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GILFILIAN, AHO LETTER ON SIR JOHN FRANKLIN AND THE AKOTIO REGIONS, BIT i»33TE3a liivnra-STOisr DUMOKB. — " A wish->I mind its pow«r, A wish tiial to my latwt hour Shall strongly heate my breast; That I, for pair anld Sootlaad's sake, Some useful plan or book oould make, Or sing a sang at least.*' TEXTH KDITrOSr. DUNDEE : PRINTED BY J. PELLOW, 10 TOP OF MUREAYGATE. 18 6 9. ■■I I i-i^^-H^^^^I *.* * C01«« 64 A Hame Beyond the Skies • ■• 67 Verses to my Annt • •« 70 The Trysting Tree • •• 74 Man to Peace was Born ••• ^ 80 Martha Palmer • •• 85 Welcome to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert 90 The Kirk • •• 94 Stobb'sFair • •• 99 The Murdered Fly— a Tale ••• 104 The Miseries of War • •• 106 Lines on Visiting the Grave of Alexander and John Bethune • •• 110 The Wind • •• 114 Prologue ••• 116 SONOS— Whar are a' the Friends • •• 119 Oh! here Lies Low the Bonny Lass • •• 120 Whea Thinking upon My Sad Fate ••• 122 Hill and Dell axe Decked in Green ••• 128 I now Maun Leave my Lady Fair • •• 126 Com© to yonder Bower my Lassie «•« 126 Winter Nights are Cauld Lassie ••• 127 A Guid New Year to ane and a' ... • •• 129 Bonny, Bonny was the Morn • •• 180 The Blooming Heather, •«•' 181 The Cares of Life • •• 132 Winter is Come -1 133 March of Mesmerism 1 • •• 134 Little Children, .. .. • • 137 -rs mMi W " ' |>Wl^li Hl il n ^' a TO GEO. DUNCAN, ESQ., M.P. FOR DUNDEK Dundee^ 26th January, 1859 HovouRBD Siir^ lo dedioatiDg to jou the Eighth Edition of the Poems and Songs of my Son^ Peter Liyingston^ and also his Lecture on the Grenius and Works of Burns^ as well as his Oration on the Hey. George Gilfillan, his Genius and his Criticism, I mentioned to yon that one of my reasons for the publication was, in oonsequence of having to relinquish ui eztensive busineflB in the book trade, occasioned by severe personal afSiotion^ during a period of more than ten years; and also to do justice to my own feelings, as well as to fulfil a wish of the Au« thor; your honour having formerly become his first sub- Bcribor for the original edition, the sale of which was considerable; — the Seven Editions extending to upwards of 6000 copies. These are some of the reasons which have induced me to solicit your indulgence; and I shall never forget the kind and generous manner in which you not only per- mitted the dedication, but feelingly expressed, that if your consent could be of any service in forwarding my design it would afford you the utmost pleasure. ^"^TT!?!!^^*!"! Allow me, dear Sir, simplj to say, that I sincerely thank you for this expression of your kindness. And I beg leave to add, that so long as Dundee is soreened from the northern blast by the beautiftil hill behind it— so long as the grass grows on the Magdalen Green- so long as the border of that green is adorned by the F»nc»— -so long as your school shall exist for the in- stttwtion of poor childfen«-s0 long will tht-name of* George Duncan be held in grateful remembrance—and ttat you may live long to enjoy that popularity and es- teem which you have so honourably earned, is HONOURXD SlE, The eamett wish of your faithful and obedient Servant, WILLIAM LIVINGSTON. • The beautiful villa of the Honourable Member for Dundee. tV. NOTICE OP THE AUTHOR. The Author of the following poems, songs,' lectures i and letters, was born in Dundee, on the 20th of Janu- ary 1823. His father, after residing twenty years in , Perth, bad remoTed at the previous Martinma<), and was for many years a bookseller and stationer in Dundee, .His grandfather was James Livingston,— who, at the epd of the last and the beginning of the present century, possessed a farm pn the Laigh Fields of Hayston, in the parish of Glammies, on the princely estate of the noble family of Strath more—who expired three hours after the ..death of his second wife in 1826, and both were, buried in one grave in Glammisa church-yard. His maternal -grandfather was Charles Laing, a wright in Perth—was eminent for Christian piety. He died 1806; — the poet's . mother is his elde stdaughter,* •Mr (afterwards Sir Walter) Scott, when about to publish one 6f his earliest works, was anxious to obtain some information about the classic ground of Lyndoch,— its mansion house, the grave of Bessy Bell and Mar j Gray, all of which are so romantic- ally situated on the banks of the Almond— and for that purpose waited on the amiablef and aged Major Barry, then residing ac Perth, but fprmerlyproprieter and (with hia equally amiable lady) Jmprover of that beautiful estate. Having obtained from the M^jor ample information— particularly about the means he used .toaaeeitaia tha exact spot where the bones of the beauties lay — the Major's servant (afterwards the poets n^other) was desire • •• via 7. % During his infancy and childhood he tihibited an affectionate and kindly disposition, and a contemplative turn of mind manifested itself as his years increased. When a mere boy. he great'y admired the Preaching of the Rev. Mr Roxburgh of the Cross Church, and always spoke of him with the greatest enthusism. By a spark kindled at this flame, or some other cause, he about this time expressed an earnest desire to become a preacher; and in proof thereof early in the mornings, would rise from his bed, place himself with a table and a Bible before him, inducing a younger brother to rise and sit in front of the table to act as precentor. Serrice was begun in right earnest; but sometimes the singing and often the sermon, would be interrupted by the visit of a pillow coming in contact with the person of the orator, and make him bow to his audience^ to the no small astonishment of the baby precentor,— this addi^ tion to the congregation being ejected from the bed of an elder brother, the preacher having disturbed the car- penter's repose. Aftervrards, the far-famed sermon, by the Rev. George Gilflllan, entitled "Hades, or the Unseen," made its appearance, and the poet took fire at what he considered severe criticism upon that production, and published a phamphlet in reply, entitled " Hades, to place some refreshment on the table, when Mr Soott made some remarks on her beautifully fair hair; and he afterwards mentioned to one in the establishment of his publishers, that that, and her otherwise prepossessing and unassuming appearance suggested to him the title of his novel, ' The Fair Maid of Perth/ —and added, tradition has it, that Catherine Glover, though well favoured and of ruddy countenace, was not fair but possess, edofooal Maokhair. ix or what has it's Opponents Proved?" in which, young as he was, he defended some of the sentiments con tained in tho sermon, and opposed the ideas expressed by the critics, with considerable ability, ingenuity, and skill. Ere this some of his earliest verses appeared in a few of the periodicals with which the locality was then teeming; and they were generally well received i whiah no doubt, induced him to collect and publish them in a small volume, consisting of eight hundred copies, which were all subscribed for in a very short time. Thus encouraged, he composed some additional piecesj, which appeared in subsequent editions, — and in visiting the neighbouring towns he was well patronized and the press reviewed the work very favourably. At Brechin, Lord Panmnre patronised it very handsomely; on going farther north, several hundred copies were sold — and the Earls of Airlie and Kintore became sub- scribers. Afterwards, his progress in Perth and Fife was very successful, and the Professors of 6t Andrews College nearly all subscribed; on vishing Edinburgh, Lords Jeffery and Robertson, with several of the other Lords of Session, and; a number of the Professors were among his patrons; on going to Glasgow, two editions of the work were called for, and the Earl of E«rlinffton became its efficient patron. It may be here remarked, that during the author's progress, as above stated, the ministers of the Gospel of all denominations subscribed for the work in great numbers, and their kindly senti- ments often expressed towards him, appeared to have left a deep feeling of gratitude on his mind. He now went ta a celebrated college in England, where he studied with success; afterwards preached with acceptance: de- livered m^ny orations on theology and other popular fiuhjects, among which was his lecture on Burns, and his ^eling lecture on Dr Dick, the Christian Philosopher. He IB now in London, on the wide field of literPiure. His oration on the Rev. George Gilfillan, hln genius and cnioism, likewise his Letter oi^ Sir John Franklin and the Arctic Regions, with lectures and addresses to vari- ous hcerary societies in and about th« Metropolis, form part of his present eflFoits. ,\-.s THE FOLLOWING LETTER WA3 ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR % late fad |e%. " 24 MoEAT Place, 30th December, 1846. "Dear Sin, *' I have now read through your little volume, and with very considerable Batisfaotion; but have scarcely anything to add to what I said to you personally, after I had perused but a part of it. The marked superiority of what I understand to be your later compositions, gives good reason to look for still greater improvement in those you may produce in future; you are stm young enough to contemplate great advances, and become a pleasing versifier, and express amiable sentiments and domestic a£fections in a natural and touching way. '' The thoughtful and tender parts are decidedly the best, and some of the songs are not without merit. " You asked my siitoem opinion of your work. The expression of is, the talent you possess, if rightly esti- mated, may always aflford you an innocent and elegant affius4i24§nt, aiid obtain for you the notice and regard zu of many who may btf of use to you: and with thest advantages I trust you will have sense enough to be gatia- fied. " In the meantime, believe me, with all good wishes, Your faithful and obedient servant, "P.JEFFREY." To Mr Peter Livingston, Dundee.*' The above letter iras highly appreciated by the author, as a valuable gift from that prince of critics and , highly gifted and Creat man. SECOND EDITION op ADDRESSED TO THE QUEEN, ON SIR JOHN FRANKLIN, AXD THB ARCTIC REGIONS. May it please your Majesty^ The theme upon which I take the the liberty to address yon is invested with a deep ana distressing interest. There are concerned in it the lives and deaths of many individuals, the hopes and fears of icany hearts. Your Majesty will pardon me being somewhat minute — I shall not be lengthy — as^ on this subject, I address not your Majesty alone, but also the public, in whom there exists an ardent desire to know all that can be known in this important question. It may be of im- portance briefly to enquire into the causes that have led to our earnest exertions on the subject. Wherefore is it that man has sacrificed life — left friends, home, and country? Why has Government spent so much money and beei; so unwearied in its exertions to explore the 14 unknown region, of the Korth, where i. nothing Ut eter , ».! .oe and »ow? This question is answered to ,1'. ^n extent by onr knowledge of n..n's naturejlit L »an's nature to enquire, to know, and to nnderst^d Jl for an .nhentanoe, and he wishes to understand it. We m nts Sueh ,s the cause found in man's nature of «U h«.ntrep.d.tyand daring. It is this that hasledn.au forth with brave heart, to encounter all the dangers and «Mcult.os which he is sure to meet with in his jonrneys -r flood and field. It was this that led f^th t^ gr^tt Columbus to find out the new world of the west n s led for* the fearless Cook over the wide waste ff waters which covered our eaxth like . shroud, in the ...ds of which he lighted on the Owhyeo. wher h el a ictimtothc fur, of the natives of a country into Which he went intending to bequeath the blessings of civU- Park te the undiscovered Niger, where he Uo fell in the midst 01 those desert regions, which have well been called the whue man's grave. It is this desire to know that ha, made man to ascend the everlasting hills, penetrate the unknown de«rts, and plant his foot on spot, of the eath where the foot of :nau had never been before. And this desire it is, coupled with a love of gold fper- haps a commendable love of gold) which has led fourth our daring mariners to explore those unknown regions of the North, where is nothing but everlasting ice and and »°°^'"''^]''S«'"y>n the dismal wilderness. ( -t was doubJicss a love of gold, in oonjunotion with ♦15 our thirst for knowledge, that has led to all our exer- tions to discover a North-west Passage. The British Isles are situated on the globe so as to be far from many commercial ports of great importance in the world. On the west we have the continents of North and South America between ourselves and the western shores of these continents. On the east, w^ have the continents of Europe and Africa between us and China and Hin- dostan. These facts were seen and known by our com- mercial men, and their desire to find a speedy passage to the western shores of America and the golden land of the East, found a ready response in the minds of our nav^ators, in whom there existed a desire to know if there was a way in the north by which they could sail round the world. The propriety, however, of any ex- ertions on our part, and indeed at any time, may with some show df reason be questioned. In a commercial point of view, the passage, although discovefed, could never be rendered available for any practical or useful purpose. In these regions the ice closes in upon us and thus seems to present a lasting barrier to man's progress in that direction. Thus, although the passage were at once discovered, those who come after the orginal explorers must have the same difficulties to encounter, the same natural im pediments in their way that the orginal explorers had to contend with. Till the sun himself shall melt the everlasting hills of suotf, «i?in may never be permitted to approach these regions. Be this as it may, the ne- cessity for further exertions on our part to discover a North-West Passage is now done awav wifK- f.^r.. *u. fact, that the raiUfay by the Isthmus of Panama and 16 ■ the canal by Lake Nicaragua, as also the propoaed rail waj across the continent of Europe, and direct from Eng- land to India, wiU give ns the desired end without haV to encounter any of those physical diffiodties which impede our progress in the Northern Seas' This, however, is incidental; we have to deal with The two pMsagM to which I have referred, wiU eatWy do away wuh the necessity,!, a commercial point of view, for our prosecufng th, disooye.7 of a North.w%^t P^iago tunZ. Those by a,e Isthmus of Panama and LJ.e NicaragTwUuZ, up a floodgate Of commercial prosperity to the worlTwh hC ulTo ""T'*'?^ ""' "" "*■« "".taasbortdl,! aIZJ. T "^T'^ '"^™ "^ of N""!- and South Africa; they will also open up a direct passage to the ™st P«.«o Oc«u., and to the many Mands whicVsZ that Oce^n which are too numerous forme to name or to number IS Bailway across the Continent of Europe from England to India man. Wffin this Eailway is compIeted,-which in the cou«e llT; ".fr'"'r ""^ "'--"^ «<"*"' '-""J «' fo East ZZ te.