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In the present case, such expectation cannot be realizt^, fram the fact that, like the weary ' Willio's Lament 166 1 Long not for Riches 168 May Morning 170 The Dyin^ Scots Grey 173 Mary Wuite 176 The Auld Beg<;arman 177 O, Denis, My Darling 179 Lady Jane 181 The Voice of the Strangor 183 Wail of the Bewilderetf. 185 The Young Highland Rorer 187 Autumn 188 Scotland's Green Hedgerows ISO Craigend's Wqods 191 Wee Jeaoie's Lament 192 ;|- -ly^at •>^^^^^h^k*h«^.<« ^^^^.^V^'S Entered according to the Act op the PnoviifciAi, Leoisla- TUKB, in the year On« Thousand Eight Hundred and Fit'tj-siz, in the office of the Registrar of the Province of Canada. 0t^*^m^^^*0 v^y^^^a^ta'm w^^**^^0*0*0*0^^^^*0!*^^^*^^''^ a^vi^N^^^^ PlirMTBO BT J. A. DAVWSOn, BRAMPT02C. ILA- •8ix, ■A A^'y POEMS. ■a J SERMON IN THE WOODS: OR, THE settler's FIRST SABBATH DAY. f! Would'st thou know the soul of silence Go to the untrodden woods ; Lift thy voice aloud, and listen To the answering solitudes. Would'st thou have deep confirmation That a God indeed doth reign, Feel the awful unseen presence ? — Go, and never doubt again. Far in a Canadian forest, Underneath a spreading oak ; Ere the solitudes had echoed To the woodman's cheerful stroke j ?— .J:t ■vi ti li^ h i SZRMON IN THX WOODS ; Ere the branching elm had falleiTy And the cedar, and the pine. Undisturbed by man, had blossom'd, Erer since the birth of time. Here some poor expatriated Sons of ancient Caledon Met — their fathers' God to worshipi On a quiet Sabbath mom. Poverty — perchance oppression — Drove them to the woods to dwell, Leaving half their hearts behind them^ 'Mong the hills they lov'd so well. Want, the mother of affliction. Had been their familiar long ; Yet, to battle with the forest, They had brought hearts stout and stroqg^ Some, the soldiers ot affection, Soldiers of the noblest kind, Came to seek a home for parents Left in poverty behind. Some from wives and children parted i Hope allaying their distress ; For she whisper 'd, she would find them Freedom in the wilderness ! «B, THI SSTTLBE'S tlMMT SABBATH OAT. Some were creatures of misfortuney Some of t3rrann]r and wrong ; Yet their hearts were grieved within theniy Parting from their childhood's home. 'Mid this group of humble beings There was one old gray-hair'd man ; He was lovM, yea, as a father ! Sound him all the children ran. He had look'd upon the world, Yea, for three-score years and tesi Yet bore in his heart unbounded Lore for his poor fellow men. -^ii Things for which the world is strugglinf— Honors, riches, power, and wealth— To him, were but moping shadows- Groping in the cell of self. Lore had lent him strength io wrestle Eren with the storms of fate : In his heart he bore no hatred, Sare to the dark soul of hate. Yea, he would hare been a poet. Had not penury, the while. And a sense of duty doomed him To a life of ceaseless toil. \ 1 t f ERMON IN THS WOODS ,rfi- Yet by times the God within him Would lift up his awful voice, Aiid the melodies imprison'd Burst their fetters and rejoice* And his pentop human feelings, Ever and anon, would start Into words which forced an entrance Even in ihe ronjjhest heart. ''^ Surely, 'twas the God of Jacob '-^ Honor'd this old man to raise, Here in nature's green cathedral, ^ To his name the song of praise. "S- In that awful leafy temple -i^'i-rfT Not a sound the silence broke, Save his voice in prayer ascending,. From the shadow of the oak. Their full souls to his responded^ * As to some old prophet seer ; Anxiously they circled round him, Hush'd their very hearts to hear. THE SERMON, r*^ ^i5!»T ViVV ^ We are met, belov'd friends, in this temple ofgreert, A fit place to worship the awful Unseen, \ Who guided us safely across the great deep, ,' And hush'd the wild waves and the billows asleep.. In the mart and the city proud man m:iy forget To seek the Great Father to guide and proteQln • r V, OR, TRX SBTTLER's FIRST SiBBATH DAT. Too often we've seen him bent under a load Of grold, which he worship'd instead of his God ; But here in the forest, with danger beset, Ah ! dead must the heart be that ere can forget. We have left a lovM land where we suffer'd some v^rong, And in these wild forests have sought a new home Our wron«2-s we'll forget : let it now be our care, i To cherish the virtue which still blossoms there: Our hearts to affection can only give way. When we think of our home and the hills far away. Ah ! yes, I had hop'd to be laid down at last, When life, with its toils and its troubles, had past, Beside the old church where the lone willows ween. Where our friends and our kindred all silently sleep. My time must be short, and I well could have borne, For a little while longer, injnstice and wrong ; Bnt, ^ ! it has been the long wish of my life To help man to shake o(F deception and strife; And with you, my children, to thnse woods I've come, That mine olil ayes may witness the good work begun: F'ln sick and I'm weary of vi'lence and hate ! Let Love be the genius, the soul of this state ! For why shonid we wrestle and fight with our brother? Since Christ died for all, can't we love one another? In peace let us found a community here: We'll govern by love, 'stead of hatred and fear. ♦ I thank you, my children, for that deep Amen, And I'll die whh the hope that I've not lived in vain. > <1 8 SERMON IN THE WOODS } Then on^ on, ye brave, to the battle of peace. And hasten the time when man's sorrows shall cease : The axe is your weapon, the forest the foe, And joy, peace and plenty comes forth at each blow. Ah ! poor is the triumph the warrior feels ! Humanity weeps while his work she reveals. How long shall the demons of ruin and wrath With bleeding hearts cover their war-wasted path f How long shall oppression her bloody lash ware, And the poor slave of Mammon a brother enslave ? I tee in the future a sweet smiling plain, With green pastures waving, and rich golden grain. What will they avail you, if folly and sin, Or greed blight the flowers of affection within ? What will it avail, tho' your herds may increasei If still ye are strangers to virtue and peace ? For virtue alone is the soul of a state, — Without it, we vainly are wealthy and great. Ah ! yes, there is treasure more precious than goldy Not found in the market, a treasure untold ! The heart longs for something on which to rely, A something the wealth of the world cannot buy ; A something which beauty, which virtue foreshows, Which genius announces, but cannot disclose ; A something above the dark regions of sense, AlLtm to the spirit which becons it hence. -J. ..,. And mind, my lov'd children, that, go where we will, \ That danger and death surely follow us still. OR, THS fCTTLXR'S FIMT SABBATH DAT. Th«re are shafts ia the quiver of fortune and fate That, do what we will, we can never escape : Be we rich, be we poor, there's a death hanging o'er vm. An awful eternity stretching before us : We're hurriedly wafted on this wave of time To the great mighty ocean that's stretching sublime ; And if the rude tempests and storms overtake us. Aye, mind there is one that will never forsake us : There's only one pilot can bid the storm cease, And bring us at last to the haven of peace ; Sublime was the sorrow his human heart bore, That head-aches and heart-aches might know us no move* then let us live so, that at the great day, When the framework of nature shall crack and give wej; When, 'midst the great ruin, the Judge will descend^ Eternity with him, and time at an end ; ! then may we enter and taste of the joy Which time, death and sorrow, can never destroy ; ! then may we look back, from that happy sphere. With joy to the Sabbath we first worship'd here. In comp'ny of angels, with Christ for a friend. And a Sabbath of glory which never shall end. i 1 And many yf rp have past away — The forest all is gone. Save the old oak in memory left Of that sweet Sabbath mom. And some are with the living still, And some are with the dead, Who treasured up within their hearts The words the old man said. c 10 .e>- ! f T^ ■'' Mi-f* SERMON IN THS WOODS. His work still lives, the* he is laid Within the quiet grave ; The old oak is the monument •'Which over him doth wave : Some one has graven on its trunk, Who holds his memory dear, Stranger ! this is a sacred spot, — A Christian slumbers here. *9 , 5 w .i / ^1 THE EARLY BLUE BIRD Ye've come far owre early, ,._ My bonnie we bird: There's nae av^ws o' green leaves, 0' simmer nae word. What tempted you here, frae The j[^reen suniiy bovvers Of the sweet smiling South, and The region of flowers 1 J Thou'rt chasing a phantom ! Some folly, I fear, Has urg'd thee, my wee bird,. To venture forth here. Thou type o' the herald ! Who comes to proclaim The advent of peace in Strife's dreary domain. It THB SARLY BLVC BIRD. Of th« Bard who still ho^g for, 'Mid sorrow and pain. The "good time that's coming," Love's long looked for i«igii : He's oome far owre early, My poor bird, like thee ; The guid times ye sing o' Ye'll no' likely see. Tliere's cauld days to come yet, And deep drifts o' snaw. And storms frae the bleak north, £re winter gae 'wa' : There's tempests tor thee, bird, Ere spring comes wi' peaee. And tears; toil, and trouble. Ere man's sorrows cease. Wae't this blink o' sunshine. This short gleam o' joy, Which wiled thee, like pleasures Which tempt to destroy ; * How like the poor youth Grasping pleasure too soon. Whose sun sinks in darkness. Long ere it is noon ? THB BAULT BLUE BIRD. Hovr quickly the Syren, Which wilee him, takes wing, And leaves but rode winter Where she promised spring. Whatever was the phantom Which wiled thee forth here. Like the too trustful maiden, Te're like to pay dear ! 1 Ml Thy neck is a' draggled, And drukit's thy wing ; I oant bear to hear thee Attempting to sing : For there's something sae mownfa' And sad in thy strain, I eould sit and greet wi' you Till spring comes amain. Like thee, my puir bird, I ' Wa« tempted to roam, By the distant, the future, The lovely unknown : Like thine, my bright visions Were all overcast, — Like thee, I maun stoop 'neath The cauld chilly blast. 1 14 il THK EARLY BLUS BIRll. Pm thinking, my wee bird, In sorrow and pain, Our thoughts and our feelings Are something the same : I Icen that ye sing just To ease sorrow's smart, — I've oft tried the same, just To keep up my heart. H We're kindred in sorrow, If in nought besirle, And sorrow shoiild level Distinctions and pride. Then come, little warbler, Nor tremble for me, And share any shelter That I hae to gie. '.T .1 Ah ! think'st thou man*s cruel ?— Thy terrors are just ; And so the rude winter (*? • Thou'lt far rather trust. But, sure, there are some who'd '■••J Feel better at least, W To soothe but a pang in ' '- -I A wee birdie's breast. ■ j i ' m THI KARLT BLTTC BIRO. 15 Tliou'rl right, my poor bird — The' your prospects are bare. Still, still clin!^ to hope, nor Give up to despair. In the deepest, the darkest, Its beams brightest shine,— Without them, this heart wad hae Broken lang syne. \-J M ■«<^r*-- I « H i ) t 7 .» < I ^/f' > » ■ •* V u SIR COLIN; OB, THX HIOHLANOBRS AT BALAKLATA. III! Ths serfs of the Czar know not pity nor mercy. And many a turban is roli'd on the plain : lake dust the poor sons of the Prophet are trampl'd. And Alia, il Allah ! they'll shout not again. Sir Colin, Sir Colin ! why stand ye thus idle ? Ton dark mounted masses shall trample thee o'er : fiir Colin, Sir Colin ! thy moments are numbered, — The hills of Glenorchy shall know thee no more. Why wake not the pibroch thy fathers have sounded. Which rousM up the clansmen in battles of yore ? Till downward they swept, like the tempests ot Avin, Or demons all dashing^ with dirk and claymore. ' SIR COLIK. 17 Thy band shall be hack'd like the stripes of the tartan ; McDonald ! McDerrnid ! to glory adieu ! Gregalich ! Gregalich ! the shade of thy hero May blush for his sons, by his own Avoi Dhu. Hush ! hark ! 'tis the pipes playing " Hoi leu MacGaradh ;" The spirit of Fingal at last has awoke ! Yet motionless all, as the Giant Craig Ailsa, Tho' foam-crested billows rush on to the shock. I? •H The horsemen of Russia roll nearer and nearer. Now slacken a moment, now sweep to the shock : One terrible flash — 'tis the lightning of Albin I One peal; and the tartans are hid in the smoke. Now ifuncan ! now Donald ! the rnetal you're made of, In this awful moment, ! may it prove true : Be thy soul as firm as the rocks of St. Kilda, Thy swoop like the eagles' of dark Benvenue. It is not the deer ye have met on the heather, — That is not thine own Corybrechtain's loud roar : Triumphant emerge from that dark cloud of thunder, Or die ! and behold the rea heather no more. The cloud clears away — 'tis the horsemen are flying ! All scatter'djike chaff by the might of the Gael : One long yell of triumph, while bonnets are waving, And "Scotland forever!" resounds through the dale. ili .. Z' 1 I iSABBATH MORNING'S SOLILOQUY OF ^ AN OLD OX. Ah ! times are chang'd, aye, changed indeed ; Hard work, ill usage, and scant feed, Hae wrought a waefu' change in me : Pm no' the beast I used to be. 0, they were times ere I was brought Beneath auld Jawbaw's heavy yoke : O, they were blessed times, I trow, Wi' plenty and scarce ought to do ; For surely kindness and good feeding Is the hale secret o' good breeding. .::> \ SABBATH morning's SOLILOQUY. 