii., 51. can my dearest henry leave me, vol. iii., 41. can ought be constant as the sun, vol. ii., 249. can ye lo'e, my dear lassie, vol. v., 63. ca' the yowes to the knowes, vol. iv., 89. cauld blaws the wind frae north to south, vol. i., 119. change! change! the mournful story, vol. v., 173. charlie 's comin' o'er the sea, vol. vi., 160. chaunt me no more thy roundelay, vol. ii., 174. cheer, boys, cheer! no more of idle sorrow, vol. vi., 20. clan lachlan's tuneful mavis, i sing on the branches early, vol. iv., 282. close by the marge of leman's lake, vol. vi., 177. come all ye jolly shepherds, vol. ii., 55. come awa', come awa', vol. iii., 109. come awa', hie awa', vol. ii., 171. come back, come back, thou youthful time, vol. vi., 17. come gie us a sang, montgomery cried, vol. i., 11. come, maid, upon yon mountain brow, vol. iii., 19. come, memory, paint, though far away, vol. vi., 52. come o'er the stream, charlie, vol. ii., 59. come see my scarlet rose-bush, vol. vi., 37. come sit down, my cronie, an' gie me your crack, vol. ii., 306. come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa', vol. i., 89. come when the dawn of the morning is breaking, vol. v., 15. confide ye aye in providence, for providence is kind, vol. v., 202. could we but look beyond our sphere, vol. iii., 199. creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang, vol. v., 205. culloden, on thy swarthy brow, vol. iii., 46. dark lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main, vol. i., 179. dear aunty, i've been lang your care, vol. ii., 95. dear aunty, what think ye o' auld johnny graham, vol. v., 107. dearest love believe me, vol. iii., 110. dear to my heart as life's warm stream, vol. i., 44. does grief appeal to you, ye leal, vol. ii., 341. down by a crystal stream, vol. vi., 207. down in the valley lone, vol. v., 181. down whar the burnie rins whimplin' and cheery, vol. v., 25. do you know what the birds are singing? vol. vi., 134. each whirl of the wheel, vol. v., 61. easy is my pillow press'd, vol. ii., 349. eliza fair, the mirth of may, vol. v., 138. eliza was a bonnie lass, and, oh! she lo'ed me weel, vol. iv., 187. ere eild wi' his blatters had warsled me doun, vol. ii., 246. ere foreign fashions crossed the tweed, vol. iii., 189. exiled far from scenes of pleasure, vol. ii., 165. eye of the brain and heart, vol. v., 133. fain wad i, fain wad i hae the bloody wars to cease, vol. i., 269. fair are the fleecy flocks that feed, vol. ii., 128. fair as a star of light, vol. vi., 179. fair ellen, here again i stand, vol. v., 141. fair modest flower of matchless worth, vol. i., 157. fair scotland, dear as life to me, vol. v., 137. fare-thee-weel, for i must leave thee, vol. iii., 263. fare-thee-weel, my bonnie lassie, vol. iii., 225. fareweel, o! fareweel, vol. i., 238. fareweel to ilk hill whar the red heather grows, vol. v., 91. fareweel, ye fields and meadows green, vol. i., 121. farewell, and though my steps depart, vol. iii., 116. farewell, our father's land, vol. iii., 249. farewell ye braes of broad braemar, vol. vi., 117. farewell, ye streams sae dear to me, vol. ii., 232. far lone amang the highland hills, vol. ii., 139. far over yon hills of the heather sae green, vol. ii., 50. fierce as its sunlight, the east may be proud, vol. vi., 28. fife, an' a' the land about it, vol. ii., 112. float forth, thou flag of the free, vol. vi., 221. flowers of summer sweetly springing, vol. v., 251. flow saftly thou stream through the wild spangled valley, vol. iii., 243. for mony lang year i hae heard frae my granny, vol. ii., 250. for success a prayer with a farewell bear, vol. iii., 284. for twenty years and more, vol. v., 80. from beauty's soft lips, like the balm of its roses, vol. iv., 97. from the climes of the sun all war-worn and weary, vol. ii., 220. from the deep and troubled waters, vol. vi., 25. from the village of leslie with a heart full of glee, vol. i., 182. fy, let us a' to the wedding, vol. i., 136. gae bring my guid auld harp ance mair, vol. iv., 58. gane were but the winter cauld, vol. iii., 12. gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie peggie, o! vol. iv., 133. give me the hour when bells are rung, vol. vi., 149. give the swains of italia, vol. vi., 223. glad tidings for the highlands, vol. ii., 335. gloomy winter's now awa', vol. ii., 145. good morrow, good morrow, warm, rosy, and bright, vol. v., 16. good night, and joy be wi' ye a', vol. ii., 214. good night, the silver stars are clear, vol. v., 246. go to berwick, johnnie, vol. i., 121. go to him then if thou canst go, vol. ii., 300. grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain, vol. iii., 55. guid night and joy be wi' ye a', vol. iv., 114. had i the wings of a dove i would fly, vol. v., 261. hae ye been in the north, bonnie lassie, vol. ii., 308. hail to the chief who in triumph advances, vol. i., 295. hark, hark, the skylark singing, vol. ii., 202. hark, the martial drums resound, vol. ii., 164. haste all ye fairy elves hither to me, vol. iv., 131. heard ye the bagpipe or saw ye the banners, vol. iv., 78. heart, take courage, 'tis not worthy, vol. vi., 9. heaven speed the righteous sword, vol. i., 254. hech, what a change hae we now in this toun, vol. ii., 215. hech, hey, the mirth that was there, vol. i., 205. he left his native land, and far away, vol. v., 111. he loved her for her merry eyes, vol. v., 244. here 's to them, to them that are gane, vol. i., 237. her eyes were red with weeping, vol. iii., 136. here we go upon the tide, vol. ii., 69. here 's to the year that 's awa', vol. v., 78. her hair was like the cromla mist, vol. ii., 177. her lip is o' the rose's hue, vol. v., 117. hersell pe auchty years and twa, vol. ii., 71. he 's a terrible man, john tod, john tod, vol. i., 216. he is gone, he is gone, vol. iii., 240. he 's gone on the mountain, vol. i., 299. he 's lifeless amang the rude billows, vol. i., 202. he 's no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest, vol. i., 272. he sorrowfu' sat by the ingle cheek, vol. vi., 138. he 's ower the hills that i lo'e weel, vol. i., 211. hey for the hielan' heather, vol. iv., 110. hey, my bonnie wee lassie, vol. v., 18. home of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur, vol. iii., 136. hope cannot cheat us, vol. vi., 15. how blest were the days o' langsyne, when a laddie, vol. iii., 39. how blithely the pipe through glenlyon was sounding, vol. v., 26. how brightly beams the bonnie moon, vol. iii., 73. how early i woo'd thee, how dearly i lo'ed thee, vol. v., 160. how eerily, how drearily, how eerily to pine, vol. iii., 137. how happy a life does the parson possess, vol. i., 28. how happy lives the peasant by his ain fireside, vol. iii., 78. how often death art waking, vol. i., 321. how pleasant, how pleasant to wander away, vol. ii, 274. how sweet are leven's silver streams, vol. iii., 36. how sweet are the blushes of morn, vol. v., 35. how sweet is the scene at the waking of morning, vol. ii., 243. how sweet the dewy bell is spread, vol. iii., 259. how sweet thy modest light to view, vol. ii., 196. hurra! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, vol. vi., 103. hurrah for scotland's worth and fame, vol. v., 229. hurrah for the highlands, the brave scottish highlands, vol. v., 249. hurrah for the thistle, the brave scottish thistle, vol. v., 232. hurrah, hurrah for the boundless sea, vol. vi., 189. hurrah, hurrah, we 've glory won, vol. v., 89. hush, ye songsters, day is done, vol. iii., 159. i ask no lordling's titled name, vol. ii., 166. i canna leave my native land, vol. vi., 228. i canna sleep a wink, lassie, vol. v., 183. i cannot give thee all my heart, vol. vi., 11. i dream'd thou wert a fairy harp, vol. vi., 29. if fortune with a smiling face, vol. vi., 12. i fleet along, and the empires fall, vol. vi., 167. i fly from the fold since my passion's despair, vol. i., 316. i form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, vol. iv., 62. if there 's a word that whispers love, vol. v., 266. if wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame, vol. v., 7. i gaed to spend a week in fife, vol. vi., 55. i hae naebody noo, i hae naebody noo, vol. ii., 77. i have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, vol. vi., 88. i heard a wee bird singing, vol. v., 32. i heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts amang, vol. iii., 61. i lately lived in quiet ease, vol. ii., 62. i like to spring in the morning bricht, vol. v., 98. i 'll no be had for naething, vol. i., 230. i 'll no walk by the kirk, mother, vol. vi., 42. i 'll sing of yon glen of red heather, vol. ii., 74. i 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie may, vol. v., 155. i 'll think on thee, love, when thy bark, vol. vi., 50. i 'll think o' thee, my mary steel, vol. iv., 268. i 'll twine a gowany garland, vol. vi., 105. i lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, vol. i., 90. i love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true, vol. vi., 144. i love the free ridge of the mountain, vol. iii., 108. i love the merry moonlight, vol. iv., 135. i love the sea, i love the sea, vol. iv., 162. i 'm afloat, i 'm afloat on the wild sea waves, vol. vi., 187. i mark'd her look of agony, vol. iii., 167. i 'm a very little man, vol. vi., 147. i 'm away, i 'm away like a thing that is wild, vol. v., 255. i 'm naebody noo, though in days that are gane, vol. v., 182. i 'm now a guid farmer, i 've acres o' land, vol. i., 263. i 'm wand'rin' wide this wintry night, vol. v., 158. i 'm wearin' awa', john, vol. i., 196. i met four chaps yon birks amang, vol. ii., 208. in a dream of the night i was wafted away, vol. iii. 257. in a howm, by a burn, where the brown birks grow, vol. vi., 234. in all its rich wildness her home she is leaving, vol. i., 200. in a saft simmer gloamin', vol. iii., 236. in distant years when other arms, vol. v., 123. i neither got promise of siller nor land, vol. iii., 147. i never thocht to thole the waes, vol. iv., 221. in her chamber, vigil keeping, vol. vi., 213. in life's gay morn, when hopes beat high, vol. iii., 42. in that home was joy and sorrow, vol. vi., 184. in the morning of life, when its sunny smile, vol. iii., 200. i pray for you of your courtesy, before we further move, vol. v., 144. i remember the time, thou roaring sea, vol. vi., 13. isabel mackay is with the milk kye, vol. i., 318. i sat in the vale 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, vol. iv., 60. i saw my true love first on the banks of queenly tay, vol. iii., 121. i see, i see the hirta, the land of my desire, vol. v., 282. i see the wretch of high degree, vol. i., 315. is not the earth a burial-place, vol. v., 269. i sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well i love to rove, vol. v., 92. is our helen very fair, vol. vi., 182. is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, m'crimman, vol. iv., 166. it fell on a morning when we were thrang, vol. i, 146. it has long been my fate to be thought in the wrong, vol. i., 22. it 's dowie in the hint o' hairst, vol. v., 62. it 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad i be, vol. iii., 13. it was an english ladye bright, vol. i., 289. i 've listened to the midnight wind, vol. iii., 203. i 've a guinea i can spend, vol. vi., 22. i 've been upon the moonlit deep, vol. vi., 70. i 've loved thee, old scotia, and love thee i will, vol. ii., 296. i 've met wi' mony maidens fair, vol. vi., 91. i 've no sheep on the mountain nor boat on the lake, vol. i., 132. i 've rocked me on the giddy mast, vol. iii., 20. i 've seen the lily of the wold, vol. iii., 48. i 've seen the smiling summer flower, vol. iv., 245. i 've wander'd east, i 've wander'd west, vol. iii., 233. i 've wander'd on the sunny hill, i 've wander'd in the vale, vol. iv., 192. i wadna gi'e my ain wife, vol. iv., 246. i walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' yarrow, vol. iii., 86. i wander'd alane at the break o' the mornin', vol. vi., 89. i warn you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh, vol. ii., 197. i wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to kelvin's leafy shade, vol. v., 274. i will sing a song of summer, vol. vi., 186. i will think of thee yet, though afar i may be, vol. iv., 167. i will wake my harp when the shades of even, vol. iv., 170. i winna bide in your castle ha's, vol. iv., 229. i winna gang back to my minny again, vol. ii., 248. i winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, vol. iv., 63. i wish i were where helen lies, vol. i., 111. jenny's heart was frank and free, vol. i., 114. john anderson, my jo, john, vol. i., 155. joy of my earliest days, vol. i., 203. keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' gleniffer, vol. ii., 141. land of my fathers! night's dark gloom, vol. iii., 