«^t withina d»Uuioe of .even days' journey from EnZd Thus do we stand in the p««pect of seoingrealiadaffT^ g«.t and so gigantic that h«l it been told fo ouTfc^Ie™ .hey must have deemed it little less than an ArllZZ" ou doubtless to the minds of many, it may seem an i^ m ai«r plulosophy. In the vocabuIa.y of some men there tan, ™d. a word « fail; and such men necessity wiU find toX o't Uusg^t undertaking. Kot only will a KaUwaybe kidi™ from EngUnd to the East, but we may not err in prognotdcaZ ttat an Electr.0 Teleg»ph wm soon be laid doL So. Zl Hwfr" ' ^ "*""' "' **« "^'^ Indus, u.d the hero rf Hmdostan may converse with his friend, in fatherland: th^ will the danng fancy of our immortal Shakspeare be reduc^ to milu^ roaUty, that of putting a giMIo rounSIe ear^i:tty 17 what has been done: the conclusiona to which I have referred being come to, expeditions have from time to time been fitted out, only a passing allusion to several of which I can give before coming to that of Sir John Franklin; the voyages of Mackenzie, Davy, Beecby the Rosses, Back, Dease, Simpson, and others, may bo named as connected with our present subject. Captain Parry discovered many lands, bays, and large islands, the principal of which he named. Captain Ross dis- covered the large island of Boothia, which is thinly inhabited with Esquimaux. These various expeditions and their sucesses, led to the expedition under the command of Sir John Franklin. That expedition left this country in the month of May, 1845; there were composing it in all, two ships, the Erebus and Terror and 138 men; they took with them provisions calcui lated with economy to last four years and a half Sir John Franklin's instructions were to proceed up by Davis' Straits to BaflGin*s Bay, so on to Lancaster Sound Barrow Straits; and thus by Cape Walker, then to use his own discretion. The expedition was last seen i^ Baffin's Bay bound to an iceberg, waiting for a pass- age through the ice. Traces of Sir John Franklin's ex- pedition have, however, since been found on Beeohy Island, which is situated at the entrance /^to Wellington Channel. Here wero found three S^aVjes M||pi who had been buried, — there where the white\i^GiMBHy|i^ wash them daily; here also were found a carpi^Hnltei a forge, a post, and several other sad memorials of the missing men. This fact has led many to conclude— we think justly —that Franklin must have penetrated in by Welling* 18 ton ChaDnel wd Victoria Channel, which i. aoontinuaKon of the former, and so on to the North Polo of the earth It seems very reasonable to come to thia conclusion from the fact, that it wae Franklin's om. impression that the most likely way to discover a Nor^h west Pas» age, if defeated in hi. course by Cape Walker, wasto proceed up Wellington Channel, and so on through the Arctic Ocean, if poseille to Behring Straits. Such are the simple facts connected wHh Franklin's expedition into the Polar Sea, and the oonolusion. to whick we com., regarding these f^jte lead us, to believe that ho may yet be found in. these regions, and ma, vet lefcuisn from them. We find that it is now ttpwaidso^sb yews since ho left tbis.oountry, and he took with him provisions cal. eiUated> with enconomy, to last four year* and a^halft The question, then presents itself to- the mind, how oaa Franklin and his companions hs;^o existed during the year and half beyond which his provisions were calcu. lated to last. This question, is. answered to a certain extent by our knowledge ofthe fact, thatin these regions he may have been able to procure Min^deer, white foxes. seals, birds, and indeed various other animals which abound in these northern regions. This supposition is gtroDgly confirmed, if it be not reduced to acertaintyby our knowledge, that in the regions to which we suppose Sir John Franklin must have gone, namely, WelUngtoa Channeland Victoria Channel, ha^e been seen, many specie m ens of animal life, all of which could support Sir John Franklin and his brave companions. That which makes w urge this view of the question with the more eamest- aws is, if Sir J^hn Ptanklin has penetmted through Vie- If torn Channel it is possible tbat be may now be in tit6 Polar Sea, where he new full well it is not so oold, and where animal life is much more plentifil than it is at what b called the magnetic pole of the earth. That Franklin did penetrate into Wellington Channel and Victoria Channel, we think there can now be no reason- able doubt. We have before remarked, that it was Sir John Franklin's intention to proceed by Wellington Channel if defeated on his way by Cape Walker. This coupled with the fact that remains of the expedition have been fonnd on and beyond to the north of Beechy Island seems to leave no reasonable doubt on the mind that he must have penetrated up that channel. Upon Beechy IsUnd were found several sad and melancholy remains of the missing men. Here Franklin wintered in 1845-46 here also were found three graves— sublime in their lone' liness«-of men belonging to the expedition who had died. Here also were discovered a;garden, a carpenter's shop, a forge, a post, and several other sad remains of the Northern voyagers. Beechy Island is situated a little to the North of Cape Hotham, and therefore seems to be a favourable starting point for Wellington Channel and the Polar Sea. These facts, then coupled with Franklin's wish before he left this country, to proceed in that direc- tion, seem to warrant us incoming to the conclusion that he did penetrate into the Polar Sea, and having done so we have more than one reason for believing that he may be there still. The objections brought against this conclusion do not seem to carry with them much weight. Your Ma jesty is awagre that there has been going the round of m 20 th« prew a story to the effect that Sir John Franklin and his companions have long since been murdered by a hostile tribe or Esquimaux. This melancholy • ile i« given to the world upon the authority of the veritable Adam Beck, an Esquimaux, who, by virtue of the fact that he can read and write well, was at once initiated into the solemnity of an oath and all the paraphernalia of English justice. This absurd report has been charac- tensed by an able writer on the subject as a crude and heartless tale. We can scarce doubt the propriety of this conclusion. If such a report be true, did no one see the murder but Adam Beck? If so, who are they that saw it-are they living or are they dead? Where did it take place, and when did it take place? Did Sir John Franklin leave no vestago behind? By whom was he killed, and where was he buried? Let those questions, and questions liice them, be answered, till we see if this' tale be true. But I shall no longer weary the patience of your Majesty with further allusion to this idle story; I look upon it as a mockery and an insult to the judg! ment of the British people. We are also told that his ammunition may not have lasted; that the intense and biting cold of these northern regions, so long continued may ere this time have destroyed him, or that he may have sunk a total wreck within the raging pea. All these conculsions to this whole matter is doubtless pos- Bible, and cause conflicting feelings to cross the mind, when we contemplate the fate of the brave mariners' Speculation regarding them seems, to a certain extent out on a shoreless ^a. But so long as there remains the bare possibility of their existence, to that possibility it is right for us to cling in hope, even though that hope bo 80 long deferred that it m^ko the heart liek. This conclusion come to, then our duty in the matter seems palpable and plain. That duty seems to me to bo to send out anoiher expedition in search of the missing men. Let that expedition be well fitted out; let it also de done speedily, so that in the spring time of the year it may reach the Northern Seas. Wo have several reasons for coming to the conclusion that it is our duty to send out further cspeditions in search uf the missing men ; in the first place, Sir John Franklin and his brave associates left their country, their friends, and their homes, in the service of the Government of the country to which they belong; Sir John Franklin and his companions have been tried and trusty servants of the state; they had done the state some service, and we know it; such being the case, wo conceive them to be fit and becoming objects of the state's care and protection. As a matter of justice alono it is our duty to do what we can for the safety of the miss- ing men. This is our duty, on tho ground of justice alonei what shall we say when we come to those of charity and mercy? Shall we stand idly looking on; shall we live at home at ease; shall we sit under our own vine and fig-tree while our brethren, brave in heart and strong in arm may still be living in the dark and dismal regions of the north, bound by eternal ice and snow? Your Majesty, let it not be said that England can be guilty of this crime; let not the sin of ingratitude be laid to our charge. I have before given proof of the means by which it is possible our countymen may still be in ex- istence. I spoke of the provision, of the means of living they might get in the North, reindeer, foxes, seals, birdw, or iidced many other animals- I also referred to the fact, that tlie climate towards the p^e of the earth it more congenial than it is towardi the magneUo pole. AH theet things, I repeat, taken into consideration, give us proof that hope should not yet be dead within us; so long as there exists a single chance of their safety, we are bomnd to try to save them; thus our duty seem* palpable and plain We may rest upon oar oars perhaps in sad- ness and in sorrow, till the dark days of winter have passed away, then when the springtime shall have come upon us, wh^n the ran shall gild again tho hills of over, lasting snow, then let us heart and hand send out farther help and ail to our countrymen, so that, if still in exisL enoe, they moy be saved from a watery grave. It is true that our effi>rts may not be crowned with Bucceas, we may seardi for, and seek for, that which we cannot find; so let it be, if Providence will have it so, we cannot change it; but our duty done, we have gained for onrselves that self-satisfaction and peace which passeth «U understanding. If our daring mariners are in the acep, we can only say it was the will of God, and may not be grieved at or mourned over. If they are dead they have fallen blessed martyrs; after life's fitful fever they sleep well, with the sea for an everlasting mourner. But for the sake of the living if not for the dead, by the bKghted hopes and bleeding hearts of the mouming survivors; by the viiow's tears, the orphan's cries, and the mother's crucified affections; by the honour of that great nation of which you are' head do I caU upon jour Majesty, respectftilly, but ear- nestlytouse your royal prerogative and send out an- other expedition in m^^4i of the northern explorers, <«o that our minds ia..j be set at rest and kept no loag^' "c\ 23 on the rack, but that we may know the best or the wont of this perplexing business. As wo would, in conclusion humbly 8ugj,e8t to your Majesty the piopriety that, if it is to be done, it were well that it were done quickly; there is now no time to bo lost, for every day may bring •with it death. So long^as a lingering hope remains be- hind,--so long as there is a shadow of belief that our countrymen may still be in lifa, — it is our duty to try to ■avo thorn.® Our duty done, we may safely leare the rest with that providence who, in His mercy, ever tempera thtt wind to the shorn lamb. I have the honour to be^, Your Majesty's Most obedient humble servant, PETER LITINGSTON. •Farther traces of the missing expedition hate been fonndi ships are being again sent out by the QoTerament, under the eonmiand of Sir Edward. Belcher, and DrRae, overland, insearch of 8ir John FrankUn and his oompanioBs^ Il t^ lECTURE Oi\ ROBERT BURNS. Robert Bo-Rys— Scotland's best and greatest poet— was born on the 25th of January, 1759, in i, small cottage about two miles from the town of Ajr. He was ushered into this world amid storm and darkness. Part of the house in which he was born, just as he saw the light, was blown in by the tempest; the new made mother, with her baby boy, sought and received shelter from a neigh- bour. His father, William Burns, had been a farmer, but worldly adversity compelled him to betake himself to the field as a labourer. Eobert at the, age of six was sent to school, where, under Mr John Murdoch, a man of whom the poet makes honourable mention, he remained two yeais. Here he acquired reading, grammar, and Bome knowledge of the French Language. Beyond this he had not much of what is called school education, but as we shall hereafter see, he was " quick to learn, and wise to know." He was at an early age somewhat fortunate in the books ho read, having a few of Shakspeare's Plays, Locke on the Understanding, Ramsay's Poems, along with other books of value. It was between the fifteenth and seventeenth year of his age that Burns first wrote poetry. Love was the mother of his muse. He was early blest with what was early blighted-^his love for Highland Mary. This was a sacred affection, almost too pure foi' earth. She died' alas ! too early — died as all the good die — loving, hoping- ■I Burns, when ft young man, engaged in partnerflhip with a flaxdresser; but in a hapless hour, the premises took fire, and left the poet penniless. He now took tho farm of Mosgeil, in conjuction with bis brother Qilr bert, a man of sound understanding. Here Burns first met Jean Armour, afterwards his wife; and their first intimacy ended in misfortune. Our poet now looked to a foreign land for that peace and prosperity which his owa denied hira. He resolved to go to Jamaica, and published his poems to provide him with the neces^ earies for the voyage. These wild irregular utterings came upon the world to make it wonder and admire. He was at once exalted from the condition of ap lough- man to that of the first poet of his country. He changed his plans; was advised to go to Edinburgh. He did so, as we shall hereafter see, to his sorrow. He became a lion among the literary men of the great city. The Ayrshire Ploughman sat at the tables of the nobility — drank wine — they taught him to drink deep ere he do- parted, — he hero carried a Duchess off her feet with the brilliancy of his conversation — fell in love with the charm* ing Clarinda, — and indulged too often in wild potations- This could not last long; he sought peace and something permanent. He left the gay city; took the farm of Ellisland; spent too much time in preparing for his wife; and the habits he had contracted in Edinburgh sometimes assailed hira. He was now apoiuted to the Excise* A ludicrous mistake. Burns was seen sounding the depth of whisky casks when he should have been hold- ing the plough. This man's days and pleasures on earth WTAVA Iirifir Kilt. Ttnt. flollrrllf.flll 'Vrta po^fVilxr fnlioxnonlA .. w*» — ..w. ^^,^~ .«,'— ■!-»---^ — "^ »-■»% » --«. »«v' KfWt •nt^tjr VUtTJXJl Z^OiXJtXJ gave way under the fiery spirit. His body was racked with pain; there was malady in hia souI> He tried all 26 things; all would not do. Death nvas upon him. The strong man was bowed down — the daughters of music were brought low— Klesire had failed^ and all was dark- ness. In the thirtj-eighth year of his age this great man, after severe bodily and mental suffering, yielded up his spirit into the hands of Him who gave it. 8uch is a brief account of the career of Robert Burns. Gentlemen, this man's life was a tragedy in one act. Like all other great tragedies there was much glory, much sublimity, much beauty, and much truth in it* There were besides, interspersed throughout a few comio > scenes^ and good. Burns, when a young maU) was a happy man; and, during the whole of his life, ho had seasons of exalted, yea delirious joy. This we are glad to know and say; but taking it all and all, it were difficult to point out a story of more woe than that of Bobert Burns. Born araid poverty, this were nothing, — bred to the plough, would he had never left it, — touched by the empyrean fire of genuis, honourable ambition seized his soul; it was first fed, then foully abused; he was exalted to a giddy height of glory, placed at length upon a ^^^ pinnacle of fame, from which he did not fall, but which fell under him; and when he did comedown, befell iike Lucifer, but, so far as this wcrldis concerned, never to rise again. GcLtlemen, I do not mourn over the life of Burns as many do. I do not moura over it for the world's sako: but I mourn over it fur his own • Even then we need not become very pathetic. What was the world to him? He seems to have been born not so much to live as to fly across life '^ like a fierce comet of tremendous size, bidding the nations wonder as he passed." 