19 Who could believe me the same creature, So sleek in hide and great in stature, So light o' heart, so free frae care. That took the prize at Erin fair ? Then mony a body star'd at me, And said I was worth gauu to see : The judges said, in a' the fair There was nocht wi' me could compare : They stuck the riband on my heed. And said I was of noble breed, And sent a glib-tongu'd jockey wi' me, To lead me roun' and let folk see me. I But, oh ! these happy days are past. And I'm reduced to want at last ; I'm wrocht to perfect skin and bane. And aft maun thole a hungry wame : It matters na tho' I'm discreet, I'm but a thing wi' cloven feet. And ony wicked blackguard knave May goad me like a galley slave. < But, Guid be thankit,. this is Sunday, And I'll hae peace and rest till Monday : The very thought this day brings rest Keeps up the heart o' the oppress'd j A blessed day to a' the weary. It aye returns to make them cheery. Oh ! but for this sweet happy time, I had been dragg'd to death langsyne j For it's a great grief to some folk I i : I ! ! 1 (ilMi 1 ''i 20 SABBATH UOKNINO'S SOLILOQUT' That we should e'er get out the yoke. For, oh ! they grudge and spend the Sunday Yawning and wishing it were Monday. They'd do awa' wi't a' thegither, And keep us in the yoke forever j But, were the rascals in our skin. They'd pray for twa instead o' ane. They're bom but to command, they say,. And we poor creatures to obey ; For we are of the working classes, And sae we maun put up wi' lashes. Maun cultivate the virtues humble, And feed on thistles and ne'er grumble. Ah ! mony a time I've sadly thought. When I've been ill used and hard wrought,, That 'tis our quiet disposition Which keeps us in this sad condition : We've no' eneugh o' spunk and Devil To gar twa-footed brutes be civil : Our kicking, our casting the yoke. Has always ended but in smoke : 'Tis gentleness and want o' knavery Which keeps us, as a race, m slavery. Yon dog, wha's play'd me mony pranks,, • A creature o' the upper ranks, . - ; An ugly, biting, barking devil, Wha hasna the sense to be civil Ot AN OLD OX. t2i To decent, quiet, honest folk, Even when they're let out the yoke, But struts routi' wi' a tace fu' sour. To let them feel that he's in power j Wi' collar large, that a' may see A great dog in authority. And rides, tho' but a dirty messin, Aye on the tap o' his commission, And a' his surly rude behaviour Is just to get himsel' in favor. I've seen him fawn and phrase and whine Upon auld Jawbaws raony a time ; Aye, even after he wad kick him. The messin wad crawl up and lick him : The creature then I could hae crush'd Wi' perfect contempt and disgust. I hate, frae the depth o' my heart, A creeping, crawling, sycophant ; It's muckltj I hae got to bear wi' Without a single hope to cheer me ; But I'd as soon walk to the knife As lead that creeping creature's life : And Guid kens my lot's far frae easy ; For, since I'm getting auld and crazy, And canna draw the loads I used to. By young and auld I maun abus'd be. ■./■ '■ I;! ' 'I 'I I'i 22 SABBATH morning's SOLILOUUT Had I been o' a thievish nature, A sleekit, sloungin', sly fence breaker, But I ! who've walk'd in virtue's ways^ To treat me sae in my auld days ! To live in want, in hate and fear. Is more e'en than a beast can bear. And there is my young neebor Lyon, He's better hous'd and fed than 1 am : If Jawbaws didna feed him weel. He'd break in through barn doors and steal ; The hichest fence he wad leap over. And wallow to ♦he wame in clover. But mony a time I've hungry been, Close by where oats were tempting green, Tho' I'm but a four-footed beast, I've had the virtue to resist. Yet, in hard times, when a' are starving. The bite's gi'en to the undeserving : To be rewarded thus for merit, Might even break an ox's spirit. And, oh ! there are tvva-footed beasts Wi' nae compassion in their breasts : My master's one o' the vile brutes, ^ Waur nor ocht that e'er walk'd on clutes j - Tho' he's a man, 'twould be a sin / To compare even me wi' him. His heart's as cauld and hard as steely DF AN OLD OX. 98 A cruel; drunken ne'er-do-»weel, Wha grudges me a moment's ease. And gangs to a' the logging bees ; And if I dinna haw and jee, And jump as gleg's I us'd to do, O ! then his wicked tongue gets loose Wi' awfu' torrents o' abuse, And blauds o' blasphemy and 8weerin% Till I've becK horrified to hear him. .11 . , 1 And O ! I hae a sad foreboding 'Twill be my death this weary logging j For when the heavy day is through, And a' the hauns are bleth'rin' fu' They'll keep a rantin' and a roarin' A' telling their great feats and splorin' While I for hours maun sadly wait, Like sorrow at a tavern gate ; Wi' weary hide and hungry wame, And haurel then the blackguard's hame. As sure as Jawbaws taks a spree, Wi' a' he meets he'll disagree, Then I'm in teiror o' my life, He'll hae a quarrel wi' the wife ; For he's henpeckit in the main. And daurna ca' his soul his ain. And as sure as they disagree. He'll out and vent his rage on me. f ABBATH morning's SOLILOQVT. ill! And after a' his drucken fits. Especially if he's got his licks, He'll gang about as quaite's a iamb. Pretending he's an alter'd man ; And then he'll talk sic awfu' nonsense About the Bible and his conscience. He little thinks that when he prays, I'm watching every word he says: He kens na that his puir auld ox Regards him as a pejfect hoax. Did he but ken, to wrath 'twad move him. What I, a puir dumb beast, think of him j For, tho' my prospect dark and dree is, Thank God, I'm no' the brute that he is^ ' V K,-. V / . ' ' V liiii'i Dr. BURJ^S PRGACHINO IN THE SCOTS BLOCIC. GentlK; dove-like peace is brooding O'er the woods, this Sabbath morn j Save the ox-bell's distant tinkle, No sound on the air is borne : Not a breath, the leaves to rustle, Not a breath to stir the waves : Oh ! how deep the quiet hanging O'er these green forgotten graves I ] There the Church in her grey glory ! Deeper is the holy shade — Round the sacred spot where all the Ancient foresters are laid» - '■ I! I 36 DR. BURNS Hush ! there's something 'mong the willows Whispering to the silent dead ; Yea, the heart hears their communing — Hears; tho' not a word is said. Surely, 'tis not idle fancy That still V hispers in my breast — Spirits of the dead are with us, On the hallow'd morn of rest. Hark I the bell's deep hollow summons Calling Scotia's sons to prayer : See, — from wood and field they're coming, With deep reverential air. Mountaineers, with their mark'd features, And the tartan of their tribe ; Shepherds from the vale of Ettrick, Peasants from the strath of Clyde. There old Donald Bane, from Badenoch, Whose grandsire at Preston fell, Of the hapless house of Stuart, Weeping, still the tale he'll tell. These — are kindred of Rob Ruadch, From Loch Lomond's sounding shore j Still they wear their hero's tartan, Tho' Iris hills they'll see no more. '!"! i„ 111 ■H j !;.Ji' III PRXACHINO IN THS SCOTS BLOCK. Old John, from the Braes of Yarrow, In his shepherd's plaid appears ; For its folds around his bosom Wake the thoughts of other years : 27 '*'. Till he hears the lark in heaven, Sees the sheep among the hills, Hears the Yarrow, till his dim eye With the tear of mem'ry fills. His clear'd fields, tho' they have cost him Years of labor and of pain. He would give them all to be but — That poor shepherd boy again. In the rudely-fashion'd pulpit. Now a little man appears, Resolute in soul, tho' bending 'Neath the weight of eighty years. He had fought beside great Chalmers, 'Gainst the tyranny of state, — Left the Church — yea, of his fathers — More in sorrow than in hate. Rude in voice and rough in feature- Nothing gentle, nothing mim : On his brow is plainly written — There's no quarter here for sin. !lliiil!l! 08 DR. BURKS Nothing flowery in his lanj^age — Yea, it in sublimely bare, Rude as are his country's mountains- What a naked grandeur's there ! He tells us of the unbelieving Spirit of the present time, Which would rob us, veary mortals. Even of the hope sublime ; He denounces Mammon worship, Yea, the God of this vain age : How the veins start in his forehead, As he points to history's page ! ,1 .||i' M lij I To the Covenanting heroes, To the mighty men of old : Listen, for he speaks of peasants Who could not be bought or sold, « Sons of Sims ! w^ho did a tyrant With his myrmidons withstand, ** Let the faith of your great fathers Guide you in ttiis forest land. « S ons of Sires 1 who did a bigot, Even on hts throne, rebuke — <• Cling ye to their faith, which torture Never for a moment shook : I'lii ^''i •A FRCACHING IN THB SCOTS BLOCK. « 'Mid the church's desolation^ Still t!my put in God their trust, << Rallied aruund ZIoii'h banner. Torn and trumpl'd in the dust. ** Far amid the lonely moorlands, In the deep sequesterM glen, <*(jod has heard the prayer at nnidnight Of these persecuted men. " Heavy is the tyrant's burden, Weary is oppression's load ; " Yet these humble peasaiit.s dreaded Nothing save the wrath of God. •I *• Why should they the passing mandate Of a dying king obey ? " Had they Not a higher edict, Which shall never pass away ? " Why should they dread muii's death warrants Is not death the common road " Either to the howling regions Or the city of our God ? " Had they not a higher mandate. Which knows neither change nor time, " Issued amid smoke and thunder, sMblime? On the trembling Moun^ l! ii ! 'i lillJ!! mm ,■ .'i ill . '';ii' 30 A, DR. BURNS ''They were men of earnest natures, Looking to the soul of things : ' *' What cared they for crowns and sceptres— What cared they for earthly kings ? ^ ''What cared they for passing splendor ? They had gleams of ihe divine ! " What to them were stars and garters? — Bubbles on the waves of time ! " Were they not the heirs of glory, Earthly kings might never see ? " Were they not the Priests and Prophets Of a higher dynasty ? ^' Crowns depart, and princes perish j Thrones do crumble and decay ; " But the truth endures forever, And shall never pass stway. " Still the cairn among the mountains Marks the spot whereon they fell ; " Still, with swelling heart, the shepherd Loves upon their deeds to dwell. \ " May their mem'ry never perish ! May their graves be ever green ! « They were peasants, and subh peasants As the ^orld has rarely seen. Ii \ PREACHING IN THE SCOTS BLOCK. 31 <* Go ! and may their God go with you — Yea, the God of the oppress'd : "Plant their faith, the Faith of Freedom, 'Mong these forests of the west." I ? «./ %i^ m '• m:^ M: x y THE OLD WAR HORSE. Time's writing his changes on a' things, we see, And sad anes he's writing, auld War Horse, on thee. How chang'd from the great steed which chafed at the rein, N'\\\\. the fleet foot thy rider could hardly restrain. Thy legs are sair shaughled ; thy hoof, once of fire, Must drag Jamie's cart through the mud and the mire. Ah ! Where's thy proud neck, which could scarce brook the rein. Thy " red rolling eye," and thy great arching mane ? Thy mane is a' tauted, and scrumpet's thy tail, And the gall on thy shouther is no' like to hale : Thy hide is a' runkled, scarce covermg thy banes, '^ And ye dreadfully hobble amang the whun stance. %.'■ THE OLD WAR HORSi:. My heart's wae to see ye lash'd hard wlien ye reest, And hear ye ca'd noclU but an auld stubborn beast. And yet, my auld horse, thou hast lashed that same tail. While dashing in madness amid the death hail. And neigh'd 'mid the thunder, the shout, and the smoke, As ye swept like a thunderbolt to the death shock. "Thae feet, noo sae spaviet, hae jwrsued the flying. And trampled to ashes the dead and the dying. And often I see ye a hobblin' come. At the tout o' the town-crier's auld crackit drum. And prick up your ears, and erect your auld mane, , As if that ye wad be a War Horse again, *! % This warrin' and fechtin', wi' a' its parade, O, the Meal Pock's the end o't ! as auld Edie said; "But lessons are lost baith on horses and men, ^ And why should I blame you, when they winna learn. Hear fallen Napoleon, in sorrow and woe, Asking Marshal INIacdgnald, " Oh I where shall I go ?" And even 'maiig horses there's great ups and downs, As weel's amang moiiarchs wi' kingdoms and crowns, / Thy case is a hard ano, and I'm wae for thee ; \ Yet the auld sodger often mair wretched we see. ij Thy master is cruel, nor pities thy pains, '^, For he's irot a M'ife and some woe raggit weans : To keep them in crowdie, and shed them frae snaw, And buy him a drappy, taks a' ye can draw. ii K'^XC-M'-'^'^- t / I Cx X t t I -w ''^^- ^-vt. 6 V ifl.*^ /lu>'" / w M TH£ OLD WAR HORSE. i !!< ir-:. i And yet, my auld horse, tho' thou'rt sunk in distress, I doutna, ye whyles may hae glimpses o' bliss : When Jamie's heart's ope'd wi' the blithe barlie brie, A great rip o' oats he will whiles fling to th^, Saying, come up, Auld Sodgerf and never say puir — The auld cursin' Colonel ne'er offer'd ye mair : Ye don't think I stole ye, man ! that ugly scar Which ye got at Corunna wad tell wha's ye were. I doutna, auld horse, but ye try to explain Your strange alter'd lot, in some way o' your ain j And tho' ye had reason to guide you, I fear 'Twad be but sma' comfort ye'd fin' with it here ; For it's puir consolation to man or to horse To ken that there's thousands as bad, if no' worse ; For mony proud humans, my auld horse, like thee, Hae to come down the hill and draw coals ere they dee. !' -if WILL WADDLE'S ADDRESS . . TO THE DOG THAT WORRIED THE SHEEP. So, SO, ray sleek neebor, We've caught you at last : I caa't say I'm sorry To see you held fast : I ken you're in torture, And yet that rough growl Can scixrce waken aught but Delight in my soul. Ye've lang been a trouble, — Ye've lang been a pest ; For, like human blackguards, Ye'd live on the best ; Wha starv'd didna matter, Provided ye got Aye the biggest, the fattest In a' the hale flock. \ i 1 ill: 36 WILL WADDLF/S APDRKSS ' " . 