167. land of my fathers, i leave thee in sadness, vol. vi., 207. lane on the winding earn there stands, vol. i., 223. lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, vol. iv., 224. lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan, vol. iv., 168. lassie wi' the gowden hair, vol. i., 87. last midsummer's morning, as going to the fair, vol. i., 123. lat me look into thy face, jeanie, vol. vi., 135. leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower, vol. iv., 76. leave the city's busy throng, vol. vi., 143. let highland lads, wi' belted plaids, vol. iv., 77. let ither anglers choose their ain, vol. v., 222. let the maids of the lowlands, vol. iii., 272. let the proud indian boast of his jessamine bowers, vol. iv., 177. let us go, lassie, go, vol. ii., 143. let us haste to kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, o, vol. iv., 264. let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, vol. iii., 146. life's pleasure seems sadness and care, vol. vi., 194. liking is a little boy, vol. vi., 120. listen to me, as when ye heard our father, vol. iii., 183. lock the door, lariston, lion of liddisdale, vol. ii., 75. look up, old friend, why hang thy head, vol. vi., 199. lord ronald came to his lady's bower, vol. ii., 181. loudon's bonnie woods and braes, vol. ii., 137. love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green, vol. iii., 188. love flies the haunts of pomp and power, vol. v., 79. love is timid, love is shy, vol. iii., 196. loved land of my kindred, farewell, and for ever, vol. iv., 111. lovely maiden, art thou sleeping, vol. iii., 76. lowland lassie, wilt thou go, vol. ii., 151. 'mang a' the lasses young and braw, vol. iii., 214. meet me on the gowan lea, vol. v., 147. meg muckin' at geordie's byre, vol. i., 244. men of england, who inherit, vol. ii., 268. mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty, vol. v., 37. more dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands, vol. iv., 57. mourn for the mighty dead, vol. vi., 21. mournfully, oh, mournfully, vol. iii., 239. musing, we sat in our garden bower, vol. v., 100. my beauty dark, my glossy bright, vol. ii., 347. my beauty of the shieling, vol. vi., 250. my bessie, oh, but look upon these bonnie budding flowers, vol. iv., 189. my bonnie wee bell was a mitherless bairn, vol. v., 67. my bonnie wee wifie, i 'm waefu' to leave thee, vol. v., 13. my brothers are the stately trees, vol. iv., 254. my brown dairy, brown dairy, vol. ii., 327. my couthie auld wife, aye blithsome to see, vol. vi., 102. my darling is the philabeg, vol. v., 290. my dearest, wilt thou follow, vol. vi., 252. my dear little lassie, why, what 's the matter? vol. i., 246. my hawk is tired of perch and hood, vol. i., 298. my lassie is lovely, as may-day adorning, vol. iii., 48. my love, come let us wander, vol. iii., 197. my love 's in germanie, send him hame, send him hame, vol. i., 95. my luve 's a flower in garden fair, vol. v., 189. my mother bids me bind my hair, vol. i., 41. my mountain hame, my mountain hame, vol. iv., 194. my name it is donald m'donald, vol. ii., 48. my native land, my native land, vol. vi., 206. my soul is ever with thee, vol. v., 106. my spirit could its vigil hold, vol. iv., 152. my tortured bosom long shall feel, vol. iii., 141. my wee wife dwells in yonder cot, vol. iv., 187. my wife 's a winsome wee thing, vol. ii., 299. my young heart's luve! twal' years hae been, vol. iv., 259. my young, my fair, my fair-haired mary, vol. i., 335. nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn-side, vol. iii., 227. name the leaves on all the trees, vol. vi., 118. never despair! when the dark cloud is lowering, vol. v., 75. night turns to day, vol. i., 255. no homeward scene near me, vol. iv., 290. no more by thy margin, dark carron, vol. vi., 202. no one knows what silent secrets, vol. vi., 24. no sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread, vol. iv., 61. no sound was heard o'er the broom-covered valley, vol. iv., 86. not the swan on the lake, or the foam on the shore, vol. iv., 281. now bank and brae are clad in green, vol. ii., 245. now, jenny lass, my bonnie bird, vol. ii., 92. now, mary, now, the struggle 's o'er, vol. iii., 229. now rests the red sun in his caves of the ocean, vol. ii., 254. now simmer decks the field wi' flowers, vol. ii., 304. now smiling summer's balmy breeze, vol. ii., 229. now summer shines with gaudy pride, vol. ii., 116. now the beams of may morn, vol. iii., 149. now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea, vol. iii., 177. now winter wi' his cloudy brow, vol. ii., 147. now winter's wind sweeps o'er the mountains, vol. i., 165. oh! are ye sleeping, maggie, vol. ii., 156. oh! away to the tweed, vol. v., 94. oh, beautiful and bright thou art, vol. vi., 197. oh, blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft, vol. i., 124. oh, blessing on her star-like e'en, vol. v., 102. oh! blessing on thee, land, vol. v., 104. oh, bonnie are the howes, vol. iv., 200. oh, bonnie buds yon birchen-tree, vol. ii., 240. oh, bonnie nelly brown, i will sing a song to thee, vol. v., 276. oh, bonnie 's the lily that blooms in the valley, vol. v., 194. oh, brave caledonians, my brothers, my friends, vol. iii., 114. oh, bright the beaming queen o' night, vol. v., 146. oh, castell gloom! thy strength is gone, vol. i., 221. oh, charlie is my darling, vol. iii., 53. oh, come my bonnie bark, vol. iii., 16. oh, come with me for the queen of night, vol. iii., 59. october winds wi' biting breath, vol. ii., 203. o dear, dear to me, vol. vi., 92. oh! dear to my heart are my heather-clad mountains, vol. v., 239. oh! dear were the joys that are past, vol. iii., 62. oh, dinna ask me gin i lo'e thee, vol. v., 78. oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, vol. v., 43. oh, dinna cross the burn, willie, vol. v., 150. oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' beneath your ken, vol. v., 204. oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, i 'm gaun to leave thee, vol. i., 96. oh, distant, but dear, is that sweet island wherein, vol. ii., 109. o'er mountain and valley, vol. iii., 169. o'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying, vol. v., 47. of learning long a scantling was the portion of the gael, vol. v., 295. of nelson and the north, vol. ii., 265. of streams that down the valley run, vol. ii., 129. oh, gentle sleep wilt thou