2t Many point to Lim, and »ay " You see what he was, what might he have been?" We venture into no such dangerous speculations. We are thankful for him as he was; and as for the world, why he was more to the world than the world was to hiro . It is my impres&ion that the most unfortunate, not to soy the most fatal, step in the life of Burns, was his visit to Edinburgh. 1 know that, at the time, this step was necessary; we, nevertheless, regret the effects that flowed from it. Burns went among the great folk there a^ a world's wonder. They kept him such during his stay. He left them and was forgotten by them. It was a natural result. He said he knew it should be so. He said he would bear it like a man. Doubtless he thought he would and could do so. It turned out to be easier to say this than to do it. He was forgotten, but could not in his turn forget. When the trumpet of famo ceased to sound at his coming, the remembrance of what he once was rose up before him, to heat his very brains, to crucify his soul, and to send him, or do much to send him to an untimely grave. Edinburgh did more ill to Burns than all this. It did not rob him of his inde^ pendence — this was past the power of man; but it robbed him to a great extent of his self-dependence which was a gigantic evil. He was a great poet, and as such could not brook the idea of again becoming a ploughman. I blame no one for this; I pity all con- cerned, and speak for the future. In this matter the world has yet to learn a lesson. We must not neglect genius, but we must not abuse it: we must not kill ii with kindness. We must not deprive it of purpose and ^. 28 . aim in life. Wo must teach it that it has to work and live in this world, as well as to tell the world truths Burns was treated in much the same way as a few well- meaning men lately treated William Thom. They took him to London; gave him dinners; drove him about in carriages; took him through the great city to see and be Been. He left them at last^ and died a beggar — broken- hearted. Far better would we treat penuis were we to put a spade in its hand, and say '^ Go now and till the soil, bring forth good fruit, — feel great truths and tell them, — be a blessing to thyself and mankind; show to the world that you are a God^sent man." Thus do we leave the life of Burns; we come now to his character. The tongue of slander, slaked over as it is by the venom of vile thought, has been busy with this man's memory. Far be it from me to say he was io- falliblo. We are not blind to his errors. Wc think he sinned not a little, and suffered much. But we are strong in the belief that we shall be able to repel many of the charges that have been brought against him. We humbly think that we shall be able to prove that since his death, he has been more sinned against than ho ever sinned, by men to whom (as it has been well said) he was as superior in virtue as he was in genuis. First of air, he has been called an uneducated man. Secondly, he has been called an iireligious man. Thirdly, he has been called an immoral man. I shall notice these charges in the order in whicj^ they are here set down. First of all, he has been called an uneducated man. This charge is true only to a certain extent. He had not what is called a classical education- He did not know Hebrew; he did not know Greek. 29 He did not read so many books as we in this age of wondrous wisdom are supposed to read, but therein he was wise, and it was well If he did not read so much as we dO; ho perhaps thought more. He was not an educated man, in the high sense of the term, but he cannot with truth be called an unlearned man. He read his Bible, he read Milton, he read Shakspeare; and who will tell me that the man who reads and understands these books as BurnR did can reniain uneducated? But above and beyond all this. Burns was learned, deeply lecrned in the mysteries of the human soul; he was a philosopher by inspiration. But further still, Burns was taught, and taught profoundly too, by the book of nature, which was his favourite book. He gazed upon the stars, which were to him then what they are to us now, the poetry of heaven; the wind when it blew high, rock, ing castles, telling the wretch to tremble, and letting the world know the Lord was abroad, was to to him a source of deep inspiration. The trees, bending beneath the blast as if in adoration of their God, taught him a lesson of devotion. The morning star, as it lingered between day- light and darkness, wafted his soul to heaven as it died away. He saw the moonbeam sleeping in the waters, and he said it was no purer than the love of a true wo- man's soul. A summer cloud, floatinf^ in the blue hea- ven, like the last vestage of the breath of God, could not pass over him without his special wonder. Spring with her beauty— Autumn with her bounty,— Summer with her golden sunshine — and Winter with her sheet of snow — to hi ^ were teachers all . The flowers of earth were dear to bim ; the rosebud blushing in the morning dew — the lily; pale as the cheek of a dying child — the daisy modest as the blush of a young maiden — he loved them '30 i all. The birds, too, earth's sweetest choristers, were his delight. The lark's loud song at heaven's gate—the cnckoo, welcome with the spring—the robin's sweet domePtic chirp— the lapwing, lamenting the loss of her love,— all, all were very dear to him. Nature, in all her phases was to him an exceeding joy. The solitary cot- toge on the dessert moor, with its reek curling to the clouds— the lonely cairn on the mountain siJe, touched his soul with reverence for the glory of the past. The shepherd in his grey plaid, under the old oak tree- the milkmaid's song—the loud laugh of playful children- cattle grazing in the field-sheep at the fell— all were very dear to him. His book, we say was the book of nature, and by it he was taught profoundly. We but show our want of education when we say Burns was an uneducated man. It has also been said that Bums was an irreligious man I do not believe it, but I deny it. This slander was first sent abroad by those among whom Burns mingled, and it wis sent abroad because he differed in opinion from them. Burns did differ in religious opinion from the times in which he lived, and the men among whom he mingled; hut to call him irreligious because he did this, is to take him up before he has fallen. For a man to differ from the religion of his time is, I maintain, no proof that that man is irreligious. After this fashion, Socrates was irreligious. According t3 the fashion which they call heresy, Paul worshipped the God of his fathers. Because Burns after this fashion differed from his fellow men, he has been called irre- ligious. We stay not here to enquire what was the religious belief of the times in which Burns lived; our business now simply is. to prove that Burns was no irre- 1% at ligious man. To that do we now address ourselves. Let us first of all take a broad view the man. Burns believed in God. Pie believed in Christ, and loved and admired the beauty of his character. He believed in immortality, and while here, longed much for another and a better world. If these statements be true, we think it would be hard to prove that the man who held such opinions was irreligious. But above and beyond all this, we believe that Burns was not an irreligious man, because of the general tenor of his writings. As proof of this, witness his many letters, in which he speaks of religion. Witness also his many poems wherein he refers to the subject. His " Cottar's Satur- day Night," a strain which, without profanity be it spoken, angels might admire. I would direct attention to several written to Mrs Dunlop, and one to his friend Cunningham. His «' address to Mary in Heaven," where- in he "holds communion with the sainted spirit of his first aflf^otion, each word sealed with a tear and a sigh, the purest that ever flowed on earth, and the sincerest that was ever uplifted to heaven.'' Above all, remem- ber his own declaration that an irreligious poet was a monster. This we conceive to be perfectly true. But we go beyond it, and we say that an irreligious poet were not only a monster, but an irreligious poet is an impossibility. There can be no such thing. No such being ever walked God's earth. Shelley said there was no God, but he did not believe it. Byron, for all his waywardness, said what we believe to be true, that he was readier to die than the world supposed him to be. So was it with Burns. We look in vai„ ;„ *k u for an irreligious poet. What is a poet? He in the very man above all others who cannot be ineUgions. rm- 82 Ho is a being who feels great truths, and tells them; whose soul is attuned to the harmonies of nature. He cannot, even if he would, turn against the giver of his gift; he must be true to his mission^ true to God. Such was Burns. Both in word and deed sc9rning and giving the lie to much of the world's morality, and also its religion; he was, nevertheless, not an irreligious man. His soul was doeply imbued with the spirit of nature, open to thft breath of God. He reverenced all that was divine and holy, and admired, with a devout admiration, beauty and truth Burns has been called an immoral man. In answer' ing this charge we must take a broad view of the man, and a liberal view of human nature. Man is a com- bination, shall 1 not say, of good and evil. He has a body which is of the earth, earthy; a soul, which is of heaven, heavenly; he is a compound of sense and soul —the quintessence of dust and diety; he has two na- tures, what the scriptures expressively call the carnal and the gpiritual--the one leads to what we call good, tha other to what we call evil. To take this view of bumau nature is, I think, the best, perhaps the only way in which we can account for the action of our great men; while, at the same time, it leads us to have but little sympathy with that erring philosophy which has been propounded ly the living, sitting in stupid wonder over the sepulchres of the dead, bespattering the departed- spirits of the mighty great with condem- nation—making them out to be demons only. Equally vain is that philosophy which, in opposition to this, has J ,4. ««y 0«>aqt TTT in hfl atjcfils. The truth is wholly with neither of these parties. Those among men who have had the hoof of the fiend, have also had ^3 the tongue of the angel. Giant sons of God, great in good and great in evil, but ever great; now grovelling in earth, now aspiring to heaven. Thus do we account for the lewdness of Voltaire, the vulgarity of Paine, the misanthropy of Byron, the atheism of Shelley, the de- bauchery of Burns, the ambition of Bonaparte. Looking then at human nature in this light, we can- not and do not deny but Burns had strong passions; sometimes they laid him low, and stained his name But because of this, for his fellowmen to bring against him- the general charge of immorality, is to sin against the living and slander the dead. It Burns had the vices of mankind he also had their virtues — if he sinned he suffered; and we hope that he was made pure through suffering. He was a dutiful son, a loving husband, an affeotionate father — what more can mortal be. These general charges damning to the memory of man, are brought against Burns, and such as he, by men who have neither his power to do good, nor his power to do evil; by men whose chief delight it is cternaUy to rako up the ashes of the dead, and rail on the Lord's anointed. Thus do we hurl back those strictures, and for ever con- sign them to the tomb of all the Capulets, that from it there may be no after resurrection. We come now to the writings of Burns, before which however we have one other charge to refer to, one other murmur to chastise and rebuke. He has been accused of writing no long poem. Now when will this (as it would seem everlasting) murmuring cease? Had the man not liberty to write what he pleased? Who has a right to accuse him for what he has not done? Burns was, like all the truly great, too good for writing books. The truly great among men write no books— they have H^ " mf jp " r 34 too much faith for this; they do with their thoughts what we are told to do with our broad— oast them on the waters, believing that, after many days, ^hej will find them safe. Socrateswrotenobooks— he just utteredhis thoughts, and once uttered, they were ever immortal. So it was with our own Shakspearo; he while living, wrote no books; he wrote a few irregular poems, which modern admiration and art hath collected into a book; but the thoughts expressed of such men, live long after books have crumbled into the dust from whence they came. So it was with Burns, he wrote no long book; ho could not be forever inspired. The wind bloweth where it listcth— he wrote when the spirit moved him. He wrote no great epic; but his poems when collected togeth- er, may be said to be one great and glorious lyric; abrupt, irregular, lofty, sublime, soft and tender, ravishing the soul. He was great " either for tragedy, comedy, his- tory, pastoral, pastoral-comical, pastoral-historical, tra- gical-historical, tragical comical, historical pastoral, acene individual, or poem unlimited." Jf ow moving you to tears, now convulsing you with laughter; now lifting you to heaven on the wings of the wind; anon chaining you with love*s willing fetters as he mourns the loss of his Mary. No singing a song to rouse up the patriotic love of a people against oppression. Now inditing his verses to the mouse, wherein he shows us that the hum- blest thing in God's creation is the earth-born companion and fellow mortal of man. In his " Cottar's Saturday Night," he has lit the lamp of love, and poured a gleam of glory round the family altar. In his " Man was made to Mourn," he has given us a fflooroy view of man. and told ns anma tmtha xvV,\ra> the world will not willingly let die. In his '^ Tarn o' .■s-^ 35 Shanter," he draws a pioturo of pleaaure, and sums up the whole in words not soon to be forgotten. In his " Epistle to a Young Friend," he has shown that he wa. both poet and philosopher. In his '* Address to the DeU" he gives us a proof of the charity that was in his soul, for he tells us that he even may have a stake in heaven. In his song of '«a Man's a Man for a' that," he shows us that a true soul can beat under a tattered gar- ment as well as beneath a Roman toga. It was the mission of Bums to bind man to man—to teach love and kindness~to soothe the sorrows-to sing the joys, to lighten the labour of the poor— to vin- dicate the dignity of the mind-to speak trumpet- tongued against oppression, and make us in love with liberty-to tell the world great truths, which the world must one day believe. AH this has he done, and in domg this he made life more delightful by the rich feast of poetry and music which he hath provided for his fellow-men. Burns was a remarkable writer in prose as well as poetry, though his poetry has eclipsed his prose. Like Milton, he has hithertoo been remembered chiefly as a poet. Still the letters of Burns «re remarkable pro- ductions. I grant that in them we behold him too often on stilts. But all things considered, we cannot but wonder that in his letters there is so much that is noble feood, and true. Had it been a peer instead of a plough ' man that wrote them, and had he, the peer, died youl<>i>-Q «pi.u- !