1' I'j'l Had ye been a wolf, it Would alter'd ihe case — ' But the dog o' a Deacon — Oh ! what a disgrace ! The wolf's a ken't cut-throat, 0' butchers the chief, By saint and by sinner Outlaw'd for a thief. If :i I But wha would hae thocht a Fat rascal like thee Wad hae vvonied a sheep to A puir "aul like me ? But why should I rail thus. And growl and condemn ? Greed^s greater than gtspei Wi' maist feck o' men. There are plenty o' humans. As smooth and as sleek, Wha worry — their ain way — ' Their near neebors' sheep : They ne'er think it wrang, — they Ken better than that ; Their only concern's to Beware o' the trap. TO THE DOG THAT WORRIED THB SHKEP. I could point you some iallows, Wi' tongues smooth and sleek, ' f'lia were trained, frae the cradle. To worry the sheep ; Aad ithers, wha needed Nae training ava, But were natur'ly greedy And strong in the jaw. t ^rf .V- We hang up the cut-throat. Send thieves owre the deep, And grant ithers license To worry the sheep : See our Tavern-keeper, Wi' warae big and braw, — He's licensed to worry, According to law ! There's sae muckle done in The worrying way, ** The sheep hae got used wi't " As Will Speirs* wad say. For instance, there's Jock, like A great senseless tip, Wi' his Mae-in' and Bae-in', Invites dogs to do't. * A half-wit, well known in the west of Scotland, — see an account of his witticisms in the "Scotch Haggis." H \m 38 WILL waddle's ADDKES9 They're sic a temptation, Sae senselessly tame, That, really, the do^s should-n ae Get a' the blame. You may pray for and pity. Or kick and devour ; But to help or protect them Is out o' your power. Some point to the pasture. As scanty and bare ; Ithers think its guid for them To keep them aye puir ; And some think guid guiding Is a' that they need ; While ithers stick stoutly For crossing the breed. As for guiding, I'm thinkin' The prospect'^ but bare, And by crossing ye'U only Change wool into hair. And ae thing ii certain — Train cross or deplore them — As lang's there are sheep, the'll Be dogs" to devour them. - T . , TO TUB DOO THAT WORRIED THl SHEEP. 39 Let the creatures be cover'd Wi' wool or wi' hair, A* guiding is lost, if The .sense is no' there, it ne'er was decided By college or school, Wha's worst for the world, The knave or the fool. i ^.7ti ' M They're baith stupid creatures. That we're perfect sure o' ; The ane's to be watch'd, and The ither ta'en care o'. Anither thing's certain — Let what likes befa'. The puir honest man pa^'s The piper for a'. c^ i^r /It// /tfv < :U , V ^ , lu< .'V .-5 vs. a^^ * i'rMl i THE GRIEVE;* OR, THE LAMKNTATiaNS OF OLD JAWBAWS. I DiNNA l:en what tempted me To venture owre the raging sea ; To come awa' to thir back wuds, To live in poverty and dudds. Oh ! surely I was mad to leave The place wherein I was head Grieve ;: Where I could aye gang trig and braw^ And gar the auld Laird pay for a'. What tho' my wages werena great ? 1 was head man on the estate ! I rode a horse, walk'd wi' my gun. And was a perfect gentlemun j I kept a bull-dog and a bitch, Wa» up to every sporting titch j • Overseer. I TUC LAMENTATIONS OF OLD JAWBAWS. 41 On boxing matches I've had bets. Been honor'd, yea, to haud the stakes ; Weel ken't at a' the sporting places, Pve e'en been umpire at the races : I ate the fattest o' the Ian', Had walth o' drink at my com man' j Bowze'd ev«ry nicht, till I was led, As drunk's a lord, affto my bed. Oh, yes ! I weel may truly say, I've been a big man in my day. ^i\ ^ Ye needna stare — its truth I tell ; I've e'en dined wi' the laird himsel' ; For when my lady was frae hame. He'd sit and bowze for weeks his lane. And just as he'd get off the spree, 'Twas then he always sent for me : He likit some ane to sit wi' him. And keep the deevils awa' frae him. •■J Oh, I was weel, had I but ken't it ! But I grew waur than ane demented, And, like the Devil, down I fell, Ambitious to be laird mysel'. Oh, 'tis an awfu' thing, ambition ! It's brought me to this sad condition : Oh ! it's been mony a big man's ruin. And Guid kens it was my undoing. I! «l THK ORICVB ; OR, They tell me that in history books Ye'll read o' a' its twists and crooks ; But as for me I dinna heed them — I fa' asleep, aye, when I read them : They're fill'd, they say, wi' tales o' fallows Wha claucht at crowns, and got the gallows : Sic like, they sp.y, has been the fate O' maist o' them wha wad be great ; And tho' I did escape the wuddy, Guid kens I'm noo a wretched body ! iiiiii And in this country I ne'er get Frae young or old the least respect ; I'm nae mair notic'd, richt or wrang, Than if I were a common man ; Than it I'd aye worn clouty claes, And been a plewman a' my days. Here greatness past will no' uphaud us. For I'm ca'd naething but << Auld Jawbaws." Wha, seeing me in this sad plight, Wad think I'd fa'n frae sic a height, Had fifty men at my command, Wha spoke to me wi' hat in hand. 1 us'd to like to see them runnin' To work whene'er they saw me corain' ; And tho' I didna crack a whip. They daur'd na for their souls look up, Unless it was to touch their hat. And ask me about this or that. Say what 1 likit, I was Sir'd, For nae one daur'd diepute my word : THK LAMENTATIONS or OLD JAWBAW8. They ne'er spoke back when I reprov'd them, But dreaded Me ! God placed above them ! And then their wives, in ilka place, Aye met me wi' a smiling face ; For weel they ken't their wee drap tea Was a' depending upon me. Ocht that I needed they wad len' me — Then the bit presents they wad sen' me. Altho' they micht but sma' appear. They cam to something in a year. I- t. I H Its poverty gars working folk Come quietly within the yoke: The tnarried anes are always humble — For their weans' sakes they daurna grumble, But quietly bear a' corrections,— Faith, I walk'd into their affections! 'Od ! man, how I put on the snitchers On Eerish del vers and on ditchers, And how 1 blew up the stane blawers, And drove the dirty puir coal cawers. To poachers I was waur than daggers, And, 'od sake, how I bang'd the beggars : There's some o' tiiem will min' o' me, I'm thinkin', till the day they dee. W I <-- THE LAMENTATIONS OF OLD JAWBAWS. For here there's no respect for station — Barely a line o' demarkation " Between the master and the man — Noo, that's clean against nature's plan ! Ae man, they say, 's as good's anither, And a's reel-rail and rocht throuither. Here servant lasses are young Misses — Mere creatures that wash up your dishes ! They maun be treated like Duchesses : Guid keep us ! what a country this is ! It's big folk here maun toil and strive, As if to keep themselves alive : Noo, a real gentleman at hame To do ocht usefu' wad think shame r They never fash their heads to think — They're born but for to eat and drink. Work is a' left to Grieves and Factors, While they rin olT wi' jades and actors. But, here, e'en those wha rule the nation Are driving om some speculation : Aye, even the big parliamenter Will trade and cheat, like a tramp tinker. The biggest man thinks nocht degrading- Kens a' the outs and ins o' trading. And tho' they dinna steal or thieve, Yet every man is his ain Grieve. , 4S 1!' •^ ^ 1 \ n£.'~ HI "t, B m m I Ml' :.l ^'-i I ..Ife I '-> 46 TIJE GRIEVE. My faith ! our gentry dinna work — They hae ideas aboon dirt ! No ! — a real gentleman at hame To cheat or bargain wad think shame. Faith ! they keep their ain fingers clean — Hae souls aboon ocht that is mean : ' Factors and Grieves do a' their cheating, > A' their hard swearing and brow-beating ; And these were just the jobs for me, — Oh, I was mad to cross the sea ! I fin' I'm come to the wrang bit ; — . Faith I'] I gang to the South States yet ! That is the place o' places rare ! They tell me Grieves are needed there : They tell me there ye'Jl buy a man Mair big and buirdly than I am — A' thew, a' sinew, and a' bane, Wha'll weigh something aboon twal stane ; Wha'll work for you, baith nicht and day, And daurna for his soul seek pay ; Wha'll eat ocht that ye like to feed him, ' Rin naked, as was done in Eden ; ^ Wha'll carry you upon his back To kirk or market — that's a fact ; And then he'll honor you beside. And free frae a' this stuck-up pride ; Wha's no' aye crying. Give, give, give ; Wha's thankfu' if ye let him live ; , And then his price is no' that dear ; — The fact is, that I'm owre lang here ! . • iV ■ ■ ' ■ - r. ' w I J, A y t '' :,--;V^f V ■ ■ II A M I L T N ' S A D D R E ^ S TO . ■ N THE COVENANTING ARMV BEFORE THE BATTLE OF DIIL'MCLCG. Covenanting sons of Scotland ! Hearts unknown to craven fear ! Now the foemen are approaching,- Let us wait their cominj; here. Long, too long, has the oppressor Trampl'd o'er this bleeding land : ^r our country, God and Freedom, For the Covenant we stand. i-^i ^■■,11 ) II 48 Hamilton's address. MM Hunted like the savage wild beast 'Mong our native hills ana dells, Till a cover's hardly left us 'Mong our mosses and our fells. What, my brothers in affliction, Tho' we perfsh in this strife ? — Death is but a bless'd translation, Yea, to everlasting life. Zion's banner waves above us — In the Lord we put our trust : Persecutors are approaching, — Let us smite them to the dust. ,f Hark! their kettle drums are beatinar- Clavers buings his butchers on: Now or never ! — let us strike him, And the Jiend he rides upon. \ See, adown the mountain yonder, See, the Persecutor comes, 'Mid the flourish of his trumpets, 'Mid the noise of kettle drums. \ .i'-'. . ') \ ( .. IIA^ILTOM^I ADDfMSS. <}rant me, God, that in the battle, For a moment wo may meet ^ Let mine be the sword to send him Staggering to thy judgment teat. With the weight of blood tliat^s hanging, Weighing on his guilty soul ; Hather than he ^scape, let both Our heads upon the heather roll. 49 ■J-. :l For the blood of Saints and Martyrs, Now the hour of vengeance comes ; Vengeance ! for a broken covenant, Vengeance ! for our slaughtered oiMfr. Glory to the God of battles ! ~" Raise the shout in his great name \ ^Smite, as with the sword of Gideon ! Forward, on his foes ! Am«a. r n B ill 1 '^ A VISION. INSCRIBED TO ALEX. m'lAREN, ESU., ROCZSIDK, CAtKDCM. " Behold, a Dreamer comcth /" I. la this world and all its wonders. Our whole life a passing? dream ; Shadows we, that unto shadows, With a death-like grapple, cling ? f * II. What's this mighty maze of being ? Tell me, sages, if ye can : What is light, and what is darkness ? — Tell me what is meant by man. ... . III. ■ To illuminate our dungeon. All your striving is in vain : Of themselves, the sunbeams enter- Of themselves, pass out again. x\ I ^• J THE VISION. IV. We have all our times and seasons, When the brooding spirit sees Over ages, over aeons, Into the eternities. -' V. ' -i^' ' When the clouds which mar our vision Melt like morning mists away, When the past and unborn future Meet upon the brink of day. 51 ■I'i !■;■* \ ^'A Tired, weary with conjecture, On a stilly Sabbath night, Clear as sunshine, on my spirit, A strange vision did alight. VII. '^ I beheld a mighty ocean. Strewn thick with the wrecks of time, And the fleet of death discharjxing Its sad cargo on the brine. VIII. • Of the dead within its bosom. Kingdoms — continents, I saw, Heap'd in regular confusion. As a peasant pile? his straw. / m 52 1 1 ii. Nl ' THE visioir. IX. Here an eartbquake-swallowM city, And a field of battle there : Still the spectres look'd each other With a horrid wolfish glare. X. '\:,j' - - Long I gazed in silent horror, Fix'd as if by death's decree; For a myriad eyeless sockets Were all fasten'd upon me. XI. But the spirit spake within me, Saying : What hast thou to fear ? Not for empty, idle horror, Hast thou been admitted here. XII. Mortal ! cast thine eye far upward ; — While thou breathest mortal breath, Vain's thy hope of penetrating The infinite depths of death. ^^ XIII. I beheld the cloud of being Kise like vapor from that main. Rolling o'er its awful bosom. Sink into its depths again. r:'^ THS VIIION. 53 % XIV. As it rose, that cloud was braided With a lovely rainbow ray : As it fell, the glory faUed, filending in a solemn grey. \ I XV. And the spirit spake within me, Saying : That which thou dost aee, As shadow o'er death's gulf, is T\me, The rainbow of eternity, XVI. Ages, with their weary burdens, While I gazed, came rolling on : Still another and another Melted in the deep like foam* f.'i XVII. Myriad human forms and faces Look'd out on roe through the gloom ; Individuals, empires, races, On their journey to the tomb. XVIII. Now a face divinely human, 'Mid a group of children seen ; Now a blood-bespatter'd visage, Horrid as a demon's dream. 4, a II i ii I j; ^'!'* :^^ S4 TH£ VISION. XIX. Some, pursuing their own shadowa, Vauish'd quickly from my sight ; Others, grasping shining baubles, Soon were swallow'd in the night. XX. Now the ringing laugh of gladness, Now the short, sharp shriek of woe ; Joy and sorrow, mirth and madness, Hurrying to the gulf below. XXI. Yet, with an appalling sameness. Ages still catne rolling on : Over each a voice kept singing Poor humanity's sad song. ^ t M. r,' rmM SONG. An infinite dome. O'er a world of wonder ; • An eye looking down On the poor dreamer under. An ocean of wrecks, And beyond it our home : Each wave, as it breaks, . ■ Leaves us whiter with foam. -f &'r: ,1- mm - ;i ,, ,;:■ THI VISIOH. A marriage to- Jay, And a funeral to-morrow ; A short smile of joy, And a long sigh of sorrow. A birth and a death. With a flutter between ; A lamp and a breath, ^ And we start from our dream. 