lay thy head, vol. iii., 90. oh, gin i were where gadie rins, vol. iv., 117. oh, grand bounds the deer o'er the mountain, vol. i., 55. oh, guess ye wha i met yestreen, vol. vi., 129. oh, hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, vol. iv., 218. oh, hast thou forgotten the birk-tree's shade, vol. iv., 269. oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo! vol. v., 108. oh, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, vol. ii., 263. o hi', o hu', she 's sad for scolding, vol. v., 288. oh! how can i be cheerie in this hameless ha', vol. iii., 125. oh, how i love the evening hour, vol. v., 265. oh! i have traversed lands afar, vol. v., 12. oh! i lo'ed my lassie weel, vol. iii., 253. o june, ye spring the loveliest flowers, vol. v., 44. oh, lady, twine no wreath for me, vol. i., 302. oh, lassie! i lo'e dearest, vol. v., 47. oh, lassie! if thou 'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, vol. iv., 65. oh, lassie! wilt thou gang wi' me, vol. iii., 65. oh, lassie! wilt thou go? vol. ii., 287. old scotland, i love thee, thou 'rt dearer to me, vol. v., 250. oh, leave me not! the evening hour, vol. v., 74. oh, leeze me on the bonnie lass, vol. ii., 178. oh, let na gang yon bonnie lassie, vol. v., 58. oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, vol. v., 270. oh, many a true highlander, many a liegeman, vol. iii., 280. oh! mary, while thy gentle cheek, vol. v., 122. oh, merrily and gallantly, vol. v., 116. oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, marion, vol. i., 56. oh, mony a turn of woe and weal, vol. i., 347. oh, mony a year has come and gane, vol. v., 20. oh, my lassie, our joy to complete again, vol. ii., 54. oh, my love, leave me not, vol. i., 106. oh! my love 's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie, vol. v., 52. oh! my love is very lovely, vol. vi., 8. oh, my love was fair as the siller clud, vol. vi., 173. once more on the broad-bosom'd ocean appearing, vol. iv., 199. once more in the highlands i wander alone, vol. v., 257. oh, neighbours! what had i to do for to marry? vol. i., 139. on, on to the fields where of old, vol. iv., 56. on fair clydeside thair wonnit ane dame, vol. v., 119. on thee, eliza, dwell my thoughts, vol. ii., 173. on the greensward lay william in anguish extended, vol. ii., 163. on the airy ben-nevis the wind is awake, vol. iv., 250. on the banks o' the burn, while i pensively wander, vol. ii., 316. on the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood, vol. iv., 105. on this unfrequented plain, vol. ii., 294. o our childhood's once delightful hours, vol. iii., 198. or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, vol. v., 193. oh, saft is the blink o' thine e'e, lassie, vol. v., 208. oh, sarely may i rue the day, vol. ii., 58. oh, sair i feel the witching power, vol. iii., 192. oh, saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, vol. i., 82. oh, saw ye this sweet, bonnie lassie o' mine, vol. ii., 70. oh, saw ye this sweet, bonnie lassie o' mine, vol. iv., 271. oh! say na you maun gang awa, vol. iv., 201. oh! say not life is ever drear, vol. v., 88. oh! say not o' war the young soldier is weary, vol. iv., 214. oh! say not 'tis the march wind, 'tis a fiercer blast that drives, vol. v., 293. oh! say not, my love, with that mortified air, vol. i., 305. oh, softly sighs the westlin' breeze, vol. v., 167. oh, some will tune their mournful strain, vol. i., 232. oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain, vol. iii., 134. o sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn-tree, vol. v., 187. o sweet is the calm, dewy gloamin', vol iv., 247. oh, sweet were the hours, vol. iii., 94. oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark, vol. vi., 154. o tell me, bonnie young lassie, vol. i., 85. oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear, vol. iv., 69. oh, that i were the shaw in, vol. ii., 329. oh, the auld house, the auld house! vol. i., 224. oh! the bonnie hieland hills, vol. iv., 230. oh, the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet, vol. ii., 19. oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, vol. iii., 266. oh! the happy time departed, vol. vi., 17. oh! the sunny peaches glow, vol. iii., 150. o these are not my country's hills, vol. iv., 127. oh, to bound o'er the bonnie, blue sea, vol. iv., 133. oh! the land of hills is the land for me, vol. iv., 270. oh! the winning charm of gentleness, so beautiful to me, vol. v., 242. oh, there 's naebody hears widow miller complain, vol. v., 237. our ain native land, our ain native land, vol. iv., 54. oh, tuneful voice, i still deplore, vol. i., 44. our mary liket weel to stray, vol. iv., 70. our minstrels a', frae south to north, vol. iii., 95. our native land, our native vale, vol. iii., 106. ours is the land of gallant hearts, vol. iv., 51. oh, wae be to the orders that march'd my love awa, vol. iii., 238. oh! wae's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, vol. vi., 148. oh, wae 's my life, and sad my heart, vol. v., 17. oh, waft me to the fairy clime, vol. iv., 92. oh! waste not thy woe on the dead, nor bemoan him, vol. vi., 126. oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie peggie, o! vol. iii., 227. oh, weel's me on my ain man, vol. i., 204. oh, weel befa' the maiden gay, vol. ii., 64. oh, weel i lo'e our auld scots sangs, vol. v., 85. oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, vol. iii., 201. oh! we hae been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, vol. vi., 236. oh, wha 's at the window, wha, wha, wha? vol. iv., 253. oh, what are the chains of love made of, vol. iv., 136. oh, what care i where love was born, vol. v., 11. oh! what is in this flaunting town, vol. vi., 203. oh, when shall i visit the land of my birth, vol. i., 254. oh, where are the pretty men of yore, vol. v., 129. oh, where has the exile his home, vol. iv., 250. oh, where snared ye that bonnie, bonnie bird, vol. v., 14. oh, where, tell me where is your highland laddie gone, vol. i., 104. oh! why left i my hame, vol. iii., 264. o! why should old age so much wound us, vol. i., 20. oh! will ye go to yon burn-side, vol. iii., 68. oh! will ye walk the wood wi' me, vol. iv., 273. oh! would i were throned on yon glossy golden cloud, vol. iv., 139. oh! would that the wind that is sweeping now, vol. iv., 180. oh! years hae come an' years hae gane, vol. iv., 193. oh, yes, there 