• """'^ "• 'O" '^me aiuiensions from which so many beauties could bo culled as from the letters of 13urns. ( 36 " The poetic goniua of my country found me as the prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha^at the plough^ and threw her inspiring mantle over me." Such is the lan- guage of the poet. We do not wonder at the fact, we only name it. Heaven and earth are full of poetry; and nature, when she wished a voice wherewith to speak had as good a right to chose her man from the plough as from the professor's desk, Fergusson the astronomer was a shepherd boy. Bloomfield the poet was a shoe- maker. Burns was bred at the plough. God is with his children ev9ry where to blesB them and to do them good. Such was Burns^ suoh is the legacy he has left to man. His place as a poet we do not and cannot fix; but he has well been called one of the brightest stars shining round the sun — Shakspeare. Thus let him be — thus let him shine. So long as the thistle bends to the blast — so long as the heather grows in the sun and gilds the mountain top— so long as honest men and bonny lasses people the town of Ayr*- 80 long as birds sing from the bush^ and flowers are beautiful — so long as grass waves green on the banks o' bonny Doon — so long as man loves woman, and woman trusts to man — so long shall Burns be remembered. I bid farewell to his memory witn gratitude and joy. I rejoice at the opportunity I now have had of strewing this frail garland of love and admiration on his glorious grave. MrMS GEORGE GILFILLAN, AND HIS WRITINGS, Geomb OiLFiLiAN U a remarkable man. He is the critic of the present age as Byron was the poet thereof, some years ago. Gllfillan the critic like Byron the poet has not had to climb up the hill of fame; but, from the natural height on which he found himself exalted, he has lighted down upon its top, whereon he now sits enthroned in the garb of immortality. The critic, like the poet, has by one giant stride, outstriped all his con- temporaiies. What it took them years of labour to accomplish, he has by one giant effort achieved. Gil- fiilan as a critic has the power and eloquence of Mac- aulay; the sparkling brilliancy of Jeffrey; the wildness if not the wit of Sidney Smith; is just and unerring in his judgments as Hazlitt. Above and beyond this, be has an eloquence belonging to himself, peculiarly his own. He has among other things written a book, called " a Gallery of Literary Portraits,'' which has given him— who six years ago was not known—a fame, which if not as yet European is at least British and American. Gilfillan is a painter, and has drawn the mental charac- teristics of the moat eminent literary men of the present and past generations. Jeffrey— alas I we can no longer say as Byron said health to him; but we can at least and do say, peace to the memory of the great immortal— Christopher North among the mountains,— Chalmers, fit follower of the r ^ "' • I ' '^ s 38 Apostle Paul,— Emerson the trancendentalist, deeply imbued with the spirit of nature,— Wordsworth king of Rocky Skiddaw, now no more (the stars are falling from us; the firmament is all but loft in darkness! Even the harp of Erin is broken among the mountains, and is now for ever silent, and no longer vibrates to the passing Dre9ze)j Carlyle the thinker deep and strong; Byron a weed thrown on the water; Shelley the enthusiast; Coleridge the dreamer; and many more, are treated of in this delightful book. GilfiUan is not only a clever man, bu* he is a man of the highest talents, of the most exalted genius- This gift from God— genius—quivers in his tremulous lip, distends his keen nostril, and flashes in his fiery eye. His intelect is piercing; what other men see as through a glass darkly, is, to his keen vision, as the bright and broad noonday. He is guided by the light, not of cleverness or talent only, but of genius; and thu gifted, he leaps, as if by instinct, to a conclusion regard- ing the mental qualities of an author, in a way which almost invariably insures success and certainty. In his analysis of an author, GilfiUan takes hold of him frankly and freely. He looks at him from top to toe, turns him round about and round about, lifts him up and down and scrutinizes him in every possible way. He surveys him from all points, and is monarch of all he surveys. Thus the very shades of the author's meaning are caught, every phase of his mind is laid hold of, and put down palpably upon the printed page. It is an eloquent and glowing book, full at once of love, benevolence, and stera truth. It awakens the finfist. fflpKnrfa rif tu^ ««„!. ^u.m. you read it your blood runs cold and warm at once. In 39 a language which is now withered and now wild in its attire, the author does much to make us love, with a still fonder affection, the truly great—nature's nobles, those who have Jeft behind them a legacy for the good of man. We are transported with the author, wander where he wiU-and where has he not wandered? He is a divine with Irving, a historian with Macaulay, an astronomer with Nichol, and a poet with Keats. When he reviews " Chalmer's Astronomical Sermons," you fancy yourself seated on a golden cloud, and feel in a fit humour for Festus to be by your side. In his notice of <' Carlyle's French Revolution," he hurries you through that scene of blood, and makes you, for the time being, sup full of horrors. He has elevated many of his heroes to heaven, and is wonderfully eloquent when speaking of death. When he relates the sad fate of Shelley, who perished in the waters, the soul is moved with thoughts that are too deep for tears- In his article on Wordsworth, he beautifully shews that the mission of the true poet is high and holy, God-like and great. He, too, has exalted the lowly, lifted up the fallen; and one must ever regre»: that Keats had not Gilfillan instead_of Gifford for his reviewer. He has in a few instances dragged f-om obscurity men who, but for him, might long have blushed unseen. It may be unlike the law of nature, nevertheless so it is-- the stars are made brilliant in the glory and light of the sun. Embalmed iu his eloquence, they now bid fair for immortality; they shall now be known and re- membered so long as truth and beauty are loved among men. With all his benevolence and kindness, which we so much admire, he is always truthful and stern, ( ( ! ■( f, -i ■u > I ■5 I ■ I I I 40 sometimes sarcastic and severe. One tbing tbat will strike the reader of Gilfillan is his wonderful power of coDcentration, giving us much thought in a few words. Thus we have a history of the literature of America in a few pages; and taking it as a whole, we cannot douht its correctness. We have also an account of the various kinds of preaching graphically given in a page or two. We lately read to a learned German friend, a single passage from this book, that in reference to the leading German writers, in the review of Carlyle; our friend was astonished and >.did that although he had read, ere now, volumes on the same authors, he had not before so suc- cinct and clear an idea of their various merits The book before us is calculated to cultivate the affections, to ele- vate the soul, to lift it from the grovelling things of earth to the better things of heaveu' It does much to bind us in a bond of eternal union to the mighty living and the mighty dead; and more than all does it bind us in a love which language is poor to express — to God, from whom the gifled among men receive their powers and greatness. About Gilfillan*s style we know not what to say. He is master of all kinds of style, and 'in his book are all kinds. The plain, the neat, the elegant, the florid, are familiar to him. He can turn a period with his pen as easy as a sugar plum in his mouth. He does not think much, if at all, of style; he is out of his " Blair's Rhe- toric" long ago. As a general rule, however, there is about his style a reckless revelry, a wild savagery, pro- found, and deep and strong. There is, moreover, the glow of poetry ever hanging over it, which renders it icellow and beautiful^ pleasing to the soul. 4t Gilfillan has faults, he is too great to be perfect. He quotes by far too many pretty bits from the poets, which, along with his own beauties, make his pages run over with sweets. Besides the volume to which we have referred, our author has published several other things, all of them more or less characteristic. Sermons and lectures have at intervals come from his pen. He also writes, among other things in " Hogg's Instructor," a series of papers called a '' Bundle of Books." In one of these he lately smote our humble selves, in a way which, though ticklish at the time, we now thank him for, and hope it improved us.* «»The late reepected and favourite Provost Bumes of Montrose, when shewing the writer of this note several relics of his cousin the p«et, pointed out the letter lent by Robert on the death of his father, in which were the words, *' I have lost one of the best of fathers." On finishing the sentence Bums' tears had evidently begun to flow, for their indeiit«»,tion was visible on the paper be- low the line; the sight of which led to some conversation on the sensitiveness of authors. The Provost remarked, " I can give an instance of this in Robert's own case. When Will NicoU and the poet were returning from their northern tour, my father and my- self went out as far as Marykirk to meet them; among the first words Robert said, after kindly embracing us was, I have been at our paternal farm in the Mearns, and showed our old cousin some things I have wrote by the way, which I mean to publish,— but the farmer streekit himself up, gave a knap with his stick on the floor, and said, 'fie, fie, man, are you gaen to aff'ront your respect* able friends by printing godless nonsense, na, na, gie me them and 1 11 put them in the fire.' " The incident was then alluded to with evident chargin, before the poet left Montrose,— and his old cousin was no great favourite with Robert as long as he lived. [This note is inserted with a view to show the extreme sensi- biiity of most authors.] ■( 1. ■! l^ ■. .(1 i- 42 Mr Gilfillan has also just published a second " Gallery of Literary Portraits," a work somewhat like the first. To it we cannot in the meantime particularly refer. He says it is written in a tone more subdued than his former book. For some reasons we like this, for others we do not. Gilfillan should take care how he mhduen himself. For ourselves, we are willing to tolerate a good deal of extravagance when we have his fire and truth. He will understand us when we say that the lion wanting bis mane is no longer king of the forest. The sun in a mist is no such glorious thing as when he goes through the heavens with his locks of golden fire. Our author is also about to publish a work on the " Hebrew Bards." We do not, as a wretched critic lately said in the -4 •- There is more in heaven and earth than is area., .of in their philosophy. Do they imagine for a moment that they can repress the out-pourings of a soul bursting with the beau- tiful in nature and in man? Gilfillan is now only spread- ing abroad that which years of reading and reflection in former days enabled him to store up in his mind. He is thirty-nine years of age; tall, but not stout according to the fashion of Old Joe in ''Barnaby Rudge," he is, how- ever, what a connoisseur in these matters— whicb we are not— would call a muscular man. His hair is dark brown, inclining to curl; his brow, broad and high. As if his far-seeing mind took away from him the power of his natural vision, ha wears spectacles. In his walk on the street there is something very odd; and it has often struck us that there is something remarkable in the walk of many great men. That of Emerson is a calm and holy soliloquy; that of Professor Wilson the unfinished fragment of a great epic; that of Gilfillan a fiery ode. You see at once that he is a son of the mountains. In the pulpit or on the platform there can be no mistake about him. Whether sitting or standing he seems somewhat fidgetty, and you see at once that he is something to , , T~ !,;«« Via la (IreadfuUv in earnest. iOOK upon, iii Dpcaiiiug, "V- ^ Elocution as an art ho has never studied; nevertheless 4:5 he is, as Dr Chalmers was, and as all earnest men must ever be, an elocutionist. When wishing to impress some great truth upon his hearers, there is^ a rude grandeur about his manner that is truly sublime. Ho holds you with his ^'glistening eye," and gives out his words in a voice now loud and long, as thunder among the moun- tains; anon deep and low, like the dying cadence of a powerful gong, sounded to summon the loitering idlers of a baron's hall to a Christmas feast. As he utters the last word he seems to get relieved of a burden that press- ed hard upon him, and he rises like a giant renewed in his strength, fresh for another eflfort. For the present our brief labour of love is ended. Farewell I thou great and gifted spirit,— thine is a soul prophetic, burning with true fire. Thou hast made us more and still more in love with the beautiful in nature and the noble in manj and doing this, thou art working at once for an earthly immortality, for an inheritance in heaven. LETTER ON DR DICK, THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHER. H Sir,* — Can we staud idly on, cao man, can humanity stand idly on? Is the old tragedy once again to be en- acted? Has blind Homer, the ballad-singer, taught us nqthing? Do the voices of the dead call to us in vain? From the graves of Burns, Chatterton, and Thorn, do we learn nothing? If so, then let the dead past bury the dead. How fares the living? Alas, there are at the pre- sent moment prophets being neglected amongst us. There is a popular authoress, a womao, and an ornament to WQ. mankind, she is in poverty; the Christian Philosoph«r, Dr Dick, is also overlooked. Can such things be and over- come us like a summer cloud, without our special wond- er. Here is a man over whose eloquent pages millions in this country, in Europe, and America, have hung with rapture and pondered with'profit. Here is the man, who has done more than any other man we know, to popular- ise science among the people. The man who has written the "Chrigtian Philosopher," in which he speaks of the works of God; and shows that in wisdom he hath made them all, — the man who hag written the philosophy of a future state in which Lo has built up our hope; confirmed our faith iu another and better world, — the man who has written the " Sidereal • This Letter was written for the Cardiff and Merthyr Qmt- dian 47 Heavens/' in which he holds communion with the stars, and talks Lo the sun as to a play-fellow,— the man who has done all this, and much more than this; he who has given the world so much bread, has received in return for his gift a stone. The British Parliament, as we think, is in many re- spects agood parliament. But in one thing we think it is very deficient,— that is, in its patronage of good and great men. All parliaments are, and ever have been, deficient in this. We however ofiFer this complaint more in sorrow than jn anger. Parliament cannot do every- thing. We very often ought to be doing ourselves, when we are babbling about the duties of parliament. Let it be so now; let us have home reformation. Let us assist ourselves and our fellowmen, who have done us good. With this feeling I call upon Scotchmen; I call upon Englishmen and Irishmen; I call upon Britain, not to let this man, of whom I have been speaking die neglect- ed. He will die