55 ■ i : xxir. Then arose, as if in answer. From the great deep, voices three, Pealing till they woke the awful Echoes of et&rnily. -..« Fird Foic*.] Roll ! roll ! roll ! With thy burden of hopes and of fears i Toil ! toil ! toil ! In thy garden of blood and of tears ! On ! on ! on ! • Tho' weary, way-worn and oppressed : Lon As the voices died away : Suddenly time's rainbow vanish'iJ, And the dead cried out, 'THb da^^ r ' THX VIII5N. -i XXIV. Morning in the east was dawning ; Earth-born sounds fell on mine eavt ; And the awful vision vanish'd In a flood of hunrMin tears. THE WEE RAGGIT WEAN. I listen'd ae day to a wee raggit wean, Lamenting its raither — gane to her lang hame : Its face was a' dabbled, and sair, sair it grat, And aye it said : '< Mammy uU never come back." I" '1 I praised it, and said, if 'twad be a guid wean. It maybe micht meet wi' ils mither again. Oh ! how the thing look'd in my face as I spak, Saying : "Oh ! do ye tell me that she will come back ?" I strokit its wee head, and tried to explain^ But aye it said : " 0, but we'J see her again ! Awa' the thing ran, its wee brither to tell, And I was o'ercomo wi* the feeling mysel'.. *i AULD HAWKIE.* m m if] Mi h Pve heard the famed talkew, frae eloquent Tarn, To thundering Brougham, and badgering Dan ; I've Irslen'd to mony a lang lippetchiel, Frae wee birkie Roebuck, to slee Robie Peel ; But Pve heard but ane, wha could instantly start Ony tone that he lik'd, frae the strange human heart. 1 ho' but an auld beggar, wi' a raucle tongue, Yet ! he enchanted the auld and the young. ' * The above is the cognomen of an old mendicant of Glas- gow, who was well knowu all over the west of Scotland, where his witticisms and wise sayings are still remembered. A good biographic sketch, with characteristic anecdotes, ap- peared shortly after his death in " Whistle Binkie," a Glas- gow annual, Avhere the lovers of genuine wit may find much to instruct and amuse. \ AULD HAMTKIK. 59 I min' when a laddie how anxious I ran * To listen wi' awe to that wonderfu' man ; , *Twas not what he said, nor the way that he said it, '• But a strange,nanieless soul, which each sentence perraded : The past and the present were standing before you, Or hung like the web of immensity o'er you. He had a strange e'e in a far stranger head, Ol" wonderfu' meaning, and ill, ill to read ; When you'd fix'd its mean nig beyond a' dispute, Some new ane was sure to flash instantly out ; 'Twas clear as a sunbeam, now dark as despair, Anon it was flashing wi' lightning's wild glare ; And fouk leuk'd and listen'd, and never grew tired, For Hawkie aye spoke like a being inspired. Without a set form, or strict logical plan, Ke aye threw some new licht on nature and man, — How he'd swing on his crutch, as a big thought was born. While words, like the Scotch Greys, cam gallopin' on. At corners and crossings he'd take up his stand. And test and trv those wha bore rule in the land ; And woe to the great ones who waken'd his wrath, For a torrent o' tongue he let loose in their path ; The tombs o' their fathers he'd howk and ransack. And laden wi' crime come triumphantly back : Their very forms started, as 'twere, fiae their graves, As he shovv'd you his fine panorama o' knaves. His was not a roar — nor an Indian yell, 'Twas the laugh o' a demon tormenting in hell. ■;<■'- Pi m ■tl U ^ He had the hale annals, summ'd up in his face, 01 the wand'ring, unsettled, improvident race. ,41 N'; .' !-_. . . . , I,' , .1 f''i '■■)-■ .-i |:'''' *ii I'li ■ ■■ m 60 ▲ULD HAWKIE. In the pauper Republic nane like him could shine, For his great love of freedom approached the sublime. He ruled undisputed o'er legion so' rags, Commanded hule regiments o' auld mealy bags. And his word was law 'mang the gangrol fouk, The lame and the lazie, the knave and the sot ; E'en schule weana ne'er tried to pelt Hawkie vvi' mud, He was nae common beggar they a' understood ; And when he was drunk, an' he could na weel gang, They wad carry his Bachles, and help hiin alang. I min' ae dark nicht, when I met him his lane, Muir drunk than his usual, o' helping tiira hame ; And aye as he swa^ger'tl, he spoke agamst drink. And aye, he said, laddie — behold me, and think ! Had my heai t no' been harden'd 'gainst a' things divine, By my auld mither's tears, 'twad hae melted langsyne. I see how the land lies, my laddie, wi' thee, And there's something I like in your bonnie blue e'e» Ye may be a man yet, gin ye'll keep frae drink. But I doubt, my wee laddie, ye'll soar but to sink. I see something in you that's ovvre like mysel', Sae it needs nae auld spae wife your fortune to tell. I canna weel bless you — that's out o' my line ! I was better at cursii'g since e'er I can min'. Mark what 1 say to vou — auld rip tho' 1 be — ' May ye lang cheat the deevil, the Gill-stoup and mo, I ken that your heart hntes the worldling's creed, But virtues turn vices when heart masters head. If ance ye let reason gie up the commaun, Vi may rin to the deil, wi' your heart in your haun. AULD IIAWKIK. 61 'I Aid this I wouid hae you to bear aye in miu', For I'm thiiikiu' ye fam maugyour fellows would shine :- That talent's a curse, if it wiles us awa Frae the God o' salvution, wha reigns aboon a' ! ''•^i My pride and my^jassion ance spurn'd at his yoke ; Noo they hang roun my neck, in the waefu' meal-pock. I'm a wreck, I'm a ruin ! but once in this breast. E'en love had a corner where she built her nest j Could Jeanie hae thocht this, Ah! ance in a day ! When our prospGcts were high, and our young hearts wer« Oh ! could she noo see me, what, what wad she think ! An aul gaberlauzie, deleerit wi' drnik, And a wee ragirit laddie conveying him h;ime, Wha, if it were daylicht, wad maybe think shame. A ■•: Ah ! ance I was big, wi' ambition and hope, And noo they hae ended, a' in the meai-pock ; Lstill hae a hanker, for virtue and truth ; But they ill, ill agree wi' this damnable drouth. I've done nocht but shown, in the auid Hawkie way, How Utile true sense a real genius may hae. It's still at your option, my laddie, to be ' A man, or an auld drueken beggar like me. Djcide while ye may, or your end will be mine, Aid chief o' the beggars is far frae sublimw, >! ,-v/ ''■\^^'' t^ y-X-" /' fy--^ jr\ . J^y v-% / A VOICE FROM THE CHURCHYARD. m p : IF' I Mortal/ hear, for Jesus'* sake, A spirit sppoMiig at death^s gate : Litteitf ere it be too late. — Dost thou wish to see thy name Written in the rolls of fame ? Ah ! tliroughout all nature's range, Nought is permanent but change : Races perish, empires sink, Orer the eternal brink. Of their trouble, toil and pain Not a shadow doth remain ; Worlds evaporate like smoke — Thou shalt be remembered not. A TOICE rnOM THE CHURCHYARD. 63 Does thy soul to greed incline ? Dost thou treasure, but for time T Bolts and bars asunder fall ; Death shall rob thee of it all. Hither thou canst nothing take : Something do, for Mercy'a'sake. ''A\ np ii Is thy soul athirst for glory ? Here she tells. a wretched story : Hearts which did for empire bum, Eaten by the crawling worm. n hi Or, is wisdom thy pursuit ? Here thou'lt find her ripen'd fruit, Garner'd up on sorrows' breast, Not the sweetest, but the best. [ ii r I I. 'J 'i?\ 'J \ii n ilJ WORTH. 1 care not for country, I care not for cret'd : We're all sons of Adam, the best poor indeed* i care not for station ; I want but to knovr If thy heart can with pity and love overflow. With country and kindred I've nothing to do ; * tf thou hast a heart that is honest and true, Then come to my bosom, whate'er be thy creed, For thou art my friejid and my brother indeed. I ask not to know if thy dwellinjj is great ; But is Justice thy factor, whate'er thy estate? ITie halls may be splendid in which you resfde ; But, does Peace, Truth and Mercy within them abid§ f The lord of the manor, \he mansion, and hall, la often a poor, heartiest thing, after all. Then p'ume not thyself on thy wealth and thy rank i For if thou'^t not good, thou art worfe than a blank. Wff t WORTH. 65 'tip li O ! brag not to me that thou'it far above need ; But tell mei my friend, art thou far above greed 7 O I talk not to me of thy power and'estate : Pd ask thee, my friend, ait thou far above fate ? How far art thou raised above sorrow and woe, To look with contempt upon aught here below 7 With vanity's promptings, Oi be not elate ; For death, pain and sorrow thou cans't not escape. ^i1 Away with the bosom, tho' covered with gold, If the heart that^s within it be callous and cold. ! show not your garment s to me, if they hide But hearts all polluted with passion and pride. 0! talk not to me of your delicate food, If ye love not the banquet prepared for the good. If the great joy of sorrow thou never hast known. Thou still art a slave, tho' possess'd of a throne. O ! give me the man who has triumphed o'er self. Who feels there are some things far, far above wealth ; Who chooses the truth, and will by it abide. And deems it a treasure above aught beside : Tho' in roughest homespun that mortal is drest. The heart of a man's beating under his vest : Tho' poor and tho' humble may be his abode, He bears tho true stamp and the image of Grod. y O I then let us hope that the time's coming round. When worth will be honor'd wherever 'tis found ; When men will be tested, no, not by their creeds. Nor the length of their purse, but the worth of their deeds j ['. WOBTH. The hand be exalted, tho hard as the horn. If the full cup of mercy it ever has borne ; And virtue and goodness the measure of worth. And Truth, Love and Mercy abide upon earth. MYSTERY. Mystery, mystery — All is a mystery : Mountain and valley, and woodland and stream, Man's troubled history, Man's mortal destiny, Are but the shadows of worlds unseen. Mystery, mystery — All is a mystery : Heart-throbs of anguish, and joy's gentle dew^ Fall from a fountain, Boyond the great mountain. Whose summits forever are lost in the blue. MYSTZRT. 67 Mystery, mystery — All is a mystery : The sigh of the night winds, the song of the waTesy The Yisions that bonovr Their brightness from sorrow. The tales which flowers tell us, the yoices of graves. 41 ,:*^t^ 'i" ■.■«i,i Mystery, mystery- All is a mystery : Fain would we drink of the immortal dew. We are all weary j The night's long and dreary : Without hope of morning, ! what should we do? 'I l'^ TO A SCOTTISH THISTLE IN CANADA. Lov'd badge of my country, Ah ! why art thou here, So far from auld Scotland, The land we love dear ? This is not our country : We're exiled afar From the mighty Benlomond And " dark Lochnagar.'* Some fond heart which turns to Its home with regret, Has brought thee to love thee For auld Scotland yet. Her own exiled children Alone understand The love we all bear to That wild mountain land. TO A ICOTTIIH THI8TLK IN CANADA^ But why thus dejectedly Hang'st thou thy head. As if all thy pride and Thy glory were dead T Ah ! dost thou regret the Long summers of old ? Or, teel'st thou the taunt here. Both cruel and cold ? Assume thine own aspect. Thy proud look of scorny Which plainly says : Foeman, Beware of the thorn ! Up wi' thy blue bonnet, mani Never think shame : Such never could stick ta Thy nation or n^vckp* V'- '51 • -I The land of the blue lake, The mountain and storm, Where liberty looks, from O ' ^ The great Cairngorm, .uV Around on her grey guards. And points to the urn Which she rear'd for the tyrant ifl On red Bannockbura. 'I ! - Hi ': ^ TO A SCOTTISH THI8TLB IN CAMADl. When I see a blue bonnet, Or hear a Scotch sangi Or see a wee daisie, Thae strange flowers araang, What a host of Scotch worthies— The living and dead, Wha hae crown'd wi' a glory Our auld mother'^ head — With a lang, 83rmpathetic, Deep sigh, will appear : I see them, lov'd thistle I Approaching us here. Tho' I ne'er saw the living, I ken them richt weel ; I know the lov'd face of Each hale-hearted chiel. Ha ! there the great Minstrel* Stalks sturdily forth. Of smiles, tears and tempests — The soul of the north. See nature's old union - ^^ Of weakness and worth ; But e'en from his frailties Deep love had its birth. * Burns. T» A ICOmi H THIITLX IM CAKADA. 71 So from the rude winter Comes forth the glad spring : Where the sunshine's etema1| The birds never sing. Here comes Highland Mary, In beauty arrayed : Death steals not her beauty — It never can fade. i Like a vision of Eden, Thro' good and thro' ill, That form and these features Have haunted me still. If beauty yet vrrings from My bosom a sigh, Or pity comes gushing In tears from mine eye ; Or innocence moves, in Her maidenly grace ; 1 see but that form — I Behold but that face. I thank thee, lov'd minstrel, For many a tear, For a deep well of feeling Thy love has kept clear. n TO A SCOTTISH THISTIX UN CAKADA, But see, beloved Thistle, E»en Scott, in his joy, Comes on wi' his troopers, And dauntless Rob Roy. There steel-cover'd Barons, And grim kilted Thanes, And tall plaided chieftains. And pioud royal dames. There kings wi' their sceptres. Blue gowns wi' their bags. High pedigreed damsels. And auld wither'd hags j And puir hunted « hill tolk," Whd fought not in vain ; There Burley and Bothwell f^ Are at it again. n ',-<■ There Meg as she tauld the Auld laird o» her wrangs, Or pour'd out her charg'd heart In auld warld sanss. There tiltings and tournays. And forays and fudes, And robbers and reavers Amang the green woods. i.'-'-t* ■„) I i) V f \. TO A SCOTTISH THISTLE IX CAXADA. And fox hunts, and fule hunts, And tyrants and slaves, And half hearts, and hale hearts. And true men and knaves : A wonderfu' world, that Was dead and gane, Till the word o' the H'arlock Awoke it again. 