's a valley as calm and as sweet, vol. iv., 255. o ye tears! o ye tears! that have long refused to flow, vol. vi., 18. oh, young lochinvar is come out of the west, vol. i., 290. peace be upon their banners, vol. v., 224. phoebus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast, vol. v., 51. preserve us a' what shall we do, vol. ii., 99. put off, put off, and row with speed, vol. ii., 179. quoth rab to kate, my sonsy clear, vol. ii., 94. raise high the battle-song, vol. iii., 131. red gleams the sun on yon hill tap, vol. i., 55. reft the charm of the social shell, vol. iii., 276. removed from vain fashion, vol. iv., 80. returning spring, with gladsome ray, vol. i., 169. rise, little star, vol. vi., 224. rise, my love! the moon unclouded, vol. iv., 149. rise, rise, lowland and highlandman, vol. iv., 115. rise, romans, rise at last, vol. vi., 216. rising o'er the heaving billow, vol. v., 29. robin is my ain gudeman, vol. i. 205. roy's wife of aldivalloch, vol. i., 52. saw ye johnnie comin', quo' she, vol. i. 145. saw ye my annie, vol. iv., 121. saw ye nae my peggie, vol. i., 208. say wilt thou, leila, when alone, vol. vi., 40. scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, vol. ii., 251. scotia's thistle guards the grave, vol. iv., 50. scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains, vol. vi., 33. see the moon o'er cloudless jura, vol. iii., 196. see the winter clouds around, vol. ii., 87. send a horse to the water, ye 'll no mak him drink, vol. i., 219. shadows of glory, the twilight is parting, vol. vi., 139. shall i leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear, vol. iii, 99. she died, as die the roses, vol. vi., 256. she died in beauty, like a rose, vol. iv., 177. she 's aff and awa, like the lang simmer day, vol. iv., 124. she 's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, vol. iii., 9. she was mine when the leaves of the forest were green, vol. iii., 116. she was naebody's bairn, she was naebody's bairn, vol. v., 200. should my numbers essay to enliven a lay, vol. i., 352. sing a' ye bards wi' loud acclaim, vol. iii., 139. sing not to me of sunny shores, vol. vi., 155. sing on, fairy devon, vol. vi., 104. sing on, thou little bird, vol. ii., 286. sister jeanie, haste, we 'll go, vol. v., 166. soldier, rest! thy warfare 's o'er, vol. i., 294. songs of my native land, vol. i., 220. star of descending night, vol. iv., 92. stay, proud bird of the shore, vol. iv., 141. st leonard's hill was lightsome land, vol. i., 228. sublime is scotia's mountain land, vol. vi., 169. summer ocean, vol. vi., 61. surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, vol. i., 265. sweet bard of ettrick's glen, vol. iv., 75. sweet 's the gloamin's dusky gloom, vol. vi., 94. sweet 's the dew-deck'd rose in june, vol. iv., 101. sweetly shines the sun on auld edinbro' toun, vol. iv., 239. sweet summer now is by, vol. iv., 275. sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, vol. vi., 254. talk not of temples--there is one, vol. iii., 152. taste life's glad moments, ii., 212. tell me, jessie, tell me why? vol. i., 122. tell me, dear! in mercy speak, vol. vi., 131. the auld meal mill, oh! the auld meal mill, vol. v., 230. the bard strikes his harp the wild valleys among, vol. ii., 249. the bard strikes his harp the wild woods among, vol. v., 50. the beacons blazed, the banners flew, vol. v., 38. the best o' joys maun hae an end, vol. i., 209. the blackbird's hymn is sweet, vol. iv., 145. the bonnie, bonnie bairn, sits pokin' in the ase, vol. v., 201. the bonnie rowan bush, vol. iv., 231. the bonniest lass in a' the warld, vol. i., 201. the breath o' spring is gratefu', vol. v., 143. the bride she is winsome and bonnie, vol. i., 148. the bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me, vol. iv., 223. the cantie spring scarce reared her head, vol. iii., 52. the cranreuch's on my head, vol. vi., 107. the dark gray o' gloamin', vol. iv., 243. the dawn is breaking, but lonesome and eerie, vol. iii., 274. the daylight was dying, the twilight was dreary, vol. vi., 72. the dreary reign of winter's past, vol. v., 55. the e'e o' the dawn, eliza, vol. iv., 146. the fairies are dancing, how nimbly they bound, vol. ii., 273. the favouring wind pipes aloft in the shrouds, vol. vi., 26. the fields, the streams, the skies, are fair, vol. v., 267. the gathering clans 'mong scotia's glens, vol. iv., 52. the gloamin' star was showerin', vol. vi., 106. the gloom of dark despondency, vol. vi., 193. the gloomy days are gone, vol. v., 218. the golden smile of morning, vol. vi., 122. the gowan glitters on the sward, vol. i., 143. the happy days of yore, vol. vi., 156. the harvest morn breaks, vol. iv., 266. the hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon cliff, vol. i., 168. the heath this night must be my bed, vol. i., 297. the highland hills, there are songs of mirth, vol. vi., 168. the ingle cheek is bleezin' bricht, vol. v., 235. their nest was in the leafy bush, vol. i., 206. the king is on his throne, wi' his sceptre an' his croon, vol. v., 216. the laird o' cockpen, he 's proud and he 's great, vol. i., 198. the lake is at rest, love, vol. iv., 85. the land i lo'e, the land i lo'e, vol. iv., 215. the lark has left the evening cloud, vol. iii., 10. the last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', vol. iii., 221. the lily of the vale is sweet, vol. v., 35. the little comer 's coming, the comer o'er the sea, vol. v., 132. the loved of early days, vol. iv., 179. the love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, vol. iv., 93. the maidens are smiling in rocky glencoe, vol. vi., 130. the maid is at the altar kneeling, vol. iv., 160. the maid who wove the rosy wreath, vol. iv., 96. the midges dance aboon the burn, vol. ii., 149. the mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie, vol. i., 231. the moon hung o'er the gay greenwood, vol. iv., 140. the moon shone in fits, vol. ii., 221. the moon was a waning, vol. ii., 78. the mother with her blooming child, vol. v., 172. the music of the night, vol. iii., 217. the music o' the year is hush'd, vol. ii., 161. the neighbours a' they wonder how, vol. ii., 293. the night winds eolian breezes, vol. iv., 265. the noble otter hill, vol. i., 337. the oak is britain's pride, vol. v., 223. the parting kiss, the soft embrace, vol. iii., 90. the primrose is bonnie in spring, vol. iii., 174. there