some day; in the course of nature, that day cannot be far distant; and when he does die, we shall all then make a universal rush to erect a monu- ment over his grave. But should we before doing this, let the living object, whom, when dead, we should thus honour die, without shewing him our gratitude, then I say, and I say it without sentimentality, that the very stone we use shall rise up in mutiny against us. I have not written without the knowledge of the facts that call forth my remarks. I know that Dr Dick has lived a long and a laburious life, writing books which have done much good to man. Should man, therefore, not shew him good in return? I know, too, that throughout his i8 life-he has lived with the moderalion and meekneM of a saint, aB he has written with the wisdom of a sage; and kno^mg these things, I fain would save the country the Bhame of his becoming a martyr. _ I call then on the public to protect this """>• ^J^"? does not a body of literary men-with George ejailan at their head-without delay set about this labour of love. We hope, and have faifh, that it wi 1 at once bo done, and be the means of saving the feeUngs of the feienls of this great and good man. i'i i POEMS AND SONGS :l i POEMS AND SONGS. From Bconee like these old Scotia's grandeur spring!!, That mokes her loved at home, revered abroad. B VAN'S, I. Hail! Sabbath morn; welcome sweet day of rest; Hail to the peaceful joy that comes with thee; I love that holy feeling in my breast. Which now is en used by all 1 hear and see. Hushed is the din of labour, mute and still Is the loud voice of reapers 'mong the corn; No more h heard the ploughmau whistling shrill The milkmaid's song has ceased, the hunter's horr^ Is silent and hung by — ail hail to Sabbath morn ! II. Soon as the bright sun beams across the lawa, The humble coltar leaves his lowly bed. With grateful heart he welcomes in the dawn, And thanks the God who watches o'er his head. 62 The youngsters soon assemble; and all kneel Before the Almighty's throne; The father prays; His words go from the heart to heaven,— all feel Comfort and peace, and soon their voices raise la humble notes of joy, of thankfulness and praise. III. And now he takes the Bible— blessed book, And reads a portion from the Holy Word; He reads of Joseph's story, and all look Amazed, whilst listening to the strange record. He reads of Jesus— God's beloved son, Who came on earth to wash our sins away; He reads of what He did— of what was done— Of what he bore for us by night and day; His feeling heart is touched, and thus the sire doth say. w IV. Lo! Christ our Lord was in a stable bora, And the young babe was in a manger laid; No pomp, no grandeur, did his birth adorn. The humble shepherds o'er his body prayed: Ho was a man of sorrows and became Acquainted with our weakness and our woe; He knew our frailties and he bore the same With patience: Our rebelious state below Caused tears of sorrow o'er his siulcss cheeks to flow* Mi'^, 08 While on this earth he cured the deaf and dumb He healed the sick, and made the blind to see- At his command the silent dead did come Prom their dark graves, the captives were set free. He stilled the raging waters with a word; He cast out devils — walked upon the sea; He came to teach mankind to sheath the sword, To live in peace and brothers all to be; Yet man received him not but pierced him on a tree I VI. They planted on his head a crown of thorns. And led him forth to Calvary there to die. He bore the cross and meekly bore the scorns Of jeering soldiers and was heard to cry. My God! My God I and then he closed his eyes In death. The Temple's vail in twain was riven • The Bun is darkenedi Lo, the dead arise: Huge rocks are rent— men to despair are driven* And earth affrighted shakes beneath the frown of hea- ven. VII. Oh ! think on Jesus, think on what he bore, Obey his word— the sinner's way despise; Oh! strive to enter in at that straight door Which leads to peace for aye beyond the skies. Remember thy Creator, and in prayer -mplore bis aid, thca nought hadt thou to fear^ r Pr 54 Make God their staff and comfort-tlien, thougli caio Oppress you, when your days are ended here, A bright beloved saint with Christ you shall appear. VIII. And thus with them the pleasant moments flow, The dainties soon are on the table spread, Of which they all partake, and then they go To where their father's fathers have been laid— To the church-yard and the church. Hark! the loud bell Is pealing through the wood and o'er the lea; Now groups are seen on distant hill and dale, Wending their way with joy to where we see The spire that points to heaven, in which they hope to be. The guidman and the guidwife have each put on Their Sunday claes, and seen their bairnies drest; Their eldest daughter Jessie, peered by none. She too is buskit in her very best; And John, their worthy guid respected son— Wha toils wi' pleasure for them day by day, He wearies not, but still he labours on, ' And ne'er an angry word is heard to say- ^ He's ready for the kirk-his heart is glad and gay. X. They reach the lone sequestered house of God, _. « . 1 u:*«v;nn- in thfl auld kirk-yard. Where irienus a-io i.wi«vi»i£, 55 Speaking of those who lie beneath sod,' And heaving sighs o'er friends langsyne interred. Lo, here the widow weeps her husband lost; Here the forsaken lonely maid my mourn, And tell her hapless tale to midnight ghost; Here wild flowers, the green yew tree adorn The graves of those who sleep till life's eternal morn. XI. The bell has ceased- all enter church, and now Service begins — a psalm is read and sung: Their pastor prays: and see on every brow Sits holy thought at his instructive tongue: He reads a chapter, then the text is given, He knows what erring mortals need and want; He acts and speaks as should a guide to heaven* With him there is no hypocritic cant, No nauseous statments made, no raphsody, no rant. [XII. He bids them first honour and serve their God, Love and adore Him, and you will do well; He bids them strive to gain that blest abode Beyond the skies, where saints forever dwell. He bids them all respect their fellow-men. And oh, be kind, and feel for other's woes; Be just,— from all dishonest acts refrain. And the reward is yours. Peace and repose Attend the good man still, where'er on eMth he gosg. 66 XIII. And thus time passes. Service soon is ended. The congregation slowly wears away; Pleasure and joy on every face are blended, — Oh, they have cause to bless the Sabbath day. And soon our humble family reach their home, A lonely cot by whimpling burnie seen : Me^ gie's them hearty welcome as they come, Spreads a repast before them a'^Ijween, Which her ain hands prepared, sae wholesome, guid, and clean. XIV. A blessing's asked and then they all partake That food that God thus gives them day by day — Again they thank him for his mercy's sake, And thus the time glides pleasantly away; The aged father now selects a book Frae aff his shelves on which are many seen — Hail! to those treasures, hail! But let me look. What are they? ah, the best of books, I ween. O'er which the earn'ist student pondera morn and e'en. XV. There's first the big Ha' Bible, and upon It the good father ponders morn and night- Then Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress — ^honest John Is read by king and cottar with delight — The Fonr-fo? ' tate, by Boston— Watt and Blair «T Stackhouse and Harvey's Meditations too, Paley and Watson's noble works are there. Which make the doubting sceptic turn, I trow. And to his broken reed bid a loDg last adieu. i XIV. There is no blind selection; here are seen Books on all subjects, art and science too. Histories of men and nations; and I ween Of great and jrifted poets, not a few,— Shakspeare and Milton, Thomson, Blair, and Burns, Are kept with care within this humble bield. And all are read with rapture— read by turns, ^ While round the blazing fire or in the field, These great and gifted minds unmingled pleasure yield. XVII. But now the sun is sinking in the west, / The day's declining, evening winds grow cool. The younger cottars now again get dress'd. For they maun a' gang to the Sabbath school. The auld guid.wife gets a' her young sons near. To say their tasks to her before they gae; The guidman gets his daughters, and does'speer Their questions at them, ranged around his knee; He strokes their head and bids them '^say your tasks *ome." And DOW they Ie«f e tHeir humble home^ and go With wilting hearii to sohooli at which are seen YouAg groups^ sU free from sorrow^ care^ and woe^ With patience loitering on the village green; And soon they enter^ soon their tasks are said;-' Here all are told and tiHght to sing and pray; An exhortation's given, a chapter's read. The yonng minds made fkmiliar with the way Of Him who shall appear 9,% the great Judgment Day XIX. But time flies on, thcr twilight hetl U (lealing, The Buuhaff sunk hehind yon heath-clad hill; Darkness on wood and dell is quickly stealing, Kight comes apace and all is hu^ed and still. — Homeward in haste our little group returning Enter their cot— dispelled is every dread; The door is barred, the lamp is dimly burningi The Bible's opened, passages are read, Which* thinkji be t^our €N>d, eotfsole iht hoad and head. XX. Hark! o&ce again thd voice of pralise ascends; How the heart mdts at melody sa sweett The coUtrito b^som in devotion bendt^ And jield» its gtateful homage at the feet Of him who made the world in which Wd litef Who gives us all our ebmforts day by day. And sent bis Son, who ^1]ght na to fbrgiye Our earthly foes, and pointed out .the way To gain his lore who is our comfort, staff, and stay XXL mi to this humble famay, peace and rest Be «fer with them in this world below,^ AU h^ to him who hath a feeling brealt Who sees and fain would share a brother''s woe- Peace to the just, tbo generous, and the good- ' Hasten that time, Lord, when we shall see* Thy holy precepts practised,-muierstood,^ then, imd not tiU then, wiU mankind be The good and Ood-like beings meaut and made by Thee ^60 li li €\i SlBli liik-'^ati 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night, We make the gra^e our ted, and then are gone Blaib. 1. '• Wbel I like to wander When the e'ening sun is set; When the raven on the castle croaks And the grass wi' dew is wet; When the birds hae ceased their singin* And to their hames repair'd. Then, then, I like to wander In the auld kirk-yard. Ml it » The small city of the dead that suggested to the Author the writing of these lines, is as perfect a ruin as its citizens within ; no kind of fence defends it from the raid of the nithless intruder —yet would the poet reverently linger amongst its stones till the eleventh hour had proclaimed the approach of summers mid- night. About the time it appeared a friend remarked to the author "that Auld Kirk Yard seems just an imitation of ' there grows a bonny brier bush in our kail yard;" the youth stood ^ome minutes in a state of apparent stupefaction, his face becom. inz whiter than the paper on which the poem was printed, bu_ at length said "you do not know how much you hurt me ; I de. clare I never saw or heard of the piece of which you speak Tha* friena uas sometimes since regretted the occurrence ; and would say to others similarly situated, do nothing rashly, remem-* ber the fate of poor Tannahill, 41 n. In the aold kirk-yard I've pleasurea That the gay can never hae, Though whiles I may be gloomy, And my heait wi* trouble wae. O, it's there that I see justice; There the cottar and the laird Lie side by side and slumber In the auld kirk yard. III. Grim death comes fast upon us. And lak's baith ane and a*, Ho flies about on fiery wing And tears our friends awa'. The father and the mither dies. And the bairnie it's no spared, Folk are freed frae a* their sorrows In the auld kirk-yard. IV. I likrt to see the charnel house, Where lie decaying banes; I like to read the epitaphs Engraven on the stanes; I like to lean upon the tombs. And tread the la, ig green sward, That waves o'* frieuds departed. In the auld-kirk-yard. w nm ! I Ul' «0 Here's a nook m* nae BaeiB^iat Whar the village strangen^ deep^ At whose dying hour nae bosom friend Was heard to wail or weep. Here they're laid to rest^ nae znarbles tell The toils on earth they shared; But their griefs and woes are ended In the anld kirk-yard. VI. . Now aft hae I sat lanely here — Nae living mortal wi's — When a' was dark and dreary. And the loud wind 'mang ihe trees; I thought on grim ghost stories^ But e'en then I wasna feared^ For I kenn'd that God was wi' me In the auld kirk-yaid. VII. O^ wae's me! what a strange^ strange place Is this wee spot o' ground — Sma' though it be, there's mony a true And loving heart that's bound * Mr Bobert Chambers, in a beautifal esfl&y, speaks thus of the Stranger's Nook: — ' In Country ohurch yards in Scotland, and perhaps in other countries also, there is always a comer near the gateway, -which is devoted to the reception of strangerb, and is distinguished from the rest of the area, by its total want Cx luCSuiuuuts .'* 08 of gerS, srant To wander here, and shed sad tears O'er friends langsyne interred: Thdre' something that's entidng In the auld kirk jard. VIIL Still and silent are they deeping, But the day shall dawn on graves— Their inmate^j sh^l be roused from death And ne'er again be shives. The great last day is coming, Whwi their God, eternal guard, Will wake them from their slumber In the auld kirk-yard. ei 3&H /atliw^s m\ My Father's Ha'l my Faiber's HaM 0! I've been hajpy there. When gitting round the blazing fire. Our hearts sae free frae care* Despite o' a' the ills that came To take our peace awa', We were unco blythe and happy aye Around my Father's Ha/ ' u II. I've wandered east, I've wandei*ed west, I've wandered 'rnang the hills, And flowery glens and rocky dens And I hae felt the ills That man on earth is subject to, But I hae felt that a' The cares o' life were banished When around my Father's Ha*, ;i III. 0! weel I mind the winter nights nri T> . vi^.« ^^^ i.