73 Another ! lovM Thistle, To whom thou wert dear, Aj* light to the lovely. Approaches us here. 'Tis canty auld Christopher,* Blithest of a', Weel kent by his ain Ringing laughing hurrah. T- And here comes a small band, With deep, measured tread. Stern, earnest as that which At Loudon Hill bled. Its leader stalks forth witn A sad, solemn smile : The shade of the mighty. Immortal Carlyle. * Professor Wilson. 74 TO A fCOTTTSH THISTLS IN CANADA. And yonder great Chalmers^ Th« second John Knox, Whose sentences fell like Fate's terrible strokes. His large human nature No nation could bind : His love of the thistle Was love of mankind. The vision has vanished, The shadows are gone, And yet, belov'd Thistle, We are not alone. These are the immortals That never depart : They fade but from vision, To dwell in the heart. /( <^ 11' 1 V I // ' 1 j III 11 * R 1 f i I ■ 1 1 1 1 , ; » /' MELANCHOLY. l;'i Of this melancholy madness 'Tis but little they can know, Who had ne'er a touch of heartbreak, Who had ne'er a taste of woe : But if thou hast been afflicted, If thy soul has been oppress'd, Thou canst feel for him who fain would Steal away and be at rest. 1 ■w t x9. t Yesternight, when all w.is /?,jlerit. Seated by the fire, in pa'h, From the bowl I sougi ' ')f>!" vio.i For my woes, but so:;^ ht vi vam. Why, I ask'd am I tormented V Why must I this burden bear ? When a voice — Oh! how distinctly ! — Whisper'd in my anxious ear : * ti 'i iff I. .1 v'3 -in! ,^91 ''''■" i ' m • : ' !:■>?.■ 1 m\ < 4 1 ' ;^l ^i ■'■■ihiil ! ■ L i i ; 1 76 r^ MELAMCHOLV. " Thou art wounded m life's battle ; Thou art- vanquish'd in the strife : << Wilt thou, like a crawling spaniel, Cling to thy accursed life ? ** Here there is no prospect for thee : Thou art unto misery wed : '< Render back to earth thy being : Better far that thou wert dead. « All this world is but a jumble ; All is to confusi ^ gone : *< There is neither vice nor virtue ; There is neither right nor wrong. " There is not a Heaven above thee j There is not a Hell beneath : ** 'Tis a plunge, and all is darkness : Why cling to this naked reef ? ** Life is but a length of sorrow, — Death is the afflicted 's friend : " Here's the pistol ! — in a moment^ All thy miseries may end. " There will be an end of sorrow,—' There will be an end of pain : ** This confusion and this racket / Weigh not on thy soul again. MELANCHOLY. 77 m (-■i: ** Head-ache ; and the doubt and darkness Which is gnawing thy heart's core — ** Courage ! — and a little bullet Rids thee of them evermore." Suddenly I found the weapon — HoiV, I know not — in my grasp : All was darkness, when a great light Full upon my face was cast. There I saw my mother standing, With the very look she wore When I last received her blessing, Close beside our cottage door. Twas the look of love and sorrow Which we cast upon the deud. And she pointed to the v/eapon, While she sorrowfully said : ! I I '^fl "This the end of all my connsel I Thou, who wert ray iiope and joy ! — " Cast thy burden oa the Saviour, — Flee to him, heart-broken boy.'* - And I felt her garments touch me, As she pass'd, like thonght, away : For the tl.rst time since my childhood. Then I knelt me down to pray. if I I I '4i\ r 1 78 v» MKLANCMOLT, .While a train of old emotion^ Unfelt, since I saw her last, With a new hope, touch'd my spirit, And the demon from me pass'd. Sweet is slumt)er to the weary ; Sweet is hope to the forlorn ; And, with Faith and Hope united, Any burden may be borne. .;-. '^¥:,.. ■='*-: ■ i >, M THE OLD SETTLER TUB TRIALS AND TROUBLIf or PAISLEY JOHN. . It's noo thirty year since I cross'd the saut seai And things here hae thriven And prospered wi' me : At hame I saw little^ save Hunger and greed, And gloomy and dark was The prospect ahead. '■'H I - '!' If I wasna weary — It's I ken mysel — Weaving sarkin, guid Grod ! At three farthings the ell ! Between cauld and hunger. And ill-ravel't weft, It's a wonder to me that I didna gang daft. 80 .1 jii ' !il!!i liJt* ^ Hi III .,1 .i/. tv: THE OLD SETTLER ; OR, I've aft lain me down wi' A h«art sick and sair, And wisli'd that I never might wauken up mair. To stall n like a beggar, • And plead but for work, And then to be lookM at As if ye were dirt j To be snuff't at, and snoul't at, Again and again ; To be girn't at, and fauted. Where faut there was nane ; What man wi' a soul and Ten fingers could bear Sic treatment, and no' try His best to come here ? It's muckle God's creatures are Forc'd to endure : Ye're no' thocht to hae ony Soul, if ye're poor : And puppies, wha ne'er had A mouthfu' o' sense, Will trample upon you, Through ony pretence. w .A:. /^ V- THS TRIALS AND TROUBLES OF PAISLEY JOHN. 81 I bore the iil tongue o' Ao scoundrel accurs'd, Till I thought through my bosom My proud heart wad burst : I bore wi'his taunts and His lean heartless laugh, Till I lifted ray nieve up To smite him in wrath. . I But, Oh ! then, the thocht o' my Wee starving weans Made me staun like a stoukey — A thing without brains. We're tauld to forgie, but , I cnniia forget ! I blush — my blood boils — when I think of it vet ! But women forgie things Fur quicker than men ; — My wife says, thae troubles Were a' a God-sen ; And aye she'll quote Scripture, And* stiffly maintain That, but for that scoundrel. We'd still been at hame j "E i! ill 1^^ 'Is 83 THX OLD SXTTLXR ; OF, Wi' naething to keep us, Noo that we are auld — Wi' nocht to protect us Frae hunger and cauld. We're short-sichted creatures, She says, at the best, And apt to lose faith in God, When we're oppress'd : But He makes the wi :ked To work out His will. While we, blinded creatures, See nocht in't but ill. Ill usage, she threeps, aye. Has broken our chains. And brought us Irae bondage To thae snailing plains. At lang, and at last, then. We manag'd to leave ; Yet, somehow or ither, I oouldna but grieve ; For some things had ta'en a Strong grip o' my heart : I ne'er ken't its full force, Till we had to part. I '..7 . I * Tine TRIALS AND TROtTBLUS Oi PAISLIY JOHK. 83 The burns where I wandered. When I was a boy, When life seemM a happy, A lang dream o' joy ; The burns ivhere I wander'd. The fields where I play'd, The lang leafy lanes where Green sutnraer delay'd { M The cot-house and garden, My grandiather's pride ; The auld aik which grew by The bonnie wud-side ; The great highland hills. Which from childhood I saw, With a strange nameless feeling Of wonder and awe ; The far distant AUsa, Half hid in the blue ; The ocean of cliflsthat were heaving up through : I knew not how deeply I lov'd them, till they On the riin of the ocean Were fading away ■! ^, v*. .^^n^ <^ o V^.^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^/ ^ A ^. »•. ^ 1.0 1.1 Ui|2j8 |Z5 US I2ii 0122 i£o 12.0 Ui m ||L25 |||U. |||,.6 < 6" ► <^ y '^ >' Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WEBSTM.N.Y. US80 (716)873-4503 ^1^\ V^"^ ■^^ .-%> k h C\ \ "% 84 THE OLD SXTTLCR } OK, Aweel, then, we cam here When this was a' bush : ' A big man was I, when £ got up a house ;, A wee patch 0*" clearings The sky keekin' through,, And hope singing sangs 'mang^ The beautiful blue. ! I! ! I M A proud man was I when I shure my first crop, — Mair proud than I'm nuo o' My hale farm and stock : It dash'd frae my bosom A great load o' care, And pointed to plenty, If I'd persevere* W Napoleon, I doubtna. Felt proud o' his throne. When he first sat him down on't. And ca'd it his own ; But he couldna feel prouder Than me, when I &at, A sovereign lord, on The tap o' that stack. Y • I've found it out at last. Sae Jamie started irae his seat. And clapp'd his haun's wi' glee, — ! 'twas a blink o' sunshine on A dark and dismal sea« ' Ye*ve tauld me aft that Christ's a licht The wanderer to save ; He's needed up upon yon heicht, That^s ca*d the sailor's grave. m dl DAFT JAMIC. riiat very ni^^lit ho clomb the steep. Kindled a beacon fire, And twjrl'd his haun's wi' a 8tranfl;e joy To see the flames rise higher. And thro* long years this work of love He carried on wi' joy, And many a lonely mariner BlessM the pcftr idiot boy. Ye:i, there upon the lonely rock, • Tho' winds their voices raised, And waves rush d headlong to the shock, The beacon fire still blazed. They saw who journeyed on the deep, At the dead hour of night. His form increased to stature vast, Watching that beacon light. W And great men toilM on flood and field ! A selfish joy to reap — 1 turned from all— to that humane. Poor idiot on the steep, DAFT JAMIE. 95 Audnighed to think how many strive fiut to increase dark ni;;iit, And hide in evurlastin^ gloom Each mental boacun light. : t^? Crownless Napoleon on his rock Can only make us weep — Humanity, whose henrt is hope, Crowns Jamie on the steep. vv ^. 1 !: li '\ ^•^ < POVERTY. / Oh ! I am poor— Oh ! very poor ! But why should that distress me ? Since things far worse than poverty But rarely do molest me : For I have peace and quietude, And, tho' ray board's but humble, I've what kings seldom do enjoy. And little cause to grumble. If I have not the joys of wealth. Neither have I its troubles ; And all its outward shows I deem But empty idle baubles. I would not have, for worlds ol gold, The trouble and vexation, The rancor and the turmoil of This peddling generation. \ \- POVURTS". '*■-'' '' " ■' ■ ■ . ■ Misfortune's gi'en me mony kicks, And, tho' she keeps me down hill, She hasna broke my heart as yet — She's only made me hopefuh There is no station in this life That is frae ills exempted : Virtue would be an easy thing, If we were never tempted. Vlf , » ^il ./ I ask no charity, save for My human faults and failings, And what I ask, I strive to give To others in our dealings. I never was so hard beset. As to torget the features Of Justice, Mercy, and the rights Of my poor fellow creatures. A fu' purse and an empty heart Owre often gang thegither. What signifies our fields increase, If our affections wither ? What tho' my coat may be threadbare, And may be a bit hole in't ? — If my heart's hale, and conscience clear, My life may hae some soul in't. 'I' Hi > il 98 POrEKTT. The great rich man may pass me by ; What care I for his strutthig, So long's law binds him, like that ram, They've tether'd there for butting ? 0, he is poor ! — O, very poor ! And muckle to be pitied; Wha's heaven in a' in needless greedy And's hell's in being cheated. ill 1' nil i: I I :.i I 'I' III I'l il The silly fop may pass me by, VVi' feathers fair elated : He's but a thing to be laugh'd at. And hardly to be hated ; And even him — I strive to love, For I'm but a poor hater : Excepting when ray devil's rousM, I might pass for a Quaker. ,i ii; What shall we do to get a catch Of the « Almighty Dollars V E'en greybeards, wha might hae mair senee. Are anxious, earnest scholars. 0,how they toil, and plan, and scheme, Build castles ne'er to tumble ! Fate comes and rattles the dice box, And makes an unco jumble. IIP .«!i*. POVERTY. 99 For she assigns us different parts, And punishes all treason ; Yea, laughs at all our little arts To alter her decision. Then why should I afflict myself About mere worldly ricties ? I've the light heart o' the auldsaiig. And the thin pair o' breeches. :^'1 toil The blue vault''s hanging o'er my head, And the green earth is under j Above, beneath, on every side, A mystic world of wonder. Have I not, in this threadbare coat, And on this lowly station, Caught tones of rapture, trembling from The harp of the creation ? '■Pi m Can gold assist me to divine The actual from the seeming ? — Or from each mighty symbol wrest Its everlasting meaning ? No ; — but for me the mighty dead Unfold their living pages ; And Pm permitted to commune With prophets, bards and sngcs. ';i it '!: 100 POVERTY. Ves, they — the really truly great, Kings, potentates excelling — Without the pride and pomp of state, Come to my lowly dwelling ; And their society has been, 'Mid sorrow and privation, A joy, which took away the sting From woe and tribulation. .< ■. !^n';; itii Then let us, with a thankful heart. Accept what God has given ; And ne'er may gold tempt us to part From the straight road to Heaven : And let us try to love our God, And our poor fellow mortals ; — Such is the wealth acceptable At highest heaven's portals. I \ V 4 V lid WILL WADDLE TO HIS OLD HORSE; ON SEEING IT ANNOYED BY INSECTS. Ah ! Dobbin, poor Dobbin, Thou'rt sadly beset ; A revel is held on Thy festering neck. A whole generation Of merciless clegs ! And Strange creeping creatures — A' heado and a' legs — U: \ Are sucking thy gall'd back, Wi' tory delight: A pound for a besom — To scatter the byke ! Vain, vain are thine efforts To shake thyself free ; — They're clinging like death, my Poor Dobbin, to thee. r 1(^ WILL WADDLE TO HIS OLD irORSC^ I i- i ! They're on thee in regiments, A' yellow and blue : Come, toss up thy tail, man, And scatter the crew. But, ah ! they have found out Thy tail has been cut ; They laugh at thine efforts, And fearlessly suck. I i ! there are analogies. Likenesses strange, Which run — how, we know not- Throughout nature's range. Foi I have seen feature* Behind a beer bar, Resembling these creatures', But uglier far. lijl iji The old proverb says that Misfortune and pain Do never come single. But bring a lang train. Pm thinkin', poor Dobbin, Ye find it owre true ; For thy bleeding bosom Attracted this crew. i |. tUN SXEIKG IT ANNOYED BY IN8SCT8. 