are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, vol. vi., 209. there grew in bonnie scotland, vol. ii., 186. there grows a bonnie brier-bush in our kail-yard, vol. i., 215. there is a bonnie blushing flower, vol. v., 256. there is a concert in the trees, vol. iv., 208. there is a pang for every heart, vol. iii., 148. there is music in the storm, love, vol. vi., 180. there lived a lass in inverness, vol. iii., 14. there lives a lassie i' the braes, vol. i., 24. there lives a young lassie, vol. iv., 116. there 's a thrill of emotion, half painful, half sweet, vol. iii., 222. there 's cauld kail in aberdeen, vol. i., 48. there 's cauld kail in aberdeen, vol. i., 210. there 's high and low, there 's rich and poor, vol. i., 194. there 's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, vol. vi., 128. there 's mony a flower beside the rose, vol. iv., 188. there 's music in the flowing tide, there 's music in the air, vol. ii., 275. there 's music in a mother's voice, vol. vi., 51. there 's nae covenant noo, lassie, vol. ii., 187. there 's nae hame like the hame o' youth, vol. iv., 228. there 's nae love like early love, vol. iii., 185. there 's nane may ever guess or trow my bonnie lassie's name, vol. v., 206. there 's some can be happy and bide whar they are, vol. vi., 163. there was a musician wha play'd a good stick, vol. i., 271. the rosebud blushing to the morn, vol. ii., 105. the rover o' lochryan, he 's gane, vol. v., 64. the scotch blue bell, vol. v., 233. the season comes when first we met, vol. i., 43. the sea, the deep, deep sea, vol. iii., 218. the shadows of evening fall silent around, vol. vi., 146. the sky in beauty arch'd, vol. iv., 154. the skylark sings his matin lay, vol. vi., 63. the soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd-boy his crook; vol. v., 68. the spring comes back to woo the earth, vol. v., 156. the storm grew faint as daylight tinged, vol. iv., 212. the summer comes wi' rosy wreaths, vol. vi., 36. the sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, vol. ii., 175. the sun-down had mantled ben nevis with night vol. iv., 287. the sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow, vol. iii., 129. the sun has gane down o'er the lofty ben lomond, vol. ii., 136. the sun is setting on sweet glengarry, vol. ii., 176. the sun is sunk, the day is done, vol. i., 133. the sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, vol. i., 41. the sunny days are come, my love, vol. vi., 172. the sweets o' the simmer invite us to wander, vol. ii., 305. the tears i shed must ever fall, vol. i., 168. the tempest is raging, vol. iii., 151. the troops were all embarked on board, vol. i., 115. the weary sun 's gane down the west, vol. ii., 154. the widow is feckless, the widow 's alane, vol. v., 200. the wild rose blooms in drummond woods, vol. iv., 236. the women are a' gane wud, vol. i., 227. the year is wearing to an end, vol. ii., 79. they 're stepping off, the friends i knew, vol. vi., 45. they speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, vol. iii., 122. they tell me first and early love, vol. vi., 73. they tell me o' a land whar the sky is ever clear, vol. vi., 212. thou bonnie wood o' craigie lee, vol. ii., 153. thou cauld gloomy feberwar, vol. iii., 164. thou dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, vol. v., 114. thou gentle and kind one, vol. v., 128. thou hast left me, dear dermot, to cross the wide sea, vol. iv., 107. thou hast sworn by thy god, my jeanie, vol. iii., 17. though all fair was that bosom heaving white, vol. iv., 67. though fair blooms the rose in gay anglia's bowers, vol. iv., 217. though long the wanderer may depart, vol. vi., 225. though richer swains thy love pursue, vol. i., 134. though siller tweed rin o'er the lea, vol. ii., 104. though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, vol. ii., 117. though this wild brain is aching, vol. iv., 155. thou ken'st, mary hay, that i lo'e thee weel, vol. ii., 167. thou morn full of beauty, vol. v., 140. through crockstoun castle's lanely wa's, vol. ii., 144. thus sang the minstrel cormack, his anguish to beguile, vol. iii., 275. thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, vol. ii., 244. thy queenly hand, victoria, vol. v., 264. thy wily eyes, my darling, vol. iv., 292. 'tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land, vol. iv., 153. 'tis haena ye heard, man, o' barrochan jean, vol. ii., 150. 'tis not the rose upon the cheek, vol. iii., 60. 'tis sair to dream o' them we like, vol. iii., 266. 'tis sweet wi' blithesome heart to stray, vol. v., 186. 'tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawing, vol. v., 258. 'tis the first rose o' summer that opes to my view, vol. iii., 264. 'tis yule! 'tis yule! all eyes are bright, vol. vi., 65. together, dearest, we have play'd, vol. v., 22. to live in cities, and to join, vol. v., 245. touch once more a sober measure, vol. iii., 178. to scotland's ancient realm, vol. v., 272. to wander lang in foreign lands, vol. iii., 210. true love is water'd aye wi' tears, vol. i., 233. trust not these seas again, vol. vi., 232. tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves, vol. vi., 76. 'twas a balmy summer gloamin', vol. vi., 158. 'twas on a monday morning, vol. ii., 61. 'twas on a simmer afternoon, vol. i., 213. 'twas summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, vol. i., 72. 'twas when december's dark'ning scowl the face of heaven o'ercast, vol. vi., 239. 'twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', vol. ii., 314. up with the dawn, ye sons of toil, vol. vi., 142. waken, lords and ladies gay, vol. i., 304. walkin' out ae mornin' early, vol. iii., 24. warlike chieftains now assembled, vol. v., 40. weep away, heart, weep away, vol. vi., 59. weep not over poet's wrong, vol. vi., 69. welcome, pretty little stranger, vol. i., 257. we 'll meet beside the dusky glen on yon burn-side, vol. ii., 140. we 'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us, vol. iv., 53. we part, yet wherefore should i weep, vol. v., 105. were i a doughty cavalier, vol. v., 127. were i but able to rehearse, vol. i., 17. we were baith neebor bairns, thegither we play'd, vol. vi., 185. wha 'll buy caller herrin', vol. i, 195. whan jamie first woo'd me he was but a youth, vol. iii., 25. whare hae ye been a' day, vol. i., 83. what ails my heart--what dims my e'e? vol. v., 253. what ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain? vol. vi., 78. what are the flowers of scotland, vol. ii., 66. what fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart, vol. vi., 85. what makes this hour a day to me? vol. v., 33. what though ye hae nor kith nor kin, vol. v., 238. what 's this vain world to me, vol. i., 236. what wakes the poet's lyre, vol. iv., 91. when a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame, vol. iii., 123. when autumn comes and heather bells, vol. iv., 132. when charlie to the highlands came, vol. ii., 180. when cities of old days, vol. iv., 156. when first i cam' to be a man, vol. i., 13. when fops and fools together prate, vol. i., 31. when friendship, love, and truth abound, vol. i., 253. when hope lies dead within the heart, vol. i., 45. when i began the world first, vol. i., 33. when i look far down on the valley below me, vol. iv., 169. when i think on the lads and the land i hae left, vol. v., 66. when i think on the sweet smiles o' my lassie, vol. ii., 307. when i was a miller in fife, vol. iii., 92. when katie was scarce out nineteen, vol. i., 157. when loud the horn is sounding, vol. vi., 63. when merry hearts were gay, vol. i., 92. when my flocks upon the heathy hill are lyin' a' at rest, vol. iv., 49. when others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades, vol. v., 153. when rosy day far in the west has vanish'd frae the scene, vol. v., 151. when sets the sun o'er lomond's height, vol. ii., 183. when shall we meet again, vol. iv., 81. when the bee has left the blossom, vol. v., 73. when the fair one and the dear one, vol. ii., 190. when the glen all is still save the stream of the fountain, vol. iv., 58. when the lark is in the air, vol. iii., 158. when the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, vol. iv., 270. when the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms, vol. iv., 79. when the sheep are in the fauld, vol. i., 64. when the star of the morning is set, vol. iv., 66. when the sun gaes down, vol. v., 109. when thy smile was still clouded, vol. ii., 282. when we meet again, lisette, vol. vi., 190. when white was my owrelay, vol. i., 134. when winter winds forget to blaw, vol. i., 268. where manor's stream rins blithe an' clear, vol. iii., 262. where shall the lover rest, vol. i., 292. where the faded flower shall freshen, vol. vi., 230. where windin' tarf, by broomy knowes, vol. iii., 67. while beaux and belles parade the street, vol. iv., 213. while the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, vol. i., 303. why does the day whose date is brief, vol. iii., 202. why gaze on that pale face, vol. vi., 161. why is my spirit sad, vol. vi., 41. why tarries my love, vol. i., 68. wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an a', vol. i., 226. wifie, come hame, vol. v., 203. wi' heart sincere i love thee, bell, vol. iii., 54. will ye gang o'er the lea rig, vol. i., 202. will ye go to the highlands, my mary, vol. iii., 66. will you go to the woodlands with me, with me, vol. v., 180. winter's cauld and cheerless blast, vol. v., 196. with a breezy burst of singing, vol. v., 285. with drooping heart he turn'd away, vol. vi., 218. within the towers of ancient glammis, vol. ii., 88. with laughter swimming in thine eye, vol. iii., 88. with lofty song we love to cheer, vol. v., 23. would that i were where wild woods wave, vol. iv., 68. would you be young again? vol. i., 235. ye briery bields, where roses blaw, vol. ii., 231. ye daisied glens and briery braes, vol. iii., 208. ye dark, rugged rocks that recline o'er the deep, vol. i., 179. ye hameless glens and waving woods, vol. vi., 151. ye have cross'd o'er the wave from the glades where i roved, vol. vi., 195. ye ken whaur yon wee burnie, love, vol. v., 148. ye mariners of england, vol. ii., 262. ye mauna be proud, although ye be great, vol. v., 205. ye needna be courtin' at me, auld man, vol. iv., 222. yes, the shades we must leave which my childhood has haunted, vol. ii., 281. yestreen, as i strayed on the banks o' the clyde, vol. iii., 187. yestreen, on cample's bonnie flood, vol. v., 21. ye swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin', vol. ii., 96. ye 've seen the blooming rosy brier, vol. iv., 249. yon old temple pile, where the moon dimly flashes, vol. v., 174. young donald, dearer loved than life, vol. iv., 113. young love once woo'd a budding rose, vol. vi., 64 young randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed awa, vol. v., 126. your foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, vol. v., 84. you 've surely heard of famous neil, vol, ii., 86. index of authors affleck, james, vol. iii., 38. ainslie, hew, vol. v., 60. aird, marion paul, vol. v., 258. aird, thomas, vol. v., 131. allan, george, vol. iv., 163. allan, robert, vol. ii., 169. anderson, rev. j. g. torry, vol. iv., 158. anderson, william, vol. v., 178. atkinson, thomas, vol. iv., 122. baillie, joanna, vol. i., 126. bald, alexander, vol. v., 34. balfour, alexander, vol. ii., 101. ballantine, james, vol. v., 198. barnard, lady ann, vol. i., 58. bell, henry glassford, vol. vi., 39. bennet, william, vol. vi., 47. bennoch, francis, vol. v., 1. bethune, alexander, vol. iv., 203. bethune, john, vol. iv., 203. blackie, john stuart, vol. vi., 109. blair, william, vol. v., 82. bonar, horatius, d.d., vol. vi., 229. boswell, sir alex., bart., vol. ii., 204. brockie, william, vol. vi., 78. brown, colin rae, vol. vi., 159. brown, james, vol. iii., 186. brown, john, vol. iv., 286. brown, thomas., m.d., vol. ii., 278. brydson, thomas, vol. iv., 172. buchanan, alexander, vol. vi., 89. buchanan, dugald, vol. i., 322. buchan, peter, vol. iii., 162. burns, james d., vol. vi., 224. burtt, john, vol. v., 46. cadenhead, william, vol. vi., 133. cameron, william, senr., vol. i., 35. cameron, william, junr., vol. v., 146. campbell, alexander, vol. i., 161. campbell, john, vol. v., 292. campbell, thomas, vol. ii., 255. carlile, alexander, vol. iv., 252. cathcart, robert, vol. vi., 94. chalmers, william, vol. ii., 285. chambers, robert, vol. v. 124. conolly, erskine, vol. iii., 220. couper, robert, m.d., vol. i., 53. craig, isabella, vol. vi., 182. crawford, archibald, vol. vi., 31. crawford, john, vol. vi., 98. crawford, margaret, vol. vi., 205. cunningham, allan, vol. iii., 1. cunningham, thomas mounsey, vol. ii., 223. davidson, robert, vol. iii. 206. denovan, j. c., vol. iv., 