^,,\A 66 When round the ingle cheek we sat An' amiled baith young and auld. We naething bad to trouble's then. But we heard the loud winds blaw, An' wished the houseless wanderer wi'i Around my Father's Ha'. * IV. It's there that I first learned To read guid and holy books,—. It's there that I first saw wi' joy A mither's anxious looks, It's there that I first heard the prayer Sent up for ane an' a'; It's the sweetest dearest spot on earth To me— my Father's Ha'. V. My Father's Ha', my Father's Ha'. To me 'twill aye be dear: An' those wha round it used to sit Alas! how few are here. They're scattered now, and some are to A better world awa'. And left us here to think on them *«.tvui4Vi iuj x'ssners na' , ' 66 . VI. But \?e'll a' yet be happy When life's journey here is o'er, We'll meet beyond yon sunny skies,— Well meet to part no more. Our bliss will be eternal there. It will never flee awa'; W«'ll be happier than we've ever been Around my Father's Ha'. "^» ■^ 67 1 'Bmt ^t^ut i\t IKa 1. When the heart's opprerted wi' sorrow, And the head bowed down wi' oarej When we labour wi' a heavy load 0* grief and dark despair; When a' before seems murky, And black clouds round us rise,— It's a blesseu thing to think we hae A hame beyond the skies. II. When friends wha dearly lo'ed us, Wha by us were aye held dear. When they're lowly laid by fell disease, And stretched upon a bier; When we kiss the cheek sae lately warm, And close the glistening eyes— - It's a blessed thing to think we hae A hame beyond the skies. III. When our earthly friends forsake us. And upoti us shut their door, — 68 When left by a' like some lone tree, Upon a blasted moor, There's ae' friend wha never leaves us. If we're just, and good, and wise — It's a blessed thing to think we hae A hame beyond the skies. IV. Ah, me, I often wonder What this weary world would be If we kenned nae o' anither When in death we closed our e'e; Wbea we're laid into the lonesome grave, From which we a' maun rise,— It's a blessed thing to think we hae A hame beyond the skies. V. A* kinds, a' colours, and a' creeds, Are blest wi' hope in heaven; To Saint and Savage, Turk and Jew, This balm of life is given. The Catholic and the Calvinist, Wha ithers' creeds despise. Think it's a blessed thing to hae A hame beyond the skies. VI. The burdened slave who lives on earth A lifeof care and woe; 69 The Greenlander who climbs o'er hills Of everlasting snow; The poor untutored Indian, He who for lack of knowledge dies, Is taught by nature that he has A hame beyond the skies. VII. Let us thank God, the giver Of this cheering hope below. Which dispels the darkest clouds of fate. And sets us free from woe. There's a land of bliss where he will wipe All tears from weeping; eyes, — It's a blessed thing to think we has A hame beyond the skies. ^ ,u ii 70 ISnm tn mii ^annt This is one of my earliest eflforts: it will explain iiself. The person to whom it was written— Mrs Waraen of the Plans of Thornton — is one of the kindest and best of women. She is one of " Nature's Nobles," dearly beloved by all who know her. Would that the world were composed of her like. 1. Dearest Aunt, \7hen thinking on your Kindness to us day by day, I see that we are among your Debtors wha can never pay. II* When I think upon the ruin That comes ower baith ane and a* "When a father wha's weel-doing, Frae his family wears awa'. III. When I think, and thinking shiver, On the havoc it wad made, Had my father been forever Laid within his narrow bed: 'A 71 IV. When I think upon your kindness To him, Aunt, baith air and late. If my beating heart were mindless, Only when it stops to beat. V. A' the toil that you had wi' him, Save yourself there's few did see'd; Still wi' pleasure did you gie him. Ilk thing he could wish or need. VI. Pale and wan he came out to you Wild disease made dismal strife; But wi' grace that God did gi'e you, You e'en saved his very life. VII. Aft you gaed to pu* at mid day, A' the best fruit you could see; Though he aft to stop did bid you. Still ynr Undly bade him pree. VIII. When the sun had ceased his vigour. And in warmf,]i rliA ahin^ «„ :_ When e'en was calm you placed him At the door wi' meikle care. 72 IX. Then he aflen saw descending In the west the setting snn; Balmy breezes him were mending — Thus wi' joy the e'en did run. At the hour o' midnight, when you Heard the lonely owlet cry, You had need of rest; but then — ^ye Even then — ^you couldna lie. XL Then you*d quietly gae to see him. And to speer if aught was wrong; Milk in plenty you did gie him, Cool'd the almost parched tongue. XII. Dearest Aunt, can I ever, Kindness such as that forget ? No ! I'm sure that I can never, Till this heart has ceased to beat. XII. I, 'tis true, can ne'er reward ye, Which does fill my he?irt wi' care; But accept frae humble iisitdie, A.* he has-*- an earnest prayer. '^ 73 XIV. Peace and pleasure to year cot aje Comfort to the ruling twa; 0, may bliss attend your lot lye>- Peace to ane and peace to a'. XV. Comfort to you a' the daytime. Peace when laid upon your be'd,^ God forsakes the good at nae time'-. Then he hovers round your head. XVI. When yourdays on earth are ended " When your o'er life's ocean driven. Cares on earth will a' be mended. When you reap the promise given. XVII. Dearest Aunt, I cannagie you Words to toll you what I feel- ' I maun soon be out to see you J God aye bless you-.Fare-you.weel! 74 €\)t Cri|stitig €xth ri- I.. The Trysting Tree! The Trusting Tree! I'll mind it a' my days; It weel deserves a sang frae me^ Or something in it's praise. So sit yon doon beside me^ love^ And I will sing to thee^ The pure delights that we enjoyed Beneath the trystin' tree. II. D'ye mind when first we met there, I was reading at some book, , When you passed ae' summer morniu' An' you gied me sic a look? Weel I mind you gaed by slowly, An' you seemed to smile on me, — l So I bade you come and rest awile Beneath the trystin' tree* 7« III. Ye consented and cam near me. And, 0, Jessie, that ae look Gar'd me loe je ever after; I loot fa' the very book,^ And I pressed ye to my bosom, ' While the tear stood in my e'e; Oh, sacred are the joys o' love, Beneath the trystin' tree. IV. Beneath the trystin' tree began A true love that will last. Till this fair earth be burned up. And all its glories past,— Yon sun may be extinguished, But I'll live and think on thee And remember a' the jo/sweVe'haen Beneath the trystin' tree. V. YeMhe time will come, dear Jessie, When e'en you and I maun part. Oh, ye needna look amazed, nor let This touch your tender heart; For ye ken thnm h a^^^u j-_ • »• Q" «T.aau UiVifie Us I will meet again with thee, . 7« Ad' hae bliss boyond the joys we've haen Beneath the trystiu' tree. We hae met .there ilka e'enin When the eerie bat flew hame; And we've seen the pale moon gaen To that land I canna name; We hae met there ilka mornin Ere the sun cam o'er the sea, And constant was our happiness Beneath the trystin' tree. VII. When wearied nature sank to rest An' a' was hushed an* still, Wi' lightsome heart I crossed the muir, An' passed the Haunted Mill.* The feint a ghaist or bogle E'er tried to hinder me, — I guess they kenn'd they couldna. When I sought the trystin' tree. * 1741 was a disastrous year for gcotland—bad seed and a backward spring, followed by a wet suujmer and a late harvest* brought on the country the evils of famine. At that time (and not far from the Trystiug Tree) there stood, and yet stands, a Meal. Mill romantically situated on the bank of an ever-running biook. In a hut, on the farm attached to the mill, there lived a labourer, having a numerous family and out of work; he asked 77 0, it'B here I vowed to Jo'e you While my life was spared Leiow Here I vowed fco shield and guard you Frae thig world's care and woe • It's here at times we baith hae prayed Upon the bended knee -^ WeVe tasted bliss beyond compare Beneath the trystin' tree. d and a harvest' ne (and bands, a running 5 lived a e asked by .heir clt t^' IT"""' r """" '° '"=^-«»- which pa«eaJalnLwt,T"" 1' "" "^' «^""«'' With meal, „to u.J^X^ZZT """'-^^--S light in his ],,„,<, ,„, ,, ^ " ''"" "» """« «teml, with a .-^.3 .eteotei:!:;:' ™ ::"! "■' ": ""• ^-'^^ already bloW on the hearih u ' '''"" " "" '»> ftrtheparp„r;fi L;'::^'J™ .^^^^^^ "- » "-'^O gi^ilo «greed-,ha.„sl,i,feethTjr ,.. ''''°" ^ "•»"« " ™ hand, had «f„,on the L Ll ' . . '° ''' ""'' ■"" " >"» Which the, aoc:trdH wM^:^"^°°''"'"°'^^ ories for n.„o, heing'f IZtS JTT '" "^^ ""^ filler. Cried out • dinna let hL Jtil, lt«T " ''" °' "" Getting at last rele, J, he crawled! 7 I """"'"°™^»'-' -ntil he reached the cmJT^ °"' '" ^ <""'"" ""qf' !& 80 3Siiu h ^un mm %mu. In imitatioa of Man was made to Mouen. II I. When gentle spring's ethereal bloom Made fields and forests gay, One morning as I wandered forth Along the banks of Tay, I spied a man whose back was bent^ But cankering grief and care Seemed utter Strangers to his heart Though hoary was his hair. ^ h (ii ilH ; . It i Bu if I k n. Young stranger whither wanderest thou? Began the reverend sage, Does love of nature call thee forth Before bowed down with age? Or haply wilt thou talk with me Of providence's plan, And vindicate the ways of God To noble-minded man. iWiUfWWWii ^ k. HI. Yon sun, whwh 6he4s i^ golden flood. Of light on tower and tree, And tells U8 there's a God above, Delights and pleaseth me. Tve seen yon glorious briUiant sun Twice forty times return. And every time has added proof That man to peace was bora. ly. My son, when young, be wise-be not Too prodigal of time; Do not mispend thy precious hours. Thy glorious youthful prime- 0, let not follies take their sway, ~ Do not let passions burn,— Curb and contemn them, e'en to day. And then thou wilt not mourn. V. 'Tis true, that tyrant's, while in power Oppress us here below; ' But why from this should' it be said. That man was doomed to woe. 'Tis madness for the rich and great To treat the poor with scorn; St Oh, whj has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn. VI. Were mankind wise we all might be In pleasure's lap caressed^ — There's plenty here for high and low, To make us truly blest; But sordid, sinful, selfish men. Hoard up all that they can. And while they only serve themselves, Oppress their fellow men. VII. Many and sharp the numerous ills Inwoven with our frame. And oft we cause remorse and grief By bringing on the same. Oh, were mankind, when young, all taught The wicked's path to scorn, Then blest experience soon would show That man to peace was born. VIII. See yonder ploughman on the field, £16 wuiHties ott he goes; / He knows not grief, iior oare^his heart Is ne'er oppressed with woes. And when at e'en his toil is o'er He homeward doth return, Lo, there he meets a cheerful wife. And babes to bless him born. IX. Proud man to be a slave was ne'er By nature's law designed. Then why should weak and puny man To earth his brother bind? Oh I shake the fetter's from the feet Of slaves; wipe off this scorn Aad jnst reproach from nature; show To freedom man was born. Yet, let not this too much, my son, Engage thy youthful breast; Think not this world's a paradise; Perhaps indeed 'twere best To think and to believe that we ' Are happy here below; But only if we're just and good; If not, we dwell in woe. I ■ mmmmmmmm'* , i' t4 XL Death is the good man't greatest fridnd^ The kindest and the best; For then his toils are at an end'— He's taken to his rest. The vile and wicked fear its blow, From sin to sorrow torn; But the just and good ne'er fear to go, Who know for what they're born. Bnrt^a ^tilm. I, Oh, dear, dear Marth» Palmer, ^A' the grief yo-aVe gfen to me. It's far beyond my humble power In words to tell to thee,- But my heart's sae fu' o* sorrow At the change I've lately seen^ That I ca-ma do but tell you o't. And ask what ye could mean.' II. I little thou^bt that slanders, love, Of heartless envious men. Could ere had p; Is^^-jd your high mind. Or made you >>J|ej but then I find the love of woman Is a frail and quivering reed, And the heart that doats too fondly, mm ^L..A 1 ~ JLaS 5*^ «i35xv taab aottts to bleed. III. D'ye mind the scenos that W6 twa had 8inee first we met tU'gether; D'ye mind the vows we made, to live In Jove wi' ane anither, D'ye mind the tears we aften shed, For very bliss and joy,— Did you think then, Martha, did you mean Our rapture to destroy? IVi Oh! how aften did we v?aader When, the sun sunk o'er the hill, Down the saugh road, across the hum, An' by the haunted mill. Up to the kirk and auld kirk-yard, Which ye could scarcely leave, — For weel you lo'ed to linger By the murdered martyr's grave. V. Whiles we stood frae wind or rain, Beside the auld grey tower, An' saw the pale moon glimmering At the solemn midnight hour. I told you warlock stories. And I've felt you cling to mt. T at Afl if I were your 8alvation,~- Whioh indeed I weel could be. s VI. And ah, we aften sat, my dear. Beneath the trystin' tree Where I made love to yo"* my dear An' you made love to me; An' when we baith were left alane. An nae intruder near. We spoke the poems and sung the sangs, That true hearts like to hear. TU. Ah then, dear Martha, then this earth Was Paradise to me! This heart sae heavy now, wae light When I was lo'ed by thee. The flower: .vere bonnie, fields were green. irao ilka bush and tree The birds sang sweetly, very sweet. When Martha smiled on me. VIII. But now that you hae left; me. Now that we by fate are parted Now that you hae sought to II IITA A. And I am broken hearted,- WL^J IIPI .:|- I see not nature ai it wm; The esrth, the sxm, the «ea| The trees, the birds, the bonnie flowers, Are naething now to me. IX. At midnight like a ghaist I gang; And, love, 'tween you and mo, I've fearftt' thoughts o' something Which I darena tell to thee. I weep whiles like a very chUd, For a* my hopes are hurl'd To fell destruction, and I'm left Alane in this dark world. You, dearest have the triumph Of disdaining, slighting me;; 3at I would not boast of glory, Had I done the same to thee. True love «hould not be scorned; It is sent to earth from heaven. As the purest and the rarest gift That God to man hath given. VIII. Farew^i dear Hatha, you may ne^er And I ken you'U keep your aith to God, That jou'U ne'er wed anither. If it be sae, I know that when Frae earth we gang awa', I'll meet 70* in a better world, As pure as winter snaw. 4 «,, 31 ©BltnniB tn (turn ^irtaria uni ^xim SUM, ON THUIR VMIT »0 DUNDKB. The following Verses were sent to the Queen, during her re- sidence at Blair Castle, through her Foreign Secretary the Earl of Aberdeen. His Lordship was kind enough to send me a note acknowledging the receipt of the Poem by her Majesty. * Stir the heal fire— wave the banner- Bid the thundering cannon sound, Bend the skies with acclamation, Stun the woods and waters round, Till the echoes of our gathering Turn the world's admiring gaze, To this act of duteous homage Scotland to Victoria payi." DiLTA. I. Dundee welcomes with kind greeting, Fair Victoria to our shore; And we liail the Queen of Nations Whom we honour and adore; And wo hail her joyful Consort, Worthy of her fondest love,— May their days on earth be happy, Till they reach the land above. fl II. Thou bright sun, boam forth ia spleadour- Shine out oq the royal pair Kise our beating hearts and let us ■Bid a long adieu to care. For this the day and this the hour, Withh< rtfeltjoywesee, Britain's great and peerless Queen In our native home, Dundee. Ill Lo, the lofty arch triumphal, Rears it columns to the skies,— Widely open'd be its portals To our Queen's admiring eyes. The cannons sound—the banners ifav«- The fairest flowers are seen All bound in wreaths right royally— To welcome Albiou's Queen. IV. We would wish that this their visit In auld loyal Scotland, be Marked by all that kindly feeling. Which '& ever with the free I We would wish them to be happy Why© in ^«otia they remaiit; .^.''