'Tis ever thus, Dobbin, Misfortune's rough blasts Cleeds baith men and horses Wi' maggots and wasps : „ For when some poor sinner Is sunk in distress, The beagles get wind o't, Aiid come for a mess. 103 There''s nocht but they'll worry, Be't ever sae puir : If they can't get the hide, they'll ' At least get the hair. And, oh ! when some pure soul Exhibits a stain, * What a buzz rises up frae The dirty domain ! What poor creeping creatures, And things we name not. Come to banquet, wi' joy, ott The pitiful spot ! If there's but corruption. They'll ferret it out, As if nature had gi^en them The scent and the snout. I 104 WILL WADDLE TO HIS OLD HOUSl ■ Where ye would ne'er dream o't. They'll snuff't from afar, Be't auld rinnin* cruel, Or mere scratch or scar J A natural instinct, A gift o' their ain— Tis genius, 'tis something We cannot explain. I've e'en heard them brag o? Their scent and their sicht, Tho', Guid kens, they're welcome^ For me, to the gift. It beats me to ken how The morally lame. The awlilJy dirty I Aye fling the first stane^ The man wha has aye an 111 story to tell— Be sure that he's no' just The real thing himsel'. The man wha's aye crying — Beware o' the beast ! — Be sure there's ten growling Within his ain breast. ON 8IKIN0 IT ANNOYED BT INSCCTS. 105 i We a' make the world A type o' oursel' ; So the puir human devirs Aye living in hell. When some thochtless lassie Has pawn'd her fiair fame. Some auld hidden limmer's The first to cry shame. 'V^ Lika you, ye wing'd maggots^ She'll couthiely sit, And suck a damn'd joy frae The festering bit.^ It's no' that she hates ought O' sin or o' shame ; It's the real potcher's pleasure In killing the game. If a cloud overshadows The sun at noon -day, The night birds will waken Their hideous lay ; And if a great spirit — Whose soarings sublime Assures us we're more than Mere mortals of time — 106 WILL WADDLC TO HIS OLD HORSE, Is (limmM by a sTiadow, Delaoed by a fljiw. Must bear to be peck'd at By every jackdaw. Had such as he for them Not struggled and strain'd, Ah ! they in the wiUlerness Would have remaia'd. NMIllll il'ii ii ypii I i 1 1 The great politician We crown wi' green bays ; For a tjme he's the great, Mighty mqji of huzzas, The lion of party ; — But, ah ! let him fail, And those who once dreaded The sweep of his tail, W K\ Ill i-- Like true moral wreckers, They'll joy in the wreck, Or, like these blood-suckers, They'll cling to his neck. Of poor human nature This is a sad view, And yet, for the moment, I feel it owre true. I ON SKKINO IT AMNOYKD BY INSECTS. 107 Tho' from ane anither We've muckle to bear, Let's try to do goml, tho Wee while that we're here. Our poor fellow creatures, Be they richt or wrang, Tho' veriest vermin, Can still feel a pang. O ! ne'er let u§ glory In shame and disgrace, Nor feed, like these scunners. Upon a sair place. Aye mind wha has tauld us, Ere we fling the stane. To see if we ha'ena Some faut o' our ain. ^ 1 1 A DREAM. Dreams are the mirror of the mind : We see ourselves in dreams. I sat myself down by a lone mountain stream^ Which hurried away to the sea : Around me the rude rocks of ages were strewn — Above me an old willow tree. The waters came dashmg adown the rude rocks, Till, exhausted and foaming, they fell ; And bubbled a moment within the dark pool, Then gladly sped on through the dell. A DRCABf. I gazed on the tutnult, tho strife and the foum, And the bubbles that passM like a dieamj In aerial beauty they bounded along, In the light of the laughing sunbeam. 109 i .Vt* I A, I thought of existence, its tumult and strife, Oi time's rapid, turbulent stream j And long, long 1 ponder'd the meaning oi life, When thus a voice slowly did sing : )'»' Voiced Launch'd upon an unknown river, Hurrying to an unknown sea, Without compass, sail or rudder. What a hapless crew are we ! Deep, infinite deeps before us, Ruin riding in the wind. Cloudy curtains hanging o'er us. And eternities behind. Onward, onward, ever onward. Full in sight of that dread sea ; Not a beacon light .to cheer us. Not a single star. Ah, me ! no A DREAM. •11 An old man approacliM as the voice died away, And sadly he look'd in my face : He lean'd on his staff, and he shook his locks grey, As he hopelessly talk'd of our race. \. " With light and with darkness We're compass'd about : The clearer our vision, Ihe darker our doubt. The knot of our destiny Will not unJo ; The bars of our prison We cannot jret through. 1 All is a mystery, All is a wonder — The blue vault above, And the green world under. Amid our heap'd knowledge, The silent soul hears But the rattling of chains And the patl'ring of tears. We grasp at lov'd shadows — While grasping, they're gone : The fruit of our knowledge Is still the unknown. \ A DREAM. HI \Va acalo the blue summits, For which we have lonii'd To sit clown and sigh for The regions beyond. !• A longing still haunts us, Wherever we go. And knowledge increases The draught of our woe Ami all that we cling to Is Heeling as ^reath, And life is the valley And shadow of death." He rose to depart, and he heav'd a deep sigh, While o'er us there hung a dark cloud ; But deep in its bosoin there beam'd a bright eye, And a sweet voice kept chanting aloud : M if'? The heavens will not unveil themselves, Yet mortal eyes may see In mortal frames the budding flowers Of immortality. )l The cloud slowly vanish'd, and, where it had hung, There stretch'd out a beauiiful blue,. And e'en from the rude rocks a welcome was rung, As a female form rose to my view. m 1 112 A DREAM. ller face had the sadness that's sister to joy — It was not the sadness of thonght : Her vo'ce was sweet music, witliout earth's alloy, And these were the tidings she brought : — Life's the great mystery, ' .>, Deeper than death, ^ Infinite history. Woven of breath. Death but decyphers The pages of time. Mortal ! do thou make Their meaniua; sublime. The bright blue all faded, and quickly I found I still was alone by the stream ; The willow above me, the nvountains around, Yet scarce could believe all a dream. Ill AULD JENNY. t / I 1-H The broom has departed, Where, blithesome and gay, I played like a linnet, The hale happy day ; " Or paus'd in wild rapture, t ^ The cuckoo to hear. That cam far to tell us '1 hat simmer was near. The cot-house has vanishM, Where puir Jenny span. And tauld her auld stories That never seem'd lauir— i f ^1 nu JIULI) JZNNT. 'I imi Of heroes wha slumber Beside the Itme stream. Or flit like pale shadows Beneath the moonbeam^, Pi I ^ i; >in m Of hearts that had wither'd In lile's early day ; Of joys that had faded, Like summer away ; Of storms and of tempests Which swept to the tomb Her bosom -nurs'd flow'rets, When all in their bJoom. W II, » The cot-house has vanish'd ! Auld Jenny is gane : The sourock is growin' Aboon her hearth-stane ; And a' roun' the ingle, The nettles entwine : I'll sit down beside it. And sigh for langsyne ! But list to that wee bird !- How joyous its lay ! Like hope, it is singing, 'Mid death and decay. \ - AVLD JENNY. 115 That surely is sorrow Which t^vines with its note ; For anguish is aye the Lone mother of hope. / I Come, tell me, my wee bird, Hast thou been sent here To bid me dry up This fond foolish tear ? Sing on, little warbler ! I'll try to entwine The sweel sang o' hope Wi' the sigh for langsyne. ^ \-i I j; 4■^r^^■ -■ V ■ i'f ■ j ■■*'%';,' '*-:>•; MY GRANDFATHER. Auld Saunders was a guid auld man, And ken't his Bible weel, And to auld Scotland's ancient faith His heart was true as steel. ' And he would sit him down and weeper And sing auld world sangs 0' Scotland's broken Covenanf, And o' her waes and wrangs. t \ ■:^\.n MY ORANDFATHEE. , 117 And aft he'd tell the dread fu' tale O' Both well's bluidie brig, When God withdrew his countenance, E'en till the waves ran red. I f O ! he wag great upon the death 0' puir auld Johnny Brown, And on his widow's bauld reply To the enraged dragoon ! ^^i And on the gatherings in the gl§n, Wi' guards upon the heicht ; For God could be but worship'd then Beneath the cloud o' nicht. ■ Mi n He'd tell how, 'mong the lonely rocks, Wi' Bible and wi' sword, The hunted wand'rers would partake The Supper o' the Lord. And how frae dungeons dark and drear, And frae the bluidie sod. Their voices rose up to the ear Of an avenging God. 1 :i ns % MY GRANDFATHER. And when led forth by cruel men. To dee a death o* shame, Accounlaig all they bore for Christ A glory and a gahi. And wha but to thae faithfu' few, Auld Saunders would exclaim, Doos Scotland owe her liberty . . And glory o' her name ? * •• I II 11 11 "I I 1 I! I 1 11. 'i.iiuiKitiin ilM' "' l^M|i!llll!ts tliorn riiietliin^, And bless their stars they're civil i/eil ! And no' like the piiir h(!;ifh(;n. Ah ! there ih.ey rush — they diniriia stop — Men ! women ! in their senses ! A' hnrryitiiT to ^ret near the drop, Before the play cotnmences. A VIT. The carpenters hae wrocht a' nicht : They were hard up, pnir fallows ! 'Tis an ill win' which hlaws nane ^ind, So there stands the jraiHit gallows. Around a Ranter ne'er was seen Such a concourse of people ; While some, to ^et a liner view, Are clambering pp the steeple. viir. And see those upptn* windows fiU'tl Wi' sentimental laces : How lucky 'twas they hatl bespoke Thae elevated j^luces ! Tell me, ye novel-reading dames, Is this your dear ideal Of beauty and sublimity. Connected with the real ? ,( hi I \n THE HANQINO. Ilil^' ''!iii IK! I'll' 'il I ''I i! I ml > — TX. Or, are ye sick of sighs and tcarS) Mere murder upon paper ? And como to speml your sympathiea On this, which is not vapor ? Say? was it curiosity, In one of hor stran2;e gambols ? ' Or filthy appetite like that Which draws dogs to the shambles ? X. And hi^re a band o' sporiing blades, \Vi' monkey cunnini? faces : They've come, expecting far mair fun Than they had at the races. See ! —one has found an auld white hat, And\s makin' a mock sale o't ; Another's catch'd a dog, and ties A tin pan to the tail o't. XI. Oh, what a Babel o' glib tongues ! List to that man o' feeling, Wha logically tries to prove That murder's wa'ir than stealing. Another's spinning a lang yarn 'Bout justice o' the sentence, And wonders if they'll make this day A speech 'bout their repentance. i - ' THE llANOINO. VIS VOICES IN TU>: CHUWO. First Voice.] - — • They say tho an'd man boj^^ed hard For his life fr.ie woo Hiitnpliiu, And yet thoy murderM him far waur Than if he'd been a grumphie. ^ Stuttering Voice.] They ca-ca-cram'd a napkin down his throat, They «t-8t-stoIe at Paisley races, And ba-ba-batter'd till his b-bluid and b-braint Were sp-spoutin' in their faces. IViird Voice.] I'm suie it's lang, lang past the hour ! I see the hale crowd's gapin' : .j Faith, had they been twa Radicals, ,' * We wadna been kept waitm*. / 1 liey bring them, aye, out at the hour, » And string them, to a minute : , / Tliere's unco little syhipathy, j, ^ When such as them's to swing for't. First Voice.] They say the auld man gi'ed them a' The cash that he had on him, And said, gin they wad let him go, j He wadna blab upon them. Stuttering Voice.] - ' She fi-fi-fill'd her stokin' fu' o' stanes. And ba-ba-batter'd on his b-bare head, Till she was sp-sp-splatter'd wi' his b-biains, And d-d-dreepin' like a mermaid. m "■} . t U ; 124 THE HANGING. XII. The clock has tolPd the hour of eight ; — Hush ! — here comes the procession ! The Sheriti' mounts the scaffold first, With an outlandish dress on ; And see the magistrates come next, And take their several places, While something like shame and disgust Is written on their faces. XIII. And now the culprits, pinion'd fast, Are led forth sad and slowly By Hangie, wi' h's funny face O' far-fetch'd melancholy. Now every eye is strain'd to catch Their every look and motion ; Mouths open, as they'd drink their sighs, Tho' they were deep as ocean. \\ XIV. They lean them on the man of God, Who interceeds with heaven, l*hat, tho' condemn 'd on earth, they yet Therein may be forgiven. He prays that, through the blood of Christ, E'en ihosc who had no pity May find acceptance at the gates Of the eternal city. THE HANGING. Vi5 XV. The prayer is o'er — see, Han<;ie con^s, And leads them to the gallows ; Yet does the thing so gently, that You scarce can think him callous. How feelingly, yet business-like, He folds down his shirt collar ; Takes off her shawl, as kindly as He meant but to console her. XVI. They gaze each other in the face — God ! what a son and mother ! — And seem to say, "But for these chains. We would embrace eacl) other." Now o'er their eyes he draws the cap, And kindly bids them farewell, And whispers that their time is up. And he but waits their signal. I ;• 1% XVII. The stoutest hearts are hush'd in awe ^ The roughest melt in pity ; And silence, for a moment, seems To overhang the city. One awful moment — there they go ! Before High Heaven they dangle ; While from the crowd bursts forth the cry- Oh, God ! how hard they strangle ! I 126 THE HANGING. I i IP HI .lliii III Stuttering Voice.] He d-diflna gie them d-drap eneugh — Pd like to rax his w-wizzen : I'm s-sure that he had rape eneugh To hang a hale half d-dizen. Pm sure he's weel p-paid for the job, Wi' six p-pounds and Ihe napkin ; — I think he's g- grieved because they wiil'd Their dead claes to the chaplain. Third Voice.] Didna wee Humphie show guid game, As to the scratch he came up ? — 'Twas unco little that he cared For hanging or ttie shame o't. We've seen tnem swung-— we needna wait Until that they Ire cut down ; So let us go and hae a bowze In Jamie Johnston's tap-room. iif! Ill I 'I ! it i'i„ lllll ! XVIII. Now they depart, without a thought Of human degradation ; But pouring on the hangman's head Their righteous indignation. And is society refined, Or broken morals mended, By criminals exposed to view, ^ Thus by the neck suspended ? V THE HANGING. XIX. Ah ! murder is a horrid thing !