106. dick, thomas, vol. v., 160. dickson, john bathurst, vol. vi., 220. dobie, william, vol. v., 54. dodds, james, vol. vi., 238. donald, george, sen., vol. vi., 35. donald, george, jun., vol. vi., 212. douglas, alexander, vol. ii., 110. drummond, david, vol. iii., 34. dudgeon, william, vol. i., 151. dunbar, william, d.d., vol. v., 28. duncan, henry, d.d., vol. ii., 156. dunlop, john, vol. v., 77. duthie, robert, vol. vi., 187. elliott, thomas, vol. vi., 141. ferguson, william, vol. v., 155. finlay, john, senr., vol. iii., 57. finlay, john, junr., vol. v., 215. finlay, william, vol. iii., 166. finlayson, charles james, vol. v., 49. fleming, charles, vol. v., 153. fletcher, angus, vol. iv., 292. foster, william air, vol. v., 91. fraser, robert, vol. iii., 252. gall, richard, vol. ii., 241. gardiner, william, vol. iv., 126. gibson, allan, vol. vi., 137. gilfillan, robert, vol. iii., 261. gillespie, william, vol. ii., 218. glen, william, vol. iii., 126. goldie, john, vol. iv., 98. gordon, alexander, duke of, vol. i., 46. grant, joseph, vol. iv., 143. grant, mrs, of carron, vol. i., 50. grant, mrs, of laggan, vol. i., 99. gray, charles, vol. iii., 50. grieve, john, vol. iii., 43. halliday, john, vol. vi., 234. hamilton, john, vol. i., 117. hedderwick, james, vol. vi., 67. henderson, george, vol. vi., 227. henderson, james, vol. vi., 165. hendry, robert, m.d., vol. v., 57. hetherington, william, d.d., ll.d., vol. v., 185. hislop, james, vol. iii., 254. hogg, james, vol. ii., 1. hogg, robert, vol. iv., 129. home, james, vol. iv., 267. hume, alexander, sen., vol. iv., 182. hume, alexander, jun., vol. v., 276. hunter, mrs john, vol. i., 39. hunter, john, vol. v., 119. imlah, john, vol. iv., 108. inglis, henry, vol. vi., 59. inglis, mrs margaret m., vol. iv., 73. irving, archibald stirling, vol. iv., 235. jamieson, alexander, vol. iv., 95. jamieson, robert, vol. ii., 288. jamie, william, vol. vi., 96. jeffrey, john, vol. vi., 215. jerdan, william, vol. v., 30. kennedy, duncan, vol. v., 284. king, james, vol. iv., 83. knox, william, vol. iii., 112. laidlaw, william, vol. ii., 310. laing, alexander, vol. iv., 241. latto, thomas c., vol. vi., 127. leighton, robert, vol. vi., 163. lewis, stuart, vol. iii., 27. leyden, john, m.d., vol. ii., 191. little, james, vol. vi., 153. lochore, robert, vol. ii., 91. lockhart, john gibson, vol. iii., 171. logan, william, vol. vi., 151. lyle, thomas, vol. iv., 261. lyon, mrs agnes, vol. ii., 84. macansh, alexander, vol. v., 171. macarthur, mrs mary, vol. v., 111. mackay, charles, ll.d., vol. vi., 1. m'coll, evan, vol. vi., 222. m'diarmid, john, vol. iii., 155. macdonald, alexander, vol. ii., 321. macdonald, james, vol. v., 192. macdonald, john, sen., vol. v., 281. macdonald, john, jun., vol. vi., 254. m'dougall, allan, vol. v., 287. macfarlan, duncan, vol. vi., 249. macfarlan, james, vol. vi., 196. macgregor, james, d.d., vol. v., 294. macgregor, joseph, vol. v., 25. macindoe, george, vol. ii., 106. macintyre, duncan, vol. i., 334. mackay, archibald, vol. v., 85. mackay, robert, sen., vol. i., 309. mackay, robert, jun., vol. ii., 349. mackenzie, kenneth, vol. v., 290. m'lachlan, alexander, vol. vi., 80. m'lachlan, evan, vol. iv., 279. maclagan, alexander, vol. v., 226. maclagan, james, vol. iii., 282. maclardy, james, vol. vi., 171. m'laren, william, vol. ii., 114. macleod, norman, vol. i., 355. macneill, hector, vol. i., 73. macodrum, john, vol. i., 351. macvurich, lachlan, vol. iii., 279. malcolm, john, vol. iii., 215. malone, robert l., vol. iv., 216. manson, james, vol. vi., 61. marshall, charles, vol. v., 97. mathers, thomas, vol. iii., 184. mayne, john, vol. i., 107. menzies, george, vol. iii., 223. mercer, andrew, vol. ii., 189. miller, hugh, vol. v., 161. miller, robert, vol. iv., 179. miller, william, vol. v., 274. mitchell, john, vol. iv., 90. moir, david macbeth, vol. iii., 24. montgomery, james, vol. i., 247. moore, dugald, vol. iv., 147. morrison, john, vol. ii., 346. motherwell, william, vol. iii., 230. muirhead, james, d.d., vol. ii., 81. munro, john, vol. vi., 251. nairn, carolina, baroness, vol. i., 184. nevay, john, vol. iv., 257. nicholson, william, vol. iii., 63. nicol, james, vol. i., 24. nicoll, robert, vol. iv., 225. ogilvy, mrs eliza h., vol. v., 211. outram, george, vol. vi., 54. pagan, isobel, vol. iv., 88. park, andrew, vol. v., 248. part, william, vol. iii., 97. parker, james, vol. v., 116. paul, hamilton, vol. ii., 120. picken, ebenezer, vol. iii., 22. polin, edward, vol. vi., 87. pollok, robert, vol. iv., 103. pringle, james, vol. v., 176. pringle, thomas, vol. iii., 102. ramsay, john, vol. v., 114. reid, william, vol. i., 153. richardson, mrs e. g., vol. ii., 255. riddell, henry scott, vol. iv., 7. riddell, william b. c., vol. vi., 201. ritchie, alexander a., vol. iv., 237. robertson, john, vol. ii., 98. rodger, alexander, vol. iii., 71. roger, peter, vol. iii., 212. ross, william, vol. iii., 271. scadlock, james, vol. ii., 199. scott, andrew, vol. i., 260. scott, george, vol. ii., 253. scott, patrick, vol. vi., 218. scott, sir walter, vol. i., 275. sillery, charles doyne, vol. iv., 174. sim, john, vol. iii., 226. simpson, mrs jane c, vol. v., 241. sinclair, william, vol. v., 263. skinner, john, vol. i., 1. smart, alexander, vol. v., 71. smibert, thomas, vol. iv., 195. stewart, allan, vol. iv., 211. stewart, charles, d.d., vol. iv. 289. stewart, mrs dugald, vol. i., 167. still, peter, vol. iv., 220. stirling, william, m.p., vol. vi., 121. stirrat, james, vol. iii., 40. stoddart, thomas tod, vol. v., 220. struthers, john, vol. ii., 235. stuart, john roy, vol. ii., 340. symington, andrew james, vol. vi., 176. tait, alexander, vol. v., 151. tait, john, vol. i., 70. tannahill, robert, vol. ii., 131. taylor, david, vol. vi., 92. telfer, james, vol. iv., 273. thomson, william, vol. v., 68. train, joseph, vol. ii., 288. tweedie, john, vol. iv., 120. vedder, david, vol. iii., 143. watson, thomas, vol. v., 189. watson, walter, vol. ii., 302. webster, david, vol. iii., 91. weir, daniel, vol. iii., 194. white, robert, vol. v., 136. wilson, alexander, vol. i., 172. wilson, alexander stephen, vol. vi., 192. wilson, george, vol. v., 37. wilson, john, vol. iii., 81. wilson, robert, vol. vi., 84. wilson, william, vol. v., 102. wright, john, vol. iv., 137. young, thomas, vol. vi., 81. younger, john, vol. v., 42. the end. edinburgh: printed by ballantyne and company. 