^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) V. A f/. ^ I.U JiS "" " I.I MJ|2J I" 5.0 ■' m m us S2.5 2.2 140 2.0 1.8 1.25 li 1.4 1.6 ^= II ^^ ^ < , 6" ► i^ /i v) / Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 (716) «73-4503 ^o I n And may ever joy attend them To the " merry " land again. I ^'' May their sports among the heather Be what bounding hearts desire^ May the hills, and glens, and fountains, Them with health and mirth inspire. Let us welcome Queen Victoria To our highlanl home with ^lee. Where the heathcock's screaming loudly, And the wild deer bounding free. VI. May the reign of Queen Victoria, „ Be a reign of rest and peace. Prompted by her bright example. May all strife and discord cease. May her ministers act wisely. And may all her subjects be Ever loving— ever loyal— Ever fearless, bold, and free. VIL May the royal babes be happy. Till their parents home returi, In their ^wn loved hind, 0, may they Ne'er have cause to ffriavA nr 53 . _ ^„ VMAnww M May they giow in grace and beauty; May they ever, ever prove Choicest blessiags to their parents. Who reward them with their love. vni. So we welcome here Prince Albert, Consort to our Royal Queen, ^ May his days on earth be happy. As his days gone by have been I And we welcome with kind greeting Fair Victoria to our shore; And we hail the Queen of Nations Whom we honour and adore. ^ M «!lt Sirk. TwAs Sabbath e'en, the setting sqb Out o*er tho Law*> was glowering; The day o' rest was nearly done, And night's dark clouds were lowering. The golden west I gladly saw, Were by the sun's rays riven; At length he calmly sunk away, — Like saint that soars to heaven. As I stood, and wi* pleasure gazed Upon the face of nature, I saw what made me much amazed-^ A maid wha's every feature. Betokened that she had not been A dweller 'mang the rest o's. For baith hei manner and her mien Was better than the best o's. • The Law, a notable hill behind Dundee, contaming on its summit the remaiiut of a Roman fortreie. Wr smiling face she took my hand. And pointinflf up to heaven. Said '* Sir, that h the happy land, There bliss to all is given/* She smiled again, *< Dear Sir," said she, *' My name is Guide to Glory; 0, come wi' me, I»ll kt you gee ' A scene at which I'm sorry." I bow'd, and kissed her bonny hand. Then on wi' joy she led me. An* aft' to seek the happy land, Wi' smiling face she bade me.; She led me to the kirk, where I ^ Hao aften heard a sermon; But, guid forgie me when I say We landed 'mang a vermin. "Now, Sir, IVe brought you here, you see, Mong mony lads and lasses; Sit down and tell the world and me. The scenes that 'mang them passes. " And Oh," sAid she, bor hand up high, " i>o a' as I would hae you;" Then round my brow a wreath did tie— May that an God be wi' you," SooD as these kind words she saidj She frae my sight was hidden; I prayed to God to bless the maid, Then strove to do her bidding. His reverence soon came np the stair. And vow but there's a reaching 0' heads and caps — ^it's a' the care 0' some to see wha's preaching. For mony a ane I ween is there Wha to the text will listen; When this is got they dinna cr-'o For sermon or for blessing, I kenna what the kimmer means,— She's doing aught but looking, The trifling brat's but in her teens. And watch her how she is poking fler neebour's ribs, saying " oast your e'e Out ower amang the fellows. And if a wise-like chield you see. You'll no forget to tell us, " Should some late comer want a seat* And scarce Lcn whar to find ane; Some bonny quean will no be blate To crush and nrove a kind anei And a' the pay foi fkvour ihown. Or feq the seeks frae him, Is just to g«t his aim when done. And take a dander wi' him. r\ I cast my e'e across the kirk Whar folk shonid aye sit douse; A rotten seat came down wi' jerk And this creates a noise; It put the maist o' folk on edge;— And yonder's tl^ree chields bri'sk aye- See, Tam'a now in an awfu' rage. For Bob's drunk a' the whisky. A modest matron sitting douse Was for some minutes posted- She thought that 'mang her feet'a mouse Was jumping, but to test it. She soon resolved in spite 0* a' She would be at the meaning,^ Sae looking down I ween she saw A fellow busy preening Her petticoats; but weel I wat The kind chield got a token ^ The matron rose to stand, wi' that The gallant's joke was broken. m§_ Look ye up y^nderj there's three chields. At " catch the ten" they're playing. And hear yon oallant how he banns At what his neighbonr's saying. And round and round are maids and men^ Quite the reverse o' civil; They make the house of God a den In which to do a* evil. o Where is the genius of those rules, The precepts that would ease us, — Where are the teachers of those schools Begun on earth by Jesui? 99 o ^tnhh'0 /njr. I. Comb, p^te, gie't ower man, work nae mair, Ufa baith gae out and see the fair, Ilk lightsome body's fleeing; The road I see is thickly clad,' Wi' mony a bonnie lass and lad, They'll a' be worth the seeing;" So said my friend, and quickly then I rose and took the road. On which were droves o' merry men. And lasses neat and snod, And a' that I saw. As I here and there was driren. Just proved ilka ane loved To be lightsome as weel's livin'. n. And mony a ploughman chield was seen Wha that night got rowin e*en. And some could hardly stand; I like a chield right glad to be, Whene'er he meets wi' twa or three, To grip hard friendship's hand. I aften ower a hearty stoup, Hafi spent a happy night; But it's far the best and wisest plan To keep ane's sell near right. It's beastly — I maistly Could oa' the fellow down, Wha sits till his wits Wi' the warld's rinning round. ill. There's mony a puir thing on the road This day hae left their sad abode; And waes me they maun beg. Wives, wed to poortith, wi* a bairn. And mony a man without the arm. And some without a leg; I like to see a generous chield, Wi' open liberal hand, I shows I ween his heart can feel For this neglected band, To gie what he'll see that To him will ne'er be misEing; I like to hear wi' listening ear The poor auld beggar's blessing. iv. Hark to those sounds from yonder tent, I'm sure there's some ane discontent; 101 Althongli I wadoa wish't; Alaa my frjeud, what can itjbe? The lads wi' scarlet coats you see, Are wanting WiU to list. *[ Man, Will, how can you gang awa' Frae hame and friends sae far?" Said Rodger »' can you leave usa' To face the waes o* war Mao, Willie, be nae silly/ Dinna plunge to sick a fate— . I'll no deceive, but.'me believe, You'll rue't when far ower late.'» \j Says Will "My friend I ken you weel; 1 ken that much for me you feel; But here believe me, Rodger, ' I'm gaun to do't-yes, here I'm willing The mmute that I get the shilling To gae and be a soger. And as for her, the saucy fair^ My mind is on the rack— She lighted me, but here I swear 'i^ll pay the false ane back; So, Roger, here I vow and swear To Itfave ilk social chiel', To ilka brae and ilka bum,' Toaneunda'fareweel.'* VI. Poor senseless Will the shilling got Tile sergeant called the tither'pot. 102 And cried " Our friend will pay't;" The beer was brought, round went the driak- Will'g spirits soon began to sink, They wi* bis shilling gaud; " Come do not let your spirits down/' The winning soldier said; " Cheer up, my lad, and do not fear, A man you'll soon be made." He cried then and dried then The tears that down did fa', The daft ane, the saft ane. Was easily won awa.' VII. And list again to that loud noise Of drums and fifes, and men, and boys; Observe ye, these are players, — They surely lead an awful life Of toil and trouble, strut and strife. Of crosses and of oares. They're pinched, I wat, by poverty, And naked maist for claes; Thus strolling through the world they gae, And spend their weary days. Nae hame can they claim, And nae comfort can they have; They'ie hurled through the world. Till they sink into the grave. VIII. And mony a kittle case was seen, Wi' hearty Jock and rosy Jean, 103 1 wat ho girt her reel; And kindness oame at ilka band, He treated her at tent and stand, And pleased the lassie weel. And mony a chapman ohitld was there, Wi' ranting roaring voice. Some selling wft and some hardware, A penny for your choice. And a' that I saw. As 1 here and there was driven. Just proved that ilk ane loved To be lightsome as weel as livin*. 104 flit Mnxhni jflt[. A T A L B. I. I onoeTived in a cottage, And its master prayed and suag; Every morning, every evening, This little mansion rung. I had thought that he was holy. But if such a thought be tni?. You may judge when IVe related What once happened to my view< n. One summer morning early, I beheld my host's young daughter Catch a little fly, and first She put it in a jug of water; She took it out, tore both its wings. And beat it every part; Said I, has this young child been taught The feelings of the heart. 105 1 111. I beheli her still— fop uhw to save The fljr was all in Tain So she put it on a stone And beat it o'er and o'er again; She bnrned and ground it 10 That it was nearly out of sight, Then she rose ran to her playmates; And laughed in pure lelight. IV. Now I thought on what had happened And I though!; upon the father. And J thought instead of Ume duU prayers Thif« holy man should rather Take his little child and teach her What is right and what is wrong; Uo was bade do so, but never bade By holy prayer and song. V. As it now is, her heart will be A ?ank unweeded garden: The things there gross will grow. And she in crime will harden. The mind which God had gifted, lost, Time, talents thrown away • It were well would narAnta '^..«<;* From the sociae I WW tp 4^. loe €'lit JUmm Df Wtt. I. Among the many Visitants since first the world began, That have come on earth to murder and destroy the pea«:e of man, I stand alone, and go beyond all other ills as far As the brilliant snn of summer goes beyond the morning star. I have fatted all the fields of earth with the bodies of the dead; I have made your crystal streamlets and your rivers all run red; And the bravest and the best of men I've buried in the deep, V/hoid dying groans were heard in heaven and made the angels weep. 107 III. I hive brouglii,destra3tioa oa the worlJ «.!, cities stood '^'^e.worlj, where gorgeous ^1T^^ '°-'"' -' '•^'-"' ^'^ -.i"..^ with IV. ^th fi.„di,h jo, I led them to the bloody battle pUi„, V. Mj food hath been the flesh of men, my drink hath been their blood; Give .e m„dered .ea or .urdere™, whether by field '••'Via ilUiU, Murder .nd death to me . jo, unspeakable did yield. 108 VI. I oome from bell| the deepest hell; tbis world tbat would be fair Were it not for me^ I've filled with dismal bowlings of despair; If OHO bad been '' the hero of an hundred fiights" or more 'm the hero of ten million miseries counted o'er and o*er VII. I've bad friends on earth, and my most favoured son of modern times, Whose deeds heroio erring poets have sung in lofty rbjmes, He was banished on a lonely rook in solitude to dwell. And the men who wanted peace on earth in doing tiiia did woU. VIII. Ye nations pf the earth give ear — think on the deeds I've done, Think on the rendings of the heart, the woes by battle won, Think on the pangs of dying men whose sufferings now are o'er; You may think on this, but ye who suffer not oaa do no more. in 109 IX. Ho, England, France, America! shake hands and live peace. Put np yonr swords ye sons of men, let. strife and dis- cord cease, Thou boasted Briton, sun brunt Moor, ye great on earth and small. Love while you live, like brethren, as God meant [and mado you all. X. rm getting old and wrinkled^ now, my >air is turning grey The world begins to like me less, there dawns a brighter IVe done my work-I'm wishing that my reign on earth was o'er; Tm wearied with the deeds Pve done, and wish to do more. no 110 Written on visiting the Oravet ofAlezaneUr and John Bethune, Alexander and John Bethune wore brothers. They were born at Upper Rankeillour, in the parish of Letham and county o^ Fife. Being the sons of poor parents, they were trained from their earliest days to win their bread by labour. Through life they had to struggle with poverty; during the day chey laboured and at night, and other limited leisure hours, they wrote poems and stories which attracted the attention of very eminent literary characters; Mr Murray and Mr R Chalmers being among their patrons from -N oodmill in the parisn of Abdie, they ultimately removed to Mount Pleasant, where Alexander and John had built a house, which will long remain as a monument of their industry and perseverance. It stands on a lofty hill, and ii the highest house at the back of the beautiful town of iSew- burgh. Here the family lived for some time, but death came upon them, and his shafts flew quick. The father died first, then John, then the mother, and Alexander, who was left alone in this, to him, "bleak world," soon followed ihom to the grave, and now they all rest in the Abdie churchyard, where a ahaste and beautiful monument tells who lie below. In the sprang of 1846, I spent a few days at Newburgh. During my stay, I was favoured by a friend with Mr Combie's deeply interesting memoirs of Alexander. I had heard much of the Bethunes before this ; but being in the locality where they had lived and died, and reading this ably^jcompiled work, my in- terest in them was excited, and I had an ardent desire to see the burial place of the brothers. Accordingly, I set out on a Sabbath evening to ^bdie churchyard, and it was to me a delightful evening— such a one, indeed, as memory '♦ will not willingly let die." I was enchanted by all I heard and saw. The scenery agreeably surprised me. It was unlocked for. I did not think there was so much beauty in the locality ^so little talked of* Around mv lay the hills, reposing in quiet grandeur, and before I Ill me lay «ie Loch of Lindores, bounded on the north by the beau .T^^l^^kel^ " f''''"^ twilight ofa summers evening appears hke the eye of nature, looking up to its Make, in the 7^1Z^T' ^^^«\^-^*'°-" I arrived at Abdie oh" h' I. Best in peace, beloved brothers, Rest ia peace, oppressed no more; Fame is yours which was no other s. Now that all life's toils are o'er. ' II. Bred 'mid hardship, shame upon her, Tho' she strove to keep you down You have gained a name of honour Brighter far than monarch's crown. «• III. Toiled from moining's sun tHI setting- Students pale o'er glimmering lamp, Still harassed by fortune fretting— Murdered in a cottage damp. VI. Told in youp affecting stories. What was right and what was wrong; 112 t 'Wlen issplred by aator^'a glories Then your souls burst fortk ia san^. V. Both were peasaDts, proud, yet humble, To their lowly lot resigned; Neither at their fate did grumbler- Gifted each with noble mind. VI. Both were one in fond affection — One in feeling— one in fath; One too in their name's erection- One in lifb, and one in death. VII. Standing here, I am not weeding O'er their grayes now free from ills; Buried here, serenely sleeping « 'Mid a^ild Sooti&'s quiet hills. VIII. Standing here, I do not mourn O'er this lowl^ bed of thine— Oh! till death's eternal mom^ May such 'fiNg^'of tdat m lat&is' IIS IX. Here all lie, the father, mother, Silently are al«!epipg here; Here the younger, elder brother, Both are stretched upon the bier. X. Be it so; they all resided In one cot oo earth in love: And they were not long divided From the better land abovo. XI. Pilgrims here with bosoms swelling Yet may come and tears may fall O'er the dark and nwrow dwelling Oftwp bBotbersr-rOfe in nlj^ XII. Rest in pepoe, belpved jbroth^s-^ Rest in peace, oppressed no in«re; Fame is yours whioh wa? W) others. Now ^jitt^l iife'^ ioikmft^^ 114 €^t Wkl I. I DiNNA like that dreary wind It makes me dull and wae; It gars me think upon the grave. To which we a' maun gfee. It brings me to the gates of death W nar a' is dark and drear— There's something in the howling wind I dinna like to hear. ir. It brings to mind the tales IVe read, 0' mountain, moor, and glen. Where solitary wanderers found Remains of murdered men. I think upon the houseless poor Wha wander wet and cauld: And sigh for a' the sufferings 0* the helpless young and auld. III. Hark, how that gust is howling, Oh, it makes my blood run chill; What a dreary sound gangs through the trees. It's moaning o'er the hill. Ill Qma .pritM ariM, «„d lo, nety.k, K'ght merrily behiDd The oh.rneUou.e they™ d.nciDg, Tothomosioofthewiad. ' IV. Yo howling wind., oh, .p,„ ^o Wk On restlew billows tossed- And spare th. worth, fiyther Deem'd by friend, forever lost. That n„ke n,e ,h^, ,j, « Th-^s «,jnething in the howli^ wind J aiana liike to licar. no Wriltin on theoeearion qfdn Amateur Performanee at Dr Betitd'9 Aettdemg, Welcome to StbDy Knolls ! a hear'y greeting We give to iall at this our joyful mooting. Not, it is true, the first. Tor there have been Such bright assemblies here, before, I ween. And judging from the glories of the past I know not, friends, that this should be our last, Shakspeare has said that ''all the world's a stage;'* *'Tis said this is the saying of a sage," Full well we know 'tis true, but in this mart Of Learning we have mostly played one part— The school- boy with his shining morning face Plays here his part—- to him a serious case. Here day by day, and week by week, Are dull brains cudgelled over puzzling Qreek; iilutopius teases here, — Virgil vexes, H;;»i,.