— So greatly Law laments it, She murders publicly, that she May privately prevent it. . If minds me o» the guid auld man Wha deprecated swearing ; Yet fell a cursin', if an oath Was utter'd in his hearing. XX. So we have sketch'd this horrid scene, In rhymes rude and unpolish'd, In the faint \ ope that they may tend To have such scenes abolish'd. And if we must exhibit still Such scenes of degradation, Then let us cease to boast of worth, And moral elevation. 127 1% w ■■ i i I i 1 ■ 3 m FATE: A FRAGMENT. INSCRIBED TO DR. PATTULLO, BRAMPTON. nil |l I'l ' i: ; m ■«'" MorialJ] Sjdrit.] A purpose, a determined will, Can soar above earth's highest hill. And bid the troubled waves be still. Or tear from out the book of Fate A leal, would make earth desolate. Now the curtain is unroird : , ; Mortal, what dost thou behold ? Mortal.] I see a mighty temple, whose white dome Stretches to heaven, and in it a great throne. A judge sits on it — behind him a great cloud Of mist is hanging, like a mighty shroud ; All silent, motionless, as if the dead Were in it, and from east to west 'tis spread : Inscribed upon it I can dimly see - Signs, symbols, and the one word Mystery. \ ■ I Fats. 12^ f^ound him shadows come and go, Spirits both of joy and woe ; Things that seem but living air, Float around or hovei there. Before him spreads a mighty book| He ponders with unalter'd look, And, ever and anon, he makes A mark, — something unseen dictates* • 4 Of every creed and kindred, a great crowd Hangs round the gateway, and demand alouJ To be admitted ; — what a noise they make ! Each has some question he wculd ask of Fat&< The gate unfolds : I hear a long-drawn shout, And see one living man led on by Doubt : His face is haggard, — sorrow and much thought Have lines and channels in his forehead wrought* He asks, with a bewilder'd look — Is my name written in that book f !■ ft Oracle.'i Mortal, 'lis here, as thou may'st see, — What further would'st thou ask of me ? Mortal.'i I'd know my future destiny — What is't we are ? — what we must be t Great Oracle, I'd ask of thee ; For I am sick at heart# ^ > - 130 FATir. For doubt has to denial grGwn r With faith, hope, everything has gone. And I am in the world alone. Without a guide or chart. And doleful creatures round me shout 5 The sun of heaven is blotted out ; . • . Still I am doom'd to hang about The grave of buried hope. There's nought in nature nor in art Can bid the settled gloom depart. Which hangs upon my heavy heart. Like an infinite bloat» -\\ And in vain I've tried to outrun Yon mocking, gibbering skeleton, Which to the grave of hope doth come. And rings within mine ears : — << Deeper, deeper tlian damnation ; — - Oh, the depth, the desolation Of that word annihilation ! Death shudders when he hears." liii; 11 And must I ever onward grope — A poor thing without heart or hope^. No buckler to resist the shock Of ills that crowd?— FATE. 131 No fortress to fall back upon — Must do this battle all alone, And, in the end have but a groan, A P .dth's-head and a shroud ? U: Then mighty potentate, oh ! King, Give me some thing on which to lean — One glance into the world unseen — One glimpse behind the veil. O, let me see if all is dark ; If there is not a single barque — A death deluge without an ark — An everlasting wail. . i< I Or rather lot me feel and know That there are worlds of joy or woe, To which poor weary mortals go, Beyond death and the tomb. Give me to feel, as when a boy. There's something death can not destroy. And this heart yet may taste of joy, Hope reappear in bloom. Oracle.} Thou in thine ignorance must wait ; Tears, prayers cannot alter Fate : Behind the veil no eye may see — Such is the will of destiny. tB2 rATE# I' ! I III! Ml! I at Mortal.) But on its folds behold a sign !— A crown, a cross, a face divine. If thou from doubt and death wouldst flee, Forget thy proud philosophy, And climb the hill of Calvary. r ' ', \\ '■ ' ' Like a shadow he has gone. While the aisles these notes prolong. First V(nce.J Not in science, not in art. Hives the balm for the poor heart ; < We are bound, until made free ' By the great humility ! Knowledge is the tree of woe, — All your fathers found it so : All philosophy is vain— Be a little child again. I Second Voice.l Who would not exchange for the yisions of youthy The wisdom we gather with years ? Oh ! who has not leam'd— 'tis a sorrowful truth— That knowledge is water'd in tears. Third Voice.} Without the great temple the nations await, In wonder and awe, the decisions of fate ;— Admit that strange mortal that's next at the gate. .J; VATS. 133 Mortal. The gate unfolds, — I see entering thereby One dreamy mortal with a large blue eye, And yet, raethinks, the annals of our race- Its joys, its sorrows, written in his face. Hosts of shadows lead him on, To the footstool of the throne j \, Some in mirth and mockery, Some in sad smcerity^ There, as in a trance, he stands. With rapt look, and folded hands. While voices round him, clear and cool, Proclaim him but a dreamy fool ! Oracle.'] Mortal of the breathing air. What is thy peculiar care ?— Is it hope, or doubt, or fear. Or what passion brings thee here ? * Poet.} I've sought thy great temple, for I am oppress'd j— A wish, a great longing, will not give me rest : The great face of nature is awful to me — A woe and a wonder in all that I see. The grey clouds that wander, the infinite blue, fhe great silent visage that's aye looking through. The leaves of the forest, the waves of the sea, The hills and the valleys — are calling on me : They beckon me to them, as if they would tell I The secret which they've kept tor ages so welL h h H • 134 FATE. The seen and the unseen, the wondoifiil whole, Awake thoughts which trouble and torture my soul, And, sleeping or waking, they will nut dopart — They'll march forth to music, or tear out my heait ! Vd speak what The spirit has spoken to me, For a priest and a prophet, a poet I'd be ; I'd emulate gladly the great that arc gone — Unveil to the world its soul iji my song. I'd be as the bards, the great minstrels of yore. For big human hearts m their bosoms they bore : They pour'd forth their hnmbcrs, unfotler'd by art, And found a response in the great human heart. I've never heard ought in our smooth, polish'd tongue. Like the rudely sublime strains my old mother sung : Their awful simplicity I'd make mine own — Their great naked virtue revive in my song. I'd question the past, till its secret I'd wring, And from the far future glad tidings I'd bring ; I'd summon the dead from their silent domain, — Sage, hero, should act o'er life's drama again ; / The poor, humble hero should live in my song ; The great hea-ts that struggl'd, yet perish'd unknown, I'd conjure again from their unhonor'd graves, To shame our lax age, and its time-serving slaves. TATE. 135 And yet in my sonj? Imte coulil scarce find a place — Despite of its errors, I still love our race ; The lowly, the lofty, iho lordly, the snnall, Poor, rich, wise and foolish— I feel with them all; I fain would do so iicthirg for tho,-o 2:one astray, The' 'twere but to sin_^ of a hnppi(!r day. Conru?-usts of sadness, which will overflow ; Its deop aspirati' ns for that blessed elimo Which lies o'er tlio re^Lrio'is of death and of time ; Its infinite ]oni>inijfs, its hopes and its fears, hS doubts ayd its darkness, its smiles and its tears — I'd treasure them all m my hnrt and my brain, And brood, like the spirit, o'er cliaos again ! Oracle.} » Pilots are the peta of nature; Lovitigly she furms each feature : Well she knows men would revile her. So she brings the reconciler. Yea, for the great love slie bears him. In her roughest mood she rears him j Heavy burdens she lays on him ; Care and sorrow heaps upon him j Fills"him with celestial fires, And with herds of low desiresi. h\\ h 136 FATK. Now an angel she will start j Now a naked human heart ; Now a thing of flesh and sin j Now the soaring seraphim ; Now she lights his eye with gladness ; Now with melancholy madness ; Now through hell's confines he's driven ; Now he cleaves the vault of heaven j Now shudders at the damned's cries ; Now drinks the airs of paradise ; Till his Joys, his agonies, Start into world melwlies j Till his tones, his words of wonder,. Catch the spirit of the thunder ; And, in melody sublime, Sweeo adown the straits of time. i Canst thou, fwthe muses' sake, Sufler wrong, and scorn, and hate ? Is to thee her meanest tone Dearer than earth's proudest throne ? For her canst thou suffer want ? — For her bear the breath of cant ? — For her fight with sin and shame,. E'en without the hope of fame f Canst thou bear, e'en by the good. To be wrongly understood ? Canst thou hear, with judgment eool. Wise men stamp thee but a fool ?— » EPITAPH. 137 Painted puppies of a day Scorn thee for thy poverty ? Hear, llien, 'mid the scorn and laughter Of thy time, the " Hail, hereafter!" (■ •J I f EPITAPH ON J. W •*«« The casket i^roken, The jewel is gone ; The poor, rifled pilgrim Hid under this stone. 4 I i 'f ''■ V / i SKETCHES FROM THE WANDERER; A PROSE POEM, INSCRIBED TO W. T. BOYD, ESQ. % There is no place, no spot of earth, tho' e'er so wiki and desolate, but has its history. Tho' 'twere but the changes time writes on it, they do become leaves of the mighty volume, and will not perish. Man vainly tries to count the furrows in great nature's face, and fix her birthday thereby ; but, in his vain attempts, loses himself in aeons, and the intinite rushes upon him, till he stan'.s transfixed in silent wonder : Awe his only revelation. SKETCHES FAOM THE WANDERER. 139 There is no place where human ihings lived, loved, and wrangled, but has its annals, uttered in some shape. The whole past is blended with the future; we the living links which bind the whole together. List! that ancient song, so full of human feel- ing. It is the voice of buried generations, speaking to us through the long aisle of ages. They have not perished though they've passed away — they commune with us still — yea, the dead are here of ages most remote. Old Time is no destroyer ; he has garner'd all the past, and formed us of it. We would speak of his works, for all his lines are of surpassing virtue ; all his oracles di- vine, tho' but old men's grey liairs. Aye, his dumb minis- ters. Change, Ruin, Deatli, Decay, are awful preachers, even in their silence — eloquent — sublime ! I'm old and weary, and wculd sit me down and talk about the past. In yonder vale I grew from youth to manhood, but long since departed from it, and, in my weary'ago, have sought it once again, to lay me with my fathers. And yel I feel as this were not the place of my nativity ; for every face I meet tells I'm a stranger here. The old are dead and buried ; and the young have grown out of my recollection; even those I dandled on my knee, are nien- and women grown ; and if they rfo remember me, 'lis as an image in some half-forgotten dream. Even nature's face is changed— yon mountains we^r another aspect, and the streams, — they talk not to me as in days of old. r'f 4 A;. Ik 140 SKETCHES FROM THE WANDSAZR. And you, ye woodsy which half o'erhang that once delightful village, tho' your green faces are familiar, yet somehow ye have acquired a melancholy meaning. Ye are not the green cathedrals, where awoke spontaneous worship, glad as the sunbeams, which streamed through your long dark leafy arches. And you, ye flowers, clinging up there to the rough bosom of the rugged rock like virtue to rough natures : still ye are beautiful. But ye are not the lairy mirrors, where the young heart's joy was imaged. Ye are not as of old, nature's delighted revellers; the livelong summer day spreading your honey bosoms to the bee ; all the nigiit long, drinking the dews of heaven, till they o'erflow your silken tresses. Ah ! no, a joyous some- thing has departed from yen ! There ye hang like jewels on Death's bosom, mournful mementoes of a joy departed. Even yon ruined Tower, built in the days of eld, where dwelt the long- forgotten mighty ! Still, as of old, it looks down on the valley— but ah ! how changed its look. Its lordly air is gone. It is still called the << Eagle's Eyrie," as in mock* ery of him who built i( on the steep. His fame, his name, his race, have perished from the eArth ; and the old tower alone tells but of what has been. What secret sympathy still drags me t'wards it ? Does its fate resem- ble mine ? ! tell me, is there not some strange mystic affinity between old walls and our affections ? Why can dead matter, on immortal mind, beget emotion infinite? Why can a moss-clad ruin, or a mouldering stone, touching Ik ! ;t SS£TCH£S FHOM THE WANDEREA. 141 s?=3 some secret sympathy, attune the chords of our affections, till the heart o'erilows in liquiil melody, melting down years to moments ; — making our whole lives, with all their good and ill, pass in review before u« ; — waftiag us away to the death realm ; — calling up the dead from their deep slumber ; — wiping their clammy- lips, planting the rose of health in their pale faces, even while listening with a holy awe, to the dread secrets of another world ? Turn which way we will, are there not eyes innumerable looking out on us ? Stand we not in a mysterious presence ? Is there not something sitting in yon tower ? — a face of sorrow looking through a!i ts loop-ho]3s? Does not yon blasted pine, by lightning .d , stretch out its naked arms in proud defi- ance of Uiv< element which wrought its ruin ? Is not the yew tree melancholy? Do not the willows weep? — all nature's forms but spirit mediums ! Ah I me^ what a world ! :;i Aj I THE VILLAGE". I'li ii i!:|i [M^ tf 80 long the pride and boast of the whole village; from unremembered time a dear possession. What a crowd of joyful recollections associated with it !• Here the villagers' gambolled in youth, and moralized in their old age. But Where's the old oak tree 'neath which the sages gathered ? Felled, flooded away on the tide of improvement. Ah ! there was a time when the whole village would have risen in revolt against such desecration. This was the place of memorable things, of triumphs and defeats : the hall of justice, the public ballroom, the place where bonfirea blazed, and orators descanted. Here reputations were lost and won. Here Jocky o' the Green triumphed for many a day. Who like him could throw the hammer or direct the ball ? To the blackguards all a glory and a terror, they would have followed whereso'er he'd lead. But hi» ambition was all bounded by the green-^this was his empire — here he reigned supreme and die«I unconquered. And hire, even here, the Poorhouse stands ; yea, on the very spot sacred so long to mirth and friendship. Well, there was a time when such things were tmknown throughout broad Scotland — heard of as things mcredible— ere charily by law was regulated, erj the bounds of mercy were prescribed and measured, ere infi- aite pity was eompressed into a poorhousor In my time w r BICETCIIES moiH THE WANDERER. 142^ I* there were both poverty and pain, hard toil and suffering * but the poor were cared for, still classed among the human. The spontaneous boon was blessed ; for the poor recipient felt that he was still one of the human family, and not an ulcer to be hidden from the sight — a leper to be bani; !)'•.. 0, intellect ! is this thy triumph ? Thou hast har- nessed the " iron steed," subdued heaven's lightnings ; but have they not blasted thy human heart, leaving in its stead a gold-grasping insanity ? 0, tell us not our stories of the- pF.st are mere poetic fables 1 f. ■ ^ m -Wlien the clifldren ran. rere Ings the To fill the pouches o' the beggar-man, And send him on rejoicing. For, well do F remember that very beggar ; could still recognise the staff on which he leaned ; would know his wallet 'mong a thousand. His broad blue bonnet covered a patriarchal head, — his coarse cle^li gabbardine concealed an honest heart, and pious to a proverb. Who, like him, could explain the dark passage? — who ask a blessing like him? In his tones an awe-struck, reverential feeling! His words were true as death, and spoken in a tone to be remernbered. His prayer is still fresh in my recollection ; — his plaintive tones and his old withered face awoke a reverence, a pity inexpressible in ray young heart.. ■ THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE. And here the old School-house, with its low, thatched roof, and narrow windows, changed but little since I left it ; kept for other uses — now a school no longer. But Where's the teacher and the taught, the crowd of happy boys and girls who gambolled on this green, happy as the long summer day? I see all your young faces in the glass of memory, joyous as when we parted ; but ye are silent all ! 0, could I but see you as ye were before ye finished the great task appointed for you! Could I but know each item of your history — your joys, your sorrows, triumphs and defeats — what ye found the world, and what the world found you ! But all that I can learn is — that some perished in their youth ; one died by his own hand ; some went to other lands, and ne'er came back again. One perished on the deep ; two on the battle field ; one returned from a far countriey laden with wealth, — with him a wife who spoke in a strange tongue ; but he soon died of dis- content. The rest weie all lost in the crowd, floated away, no one knew whither; the master long called hence* Death has dismissed the school. SCHOOL DAYS. - / Are not all our school-day loves and friendships holy ; lacking the baser mixtures which still cling to ties of after times ? Have we not all in looking backward felt — 0, how sadly ! — that the region ot the heart with its green glories lies t'wards the rising sun ? Who has not turned in sorrow to that realm where the heart, the heart alone, held empire, with faith implicit in the worth of all the world ; ere love was lost in knowledge ; ere science dripping from the ooze of ignorance, blighted affection ? When we worshipped without doubt, loved without reason j yet tasted of a bliss surpassing all philosophy can give us. And here the spring, beside the hawthorn tree, still bubbling up as pure as ever, gushing out there like charity marking its path with green. 0, how often, when tired with travel on life's desert, has my parched soul sought out this quiet spring ! For, on this very spot, the day, the hour, and every little circumstance, how well remembered • i 148 SKSTCMES FROM THE WANOERKR. I ' ' '■ Hn I awoke like Adam from a dream, and my young Eve' arrayed in beauty, like the dawn, {^opeared before me. She started, like the fawn, when she beheld me ; but, in her sweet confusion, the light of beauty issuing from her eye> changed my whole nature. Aflfections strange and new burst into being : the rank weeds all withered. Did not fear, hope, joy and gratitude, with a.whole world of wild emotion, blend into one strange, mysterious feeling? " Its pains more pleasing than all other joys ?" Did not her dear ideal comprehend all heaven and earth, and I live — but to love her ? Have we not all tasted a joy primeval ? Have we not all lived in an Eden, when the windows of the soul, undimmed by passion, let the light of nature fall directly on the heart ? Have we not all, like our first parents, been expelled from its green arbors, driven out to the great desert, and, in our weary wander- ings, still turning with a sigh to our lost Eden. Mine was lost indeed ! — Eden and Eve together. For I cannot learn what became of her, whether she. lived or died, whether she nurtured images of her fair self or died unwedded. 0, does she still wander among the living ? O, could we but meet agam beside this quiet spring ! What a vain wish ! It were a sorry meeting ; for we are not the beings now who pledged our young affections here. How lived, how died she ? — was. her life one of joy or sorrow ? — was sho )\ SKETCHES FROM THE WAN9BRER. 149 exempted from the many ills which crowd around our being ? Ah ! 'twere not well to think so ; for, in a world like this, what soul can flourish and bear golden fruity unless 'tis watered by affliction ? Her dews are blessedi tho' the night seems long when they fall on us. Strange that the sympathies of a mere child should triumph over time and all its cY -iges ! That the light shed by a loving eye" should, through the vista of long years, beam bright and beautiful as ever ! 'J'hat her name should hang around me like a spell, and, after half a century, do deeds of mercy by it ! Yea, when wrong awoke resentment, has it not softened the savago in me ? Let moralists say what they will ; — the first pure worship of the heart is offered up to woman, and dwells forever with us* <■> ■ I ■t i THE VILLAGE POET. I knew him well, — a poor victim of vanity, who, for dlusection, gave his soul in print, in the mad hope that other men, and other times, would find a jewel in it. He had a passion for fine sentiment, and never dreamt 'twas crime to outrage nature : yea, he felt his whole strength \'v lay in distorting her features. To elicit sound was his ambition, and kept constantly on hand whole columns of sheet lightning ; could on the instant start you up tremen- dous mountains of mock thunder ; had faith in naught but glare and glitter, and, as a tinker, would have been supreme in polishing japan. Facts were poor, beggarly, bald things, unworthy the regard of a great poet : he could not believe natnre contained aught in her breast but earth and water; therefore lost no sleep wresting her secret ^ from her. Would not believe the poet's mission here is but to build an humble temple o'er some blessed spring in the great desert. He had somewhere heard of the great love which poets bear nature's eternal green ; — he pre- ferred yellow ; dyed her vest in his own vat ; checkered the broad blue canopy ot heaven; would not in aught, living or dead, acknowledge the Creator ; but brought forth a monster brood as rivals to his works : yea, it was his own, having no relationship to aught in earth or heaven. filCTCHXl FROM THE WANDEMEE. 161 What must his actual have been, when such monstrosities vrere his ideal? But the people laughed even in the faces of his heroes ; plucked thetn by the beard ; nicknamed his vestal virgins ; trampled his giants under foot, and scorned his thunder. While he, poor mortal, stood at bay, attri- buting their scorn to malice, finding comfort in the thr ;;ght that all the good and groat must endure persecution ; proving from holy writ — a prophet is despised 'niong his own people ; therefore wrote his own epitaph, which, ii I rightly recollect, ran something thus : — Here rests from its labor All that was mortal Of J. , , Poet of this parish. 'f EPITAPH : He was a great master of rhymes, And, when his soul sought happier climes, Bequeath'd his lame to other times. Memento mori. Yet were there in the village some good bouU who pitied him ; who felt that these monstrosities, and their vile jargon, were but the writhings of a soul in agony ; haunted by the tradition that there is light, and loveliness, and beauty somewhere, tho' he found them not. i^r \ *," '^ THE CLERICAL FOP A sleek young fop, with g3wn of newest cut, and cravat nicely tied, rings on iiis fingers, cDils in his hair, here every Sabbath acts a part in presence of his God, just like a stage-struck hero. His every word and gesture pre-arranged, -strutted and fumed before a looking-glass ; his measured tones not meek, but m'"m ; his studied look ludicrously grave ; his sentences looped, pared, and rounded, till they suit the month, and have the proper sound ; his tropes and figures, like poor prisoners, unwillingly dragged in, hang their bewildered heads, as if in wonder how they were brought thither; and sense, entangled in a wilderness of words, helplessly struggles to get free. A favorite with the ladi"s ! — such a nice young man, and .so accommo- dating ! — no sentence out of Joint : he would not, for the world, speak but one word to hurt the feelings even of the profane, llow gingerly he picks his steps among deep- rooted prejudices ! — he could walk, for a wager, throLigh the .wilderness of vice, and not tramp on a single weed. Qf what tidings is he the messenger? — awe, rapture, or despair ? No, nothing of the kind. A few cold reasons, melted in the crucible of schools, and some long, lean definitions of nothing; and this their essence: — 'Twere wise, 'twere prudent, 'twere the better way ; — we can't be cheated much by worshipping Jehovah. Great God ! caa 'VKTETCHfS FROM THE WANDERER. 153 Of or lean rise^ be ;aa -any weary, wandering, oppressed sonl find succor here ? To what a state of destitution have we come, when prudence ;has usurped the place of piety, and gold is god supreme ! Oh, liow unlike the simple, earnest, good old man, who, for full fifty years, taught from that pulpit ! Yea, I see him, as of old, — the thin, grey hair parted upon his high and ample forehead ; bent as 'neath the weight of a great bur- den, which he meekly bears, even for the sake of him who bore a greater, yea, the weight of our transgressions. . There he stood, playing no trick theatrical — no foam, no flourish no preineditated start, nor pause mechanical. There he stood, a man commissioned to make known the will of heaven, be't weal or woe ; and would not shh-k the task, even tho' nature should lift up her voice in pity : he daiej not to suppress one syllable of truth, even truth his bosom bled to utter. Yea, his exceeding cliar'.ty compelled him to portray the realms of howling desolption ; led you, a.s by the hand, through nature-s ruins, 'mid the crash of fulling worlds, on even to the brink of the abyss, until you heard the shriek eternal, and beheld the victims writhing in tho halls of flame. Then would the old man pause, o'ercome by human feeling, while the big tears strea ned down his furrowed face, and then, in supplicating tones, exclaim: Flee, I beseech you, from the wrath to come ! V ) > { ' ( ■^ WHENCE COME WE? Hhrjl :-;M K:i| ll W^ i HJjl il iflB ■ i j 1 1' 'i ui^H 'JJKI^ 11 I,:... 1 1 i Whence come we ? whither do we go ? or for what purpose sent into this wondrous world ? Is this our final sphere 1 or is it but the mere bud of our being? Is death eternal sleep ? or an awakening trom a troubled vision ? Is this this is ao' thy hame . \ The simmer Jay's far langer there p Mair sweet's the morning's smile ; And, tho' it may bedash'd wi' care, There's beauty to beguile. 1 lang to see the broomy braes, The birks where woodbines twine^ To hear again the lintis lays, Wi' feelings o' langsyne. *. WEE J E A N I E ' S LAMENT. My raither sits and crie«, And my faitl erhings his head, And he canna speak for sighf, For our wee Johnnie's dead. They wrapt him in a shroud That wad whiter than the siiaw, And thwe cam' a do'efu' crowd, " And they carrit him awa'. And they laid him doun to sleep Whaur the willow tree does ware. And I aften gang and greet At our wee Johnnie's grave. The licht o» joy is gane. And there's sorrow in its stead : Oh ! the world is no' the same, For our Vree Johnnie's dead. W FINIS,