(>i ia horrible, — Euclid perplexes. Xl^^r:; .%i"i,ish commerce, textile manufacture, Ai'3 themes on which we show ourselves the actor. While sums, and numbers added to the emm. Are themes on which our actors oft prove dumb; Ann 4nia ttxifK ia ^a1/1 *»< •»•••>•• ^ «i^»A... 1..1. 117 That " Latin Made Easy" ig no easy book. Change is the law of nature : Change hat been Since first Creation's dawn behold the queen Of earth and women .-—pardon, ladies all, I speftk of Eve anterior to her fall. Since then the great and everlastin/r sea Has sung its wild and endless melodj. The beauteous flowers of summer yearly blow Anon comes surly winter with its snow. ' Change rules the varied year, the life of man, And woman too, though bounded by a span;' So, from the ills with which we have to fight We wished to have a change, and so "quite right" Exclaimed our actors all, and thus the ending Of this shrewd thought is what just now is pending. Thus have we left the Gods of Greek and Rome, And for one night -at least become the showman! Well, for our own amusement and yours, we Have chosen theCuiTio, which you soon will see; The Spoiled CHiLD,-by the way offence to none, We hope that in our temple there's but one:— And MoNsiEUE ToNsoN with his tricks and fun, With which the night's amusement will be done. Here great Macready will not tread the stage. Nor Vandenhoflf the grand your time engage. ' Here G. V. Brooke, 'tis true, will not be seen, Nor Helen,Faucit, tragedy's fair queen. But here's Mm Beard, of whom the Greeks would say Her the Gods love to honour and obey i Here's Kriens, to treat us to a German song He cannot chaunt too often and too long: Mo3e$, with all his learning t9o, is here, " ' 118 To show his talents ip another sphere. Hero's David Slater playing the greatest part. Because most like to steal a lady's heart Here's Edwin Smith, aliai» Socrates, Having at once the will and power to please. Here's Blackci, too, with ail his fun and trickB, To act, as he himself would say, *• like bricks." These will be seen and uanj more basides; So, laughter, now prepare to hold your sides. We'll do our best- if high we cannot soar^ Macready or Vandenhoff could do no more. M>^- SONGS. ^K m a' Ijii ^ijDiij ? -AiB,— My Lass's Black e'e. Oh! whar are a' the friends I had in earlj days? Wha used to rin about Tho burnies and the braes; Wha used to rin about Wi' meikle mirth and glee* I ween they a' hae fled Frae their ain countrie. II. The sanga they used to sing Are never heard ava'* The village ne'er does ring Wi* the fife or bugle's blaw;- It's true that sottie are laid Beyond von auM vaw ♦«««. But maist o' them are fled ■Frae th«ir ain countrie. t20 III At kirk or market noo We Lever meet them there; It makes me wae to think I ne'er may see them mair. We ne'er assemble now Our village sports to see; A's dull and lonely now In our ain countrie. IV. My friends &re far awa*, They're scattered here and there; But 0, for ane and &* I breathe an earnest prayer- May God still be their guide. Wherever they may be, — May peace and rest bo their'a In anither countrie. Wf ■ P [ I »<-- dDli! Min Ihs tm tliB Unnutt tm. Am— 0, where, and where. Oh here lies low the bonny lass^ The maiden that I lo'e; She lies wi;hiii this narrow bed, Where I maun soon lie too; 121 Death's clay cauld hand ha. stilled the heart, That aye was kind and true; The form o»or which I fondly hung Is sheltered by the yew. II. The flowers bloom bonny o'er the bed 0' her that I held dear; And dark, dark, is the enrious grave ^ That keeps me mourning hero. I've naebody noo to live for. And the warld*s nought to mo; Oh, life's a weary pilgrimage, % Mary, wanting thee. III. Pale, pale, forever are those lips That I hae aften kissed; And cauld forever are those cheeks, . That I hae aften pressed; And still forever is that voice, Once music to my ear* Those beaming eyes that shone so bright, Are closed forever here. IV. 0, may I know this blissful home, In which my love doth dwell- 122 In yon bright land where hapny ones Their holy anthems swell; Where saints forever sing their songs To God who reigns on high, Where sorrow never more is known Nor tears bedim the eye. V. But I am alone on earth, My grief I cannot hide; And I will near find peace or rest Till slumbering by her side; Till then, my beating heart be stijl. Which now in sorrow lies, — Oh! I maun soon be blest wi' her Beyond yon sunny skies. ^n tjiiiikiitg npn J&^ inii fyu. AiB,--My Lass's Black e'e. I. When thinkmg upon my sad fate, wi' my Annie, This bosom o* mine it is burdened ^i'care; There's something within tells me plaia that I mauoa ^ it^it-rn. JL vau gcfc pwttuu w my goui ony mair* 123 ir. I thmk that there', „.„e o- her kind half sae bonny There , nane o' her kind half ,ae bonny can be Her face U „ fairer, far fairer than ony ' Her form it ,eoms like an augel to me. nr 3> Ifind my „a, heart in my bosom aye «i„ti4/ Then start quite reg.rdl.ss wherever 1 gj IV. I start, bat the wound in my bosom is biding- AnItLl ."■'""" "^"S-S-^; And though a' my grief frae my friend, T « v ,• The oauld hand 0. death wii/detrtiliia^'"^' 30ill fliiii fell jrr DrrW ii #„«. A IB— Gloomy Winter. . Hill and dell are decked in green - JVature'sa'inboaufcjrseen; lit thing delights my gazing eenr And so does lovely Annie, 0. ' 124 11. By yoD burn the daisies apring, On yon bower the birdies sing. They joy to every bosom bring, And sae does lovely Annie^ 0. III. Wha could now be sad or wae^ When nature a' is blythe and gay? 'Tis I, because I dinna hae The heart o' lovely Annie, 0. IV. I maun wander here and mourn,— She has slighted me with scorn, And left me here alane forlorn,-— My ain my^lovely Annie, G. V. What are nature's joys to me? What her pleasures — wanting thee? Happy I can never be, Unless wi* lovely Annie, 0. VI. Will ye, bonny lass, be tnw ? Will ye listen to my vow? And I will ne'er be false to you MT7 nin mtr 1nwa1«r AnnaA Ci 126 3 Hani raatttt Imt mf jtnij /air. I. I now maun leave my ladj fair* The wind blows high— the bolt is ready, The boat that fills my heart wi' cure, And bears me frae my winsome lady. Oh sair, sair, is this wacfu' heart, An fain, fain, wouhl I langer tarry; But fate has said that we maun part, An' I maun leave my bonny Mary. -k II. I needna say her heart is true— I needna say she is fair and bonny; For maist fouk think her matched by few, She is fairer far than ony. I needna say our love will last Till baith our e'en are closed forever* But ah, I fear the joys now past Will never come again— oh never. in 111. It's no her ee'n sae bonny blue,— It's no her cheek sae red ami rosy. That gars me creet tn nav orf\^,. It's no her fond embrace, sae cosy. ' I 126 It's no that I regret to leave The humhie cot in which she's dwelling— ]t's no for fear that she'll deceive— It's no for this my bosom's swelling. IV. But it's to leave her all alone, A lonely maiden unprotected; * Oh! who will guard her nhen Ira gone By me she ne'er wad bo neglected. The power aboon keep watch and care 0' worth and merit— He'll reward her; This aye will be my earnest prayer- May a* that's guid forever guard her. €mt h ^^mht %mn. I. Come to yonder bower, my lassie. Come to yonder bower wi' me,— Come to yonder bower, my lassie, And I'll tell my love to thee. II. Down by yonder wood, my lassie, Blythly a* the birdies sing, And upon the burnie's banks Roses fair and lilies spring. 127 IJI O'er the eastern hill, my lassie, Bljrtbly blinks the rising sun; Hark, the birds aboon our heads, Morning's jojs are just begun. IV. What aro a' the jojs, my lassie. That smiling morn can gie,-l What are a'thejo^s, my lassie, Nought, believe me, wanting thee. Muln Mi0B in €nlh I. Winter nights are cauld, lassie; Winter ni ghts are caujd, lassie; Come my love, 0, come wi» me, When Boreas' blast is bauld, lassie. w -111 II. IVe a couthie hame, laddie, I've a couthie hamo, laddie' I've my father's humble roof. Except me has nane laddie; ti! 12$ III. I'll keep him tri^ an* briw, lassie; III keep him trig an' braw, lassie; About your parents dinna fear, But wi' me come awa, lassie. iV. Gin summer time were her«, laddie; Gin summer time were here, laddie: Then, then, 1*11 come wi' the«;— Just gie me time to speer, laddie. V. I canna bide my lane, lassie, I canna bide my lane, lassie,-— I'll specr if you'll but come wi' me, An' ease my heart o' pain, lassie. VL My pleading's a* in vaini laddie; My pleading's a' in vain, laddie; Gae get the guid latdd folk's consent, An' then ca' me your ain, laddie f^. in 3 (Pna Mm ^m. Aia-When silent Time. X- I- A uid New Year to ane an' §? 0, moDj may you see, An' during a' the years that come/ 0, happy may you be; An' may you ne'er hae cause to mourn, To sigh, or shed a tear;— To ane an* a*, baith great an» sma' A hearty Guid i\ew Year. 0, time flies fast, he winna i^ait. My friand, for you or me; He works his wonders day by day. An' onward still doth flee, 0, wha can tell gin ilka ane I see sac happy here. Will meet again, and merry be, Anither Guid New Year. III. We twa hae baith been happy lang, We ran about the braei In ae we cot, beneath a tree. We spent our early days; •4 180 Wt ran aboat the bnrnie'a aide, The spot we aye held dear, And those wha naed to meet ua there We'll think on mony a jear. IV. Kow let na hope our years maj be As guid aa they hae been; And let us hope we ne'er may see The sorrows we have seen; An' let us hope that ape an' a'—* Oar friends baith far and near May aye enjoy for time to oome«- A hearty guid New Year. ^lE^Blythe, biythe, and merry was she. I. Bonny, bonny was tho morn When we rose to rin awa; Phoebus did the hills adorn, Scarce a breeze o' wind did blaw. Anna rose and slipped near me, " Johnny, Johnny, come,*' she cried, ** O, I'm feared the auld folk hear me; If they do, they'll gar us bide." 11. I gat roidj, kiised my dearie, We ilkjther'a fear did feel, ' Bundled up our olaes, and eerie. Bade the guid Buld folk fareweel. I had wrought and kept them canny. Wrought I ween for mony a year; For my hire I wanted Anna, Bnto' thia they wadna hear. III. Soon we left them— reached the halan* I a week before had taon, God sin'ayne has blessed our toilin*. We sin'gyne hae baith been ane. Soon the auld folk ceased to scorn. When our weel doing ways they saw; Aye fiin'syne we bless the morn, When we rose to rin awa'. 'ffjir 35lDnniiirg Ijntjim — ( I. Bonny ii the blooming heather, ' Bonny is the blooming heather; But it's bonnier still, I ween, Whea 'nwng^t twa lovers meet th'gether. - 181 0, then it blooms sae fresh and fair, Then ilka thing around is bonny, When the lovely lass is there That we love mair dear than ony. II. Then the bleating lambs that cry, Make ilk thing seem blythe and cheery. When upon the breast we lie 0' her that we can ca' our dearie. Bonny is the blooming heather. Bonny is the blooming heather. But dearest to the youthful heart. When 'mang't twa lovers meet the'gethor. ^t €ms 0( fife. Oh! why should mankind not be merry As lang's he*s todlin here? Life is at best a terrible worry; But yet there's nae reason to fear. II. Man meets in wi* mony a hardship, As life's weary vale be gangs through - But Tve aye found a gate to get out at. And hope that I ever will do. 188 III. It's trae that we a* hae our Borrows, At least for mysel' iVe my share; But the truth is, to look round about mo There's monj a mortal has mair. IV. Sad poverty presses the poor man, The rich winna look to their state; But there's happiness whiles in the c'ottage, Dnkend to the mighty and great. V. When this life is done there's a prospect, A hope which all honest men hay©,— A glorious land we may live in. When laid lowly down in the grave. ^l VBinht is €m. Am—Anld Rob Monis. . I. Oh! wiLter is come, and the cauld blasti noo blaw. The hills o' auld Scotland arc covered wi'snaw' ^j am iate resembles ilk bush and ilk tree For Anno, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. 1S4 II. The spring may return and deck a' in greeny The hills and the vales may in beauty be seen* But pleasure or peace they to me canna gle. For Anna, fair Annii, ne'er smiles upon me. III. 0, weel may my head aye be stoundin* an sair. An weel may my heart aye be beatin* wi* care. An' weel may the tear trickle down frae my e'e— For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. IV. But 0, wlien I think that she yet may be mine. When a ray of this hope on my bosom doth shine, I ask not on earth mair pleasure to hae. Than Anna, fair Anna, to smile upon me. ^i&— The Spinning o't I. • would the wide warld beware o* the toons ' Wha practice sae often the gulling o't, Wha come frae Auld Reekie and ither big towns. Their pockets-^they look to the filling o*i. Those mountebank callants wha hastily flee Frae city to city-frae Perth aad Dandee— And swear that you'll something astonishing, see, If ye only put faith in their telling o't. IL There's constantly something to tak up our time, Though a body has ever so little o't; Some blundering scribblers pest us wi rhyme, But o» sense they seldom show meikle o't;' The flying machine late engaged a' our care. Which promised to bear us awa through the air; But now the concern has blawn up— I fear High pressure has bursted the metal o't. IIL Mesmeric Phrenology now ii the go A' body's begun to the trying o't; If the science progress in the same ratio. We'll no daur e'en think for the spying o't. It's advocates tell us their patients can see The folk in the moon at their toddy and tea. Or what's to tak' place in the town o' Dundee,^ There's ferlies, I wat in the doing ot. IV. Uqnj puir wight frae his hame gangs awa* . :. And offem An ali/tnr 4'1.<..~ a.v~ i>.ii .. .- ^ ,,..,„„ sucaj ^ug loiiy Q'i' The place that's jioyuoky he'll get it to claw. 1S6 As payment and thanks for the telling o't ; They'll stand up and swear that they'll hear him no more They'll howl and they'll hiss, and they'll rant and.they'11 roar. Till the puir silly fellow is dragged to the door,. Right glad to escape frae the melling o't. V. 1 wonder in nature what will we hae next, — Now folk can be " done" by the willing o't; Teeth and legs can be drawn hy the mesmeric touch, E'en a heart may be had for the stealing o't.^ For the mesmerists tell us their patients can seo The man o' the moon at his toddy and tea. Or what will tak place next year at Dundee* There's ferlies I wat, in the doing o't * Ahont this time considerable excitement was occasioned by the visits of itinerant lecturers on mesmerism. The poet was then rather sceptical on the subject; but the fact of stiff arms and stiffer legs made him appear unsuccessful in the debates. Nothing daunted, he resolved to try a lecture in an adjoining town, situated on the Braes of ^ngus; and for this purpose a meeting was called, and the novelty of the lecture drew together a large assemblage. The lecture was begun, and a goodly num- ber of the Disciples of Mesmer were present. When they saw the orator was on the negative, a noisy warfare ensued; which resulted in the lecturer having to beat a speedy retreat. It may here be remarked, that a relative of the author's is preaching and lecturing in the same place, with greater success, on higher gabjeots, to ao intelligeiit Chrlsti&tt Coug^egatloa. 187 Little children make me glad, Though my very soul be sad; . Laughing in their sport and glee, Climbing up upon my knee : Running round about my chair^ With their hearts sae free fra§ cart, Playing wi' joy at hide and seek, Out and in they merrily keek. And their half pronounced names, Tend to cheer our humble hnmes; While we soothe them wi' a sang, Winter nights are never lang; While they prattle by our side, Cheerful is our clean fireside; They to bless mankind were given — Home wi* them's a little heaven. J. FELLOW, FUINTBR, MURftAYaATK, DtJNbKB