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 • •• • >•*«•,,,
 
 POEMS AND SONGS 
 
 WITH 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 ON THE GENIUS AND WORKS OF BURNS, 
 
 AND 
 
 THE REV. GEORGE GILFILLAN ; 
 
 AND 
 
 LETTERS ON DR, DICK, 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHER, 
 
 AND 
 
 SIR JOHN FRANKLIN AND THE ARCTIC REGIONS, 
 
 BY 
 
 PETER LIVINGSTON, 
 
 DUNDEE. 
 
 — "A wish — I mind its power, 
 A wish that to my latest hour, 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
 That I for poor auld Scotland's sake. 
 Some useful plan or book could make, 
 
 Or sins* a sanjr at least." 
 
 TWELFTH EDITION. 
 
 LONDON: 
 WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE, 
 
 AND N EWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 
 1887.
 
 T 
 
 V 
 
 ~tp 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Notice of the Author ..... 7 
 
 Letter on Sir John Franklin and the Arctic 
 
 Regions . . . . . . .13 
 
 Lecture on Burns ...... 24 
 
 j^George Gilfillan and his Writings . . .37 
 
 Letter on Dr. Dick, the Christian Philosopher 46 
 
 Poems — 
 
 Sabbath in a Scottish Cottage . . .51 
 
 The Auld Kirkyard .... 60 
 
 My Father's Ha' .64 
 
 A Hame beyond the Skies . . .67 
 
 Verses to my Aunt ..... 70 
 The Trysting Tree . . .74 
 
 Man to Peace was Born .... SO 
 
 Martha Palmer 85 
 
 Welcome to Queen Victoria and Prince 
 
 Albert 89 
 
 The Kirk . .... 93 
 
 Stobb's Fair 98 
 
 The Miseries of War . . . .103 
 
 Lines on Visiting the Graves of Alexander 
 
 and John Bethune . . . .107 
 
 The Wind . . . .111 
 
 Prologue 113 
 
 My Grannie's Clock . . . . .115 
 
 My Master ...... 118 
 
 486249 
 
 ^W«a_ S^ls -^vv9 ^ x ^—
 
 Songs— 
 
 Where are a' the Friends 1 
 
 Oh, here lies low the Bonnie Lass 
 
 When thinking upon my sad fate 
 
 Hill and Dell are decked in Green 
 
 I now maun leave my Lady Fair 
 
 Come to yonder Bower, my Lassie 
 
 Winter Nights are cauld, Lassie 
 
 A Guid new year to ane and a' 
 
 Bonnie, bonnie, was the Morn 
 
 The Blooming Heather 
 
 The Cares o' Life . 
 
 Winter is Come 
 
 March of Mesmerism 
 
 Creep before you gae 
 
 Juke, and let the Jaw gang by 
 
 Time and Tide will wait on nae man 
 
 Little Children 
 
 PAGE 
 
 119 
 120 
 122 
 123 
 125 
 126 
 127 
 129 
 130 
 131 
 132 
 133 
 134 
 137 
 139 
 141 
 143
 
 TO 
 
 GEO. DUNCAN, ESQ., M.P. FOR DUNDEE. 
 
 Dundee, 20th January 1852. 
 
 <ftjjf ONOTTRED SIR— In dedicating to you the 
 M/JL eighth edition of the Poems and Songs 
 of my Son, Peter Livingston, and also his 
 Lecture on the Genius and Works of Burns, as 
 well as his Oration on the Rev. George Gilfillan : 
 his Genius and his Criticism, I mentioned to you 
 that one of my reasons for the publication was, 
 in consequence of having to relinquish an extensive 
 business in the book trade, occasioned by severe 
 personal affliction during a period of more than ten 
 years ; and also to do justice to my own feelings, as 
 well as to fulfil a wish of the Author, your honour 
 having formerly become his first subscriber for the 
 original edition, the sale of which was considerable ; 
 the seven editions extending to upwards of 6000 
 copies. 
 
 These are some of the reasons which have induced 
 me to solicit your indulgence ; and I shall never forget 
 the kind and generous manner in which you not only 
 permitted the dedication, but feelingly expressed, that
 
 6 
 
 if your consent could be of any service in forwarding 
 my design, it would afford you the utmost pleasure. 
 
 Allow me, dear sir, simply to say, that I sincerely 
 thank you for the expression of your kindness. And 
 I beg leave to add, that so long as Dundee is screened 
 from the northern blast by the beautiful hill behind 
 it — so long as the grass grows on the Magdalen Green 
 — so long as the border of that green is adorned by 
 the Vine* — so long as your school shall exist for the 
 instruction of poor children — so long shall the name 
 of George Duncan be held in grateful remembrance — 
 and that you may live long to enjoy that popularity 
 and esteem which you have so honourably earned, is 
 
 Honoured Sir, 
 The earnest wish of your faithful and obedient Servant, 
 
 WILLIAM LIVINGSTON. 
 
 The beautiful villa of the Honourable Member for Dundee.
 
 NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 JHE Author of the following Poems, Songs, 
 Lectures, etc., was born in Dundee on 20th 
 January 1823. His father, after residing 
 twenty years in Perth, had removed at the previous 
 Martinmas, and was for many years a bookseller and 
 stationer in Dundee. His grandfather was James 
 Livingston — who, at the end of the last and begin- 
 ning of the present century, possessed a farm on the 
 Laigh Fields of Hayston, in the parish of Glammis, 
 on the princely estate of the noble family of Strath- 
 more — who expired three hours after the death of his 
 second wife in 1826, and both were buried in one 
 grave in Glammis Churchyard. His maternal grand- 
 father was Charles Laing, a wright in Perth — a man 
 eminent for Christian piety. He died in 1805; the 
 poet's mother is his eldest daughter.* 
 
 * Mr. (afterwards Sir "Walter) Scott, when about to publish one 
 of his earliest works, was anxious to obtain some information 
 about the classic grounds of Lyndoch, its mansion-house, the 
 grave of Bessie Bell and Mary Gray, all of which are so roman- 
 tically situated on the banks of the Almond — and for that pur- 
 pose waited on the amiable and aged Major Barry, then residing 
 at Perth, but formerly proprietor, and (with his equally amiable 
 lady) improver of that beautiful estate. Having obtained from 
 the Major ample information — particularly about the means he 
 used to ascertain the exact spot where the bones of the beauties
 
 8 
 
 During his infancy and childhood he exhibited an 
 affectionate and kindly disposition, and a contempla- 
 tive turn of mind manifested itself as his years 
 increased. "When a mere boy he greatly admired 
 the preaching of the Rev. Mr. Roxburgh of the 
 Cross Church, and always spoke of him with the 
 greatest enthusiasm. By a spark kindled at this 
 flame, or some other cause, he, about this time, 
 expressed an earnest desire to become a preacher ; 
 and in pi'oof thereof, early in the mornings would rise 
 from his bed, place himself with a table and a Bible 
 before him, inducing a younger brother to rise and sit 
 in front of the table to act as precentor. Service was 
 begun in right earnest ; but sometimes the singing, 
 and often the sermon, would be interrupted by the 
 visit of a pillow coming in contact with the person of 
 the orator, and making him bow to his audience, to 
 the no small astonishment of the baby precentor — 
 this addition to the congregation being ejected from 
 the bed of an elder brother; the preacher having 
 disturbed the carpenter's repose. 
 
 Afterwards, the far-famed sermon, by the Rev. 
 George Gilfillan, entitled, " Hades, or the Unseen," 
 
 lay — the Major's servant (afterwards the poet's mother) was 
 desired to place some refreshments on the table, when Mr. Scott 
 made some remarks on her beautifully fair hair ; and he after- 
 wards mentioned to one in the establishment of his publishers 
 that that, and her otherwise prepossessing and unassuming 
 appearance, suggested to him the title of his novel, The Fair 
 Maid of Perth — and added, tradition has it, that Catherine 
 Glover, though well favoured and of ruddy countenance, was 
 not fair, but possessed of coal black hair.
 
 9 
 
 made its appearance, and the poet took fire at what 
 he considered severe criticism upon that production, 
 and published a pamphlet in reply, entitled, " Hades, 
 or what has its Opponents proved ? " in which, young 
 as he was, he defended some of the sentiments con- 
 tained in the sermon, and opposed the ideas expressed 
 by the critics with considerable ability, ingenuity, and 
 skill. Ere this some of his earliest verses appeared 
 in a few of the periodicals with which the locality was 
 then teeming ; and they were generally well received, 
 which no doubt induced him to collect and publish 
 them in a small volume, consisting of eight hundred 
 copies, which were all subscribed for in a very short 
 time. Thus encouraged, he composed some additional 
 pieces, which appeared in subsecment editions ; and 
 in visiting the neighbouring towns, he was w r ell 
 patronised, and the press reviewed the work very 
 favourably. At Brechin, Lord Panmure patronised it 
 very handsomely ; on going further north, several 
 hundred copies were sold, and the Earls of Airlie 
 and Kintore became subscribex^s. Afterwards, his 
 progress in Perth and Fife was very successful, and 
 the Professors of St. Andrew's College nearly all 
 subscribed ; on visiting Edinburgh, Lords Jeffrey and 
 Robertson, with several of the other Lords of Session, 
 and a number of the Professors were among his 
 patrons ; on going to Glasgow, two editions of the 
 work were called for, and the Earl of Eglinton 
 became its efficient patron. It may be here remarked, 
 that during the author's progress, as above stated, the 
 ministers of the gospel of all denominations sub- 
 scribed for the work in great numbers, and their
 
 10 
 
 kindly sentiments, often expressed towards him, 
 appeared to have left a deep feeling of gratitude on 
 his mind. He now went to a celebrated college in 
 England, where he studied with success ; afterwards 
 preached with acceptance ; delivered many orations 
 on theology and other popular subjects, among which 
 was his lecture on Burns, and his feeling letter on 
 Dr. Dick, the Christian Philosopher. His oration on 
 the Rev. George Gilfillan, his genius and criticism ; 
 likewise the letter on Sir John Franklin and the 
 Arctic Regions, with lectures and addresses to various 
 literary societies in and about the metropolis, form 
 part of his present efforts.
 
 THE FOLLOWING LETTER WAS 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR BY THE 
 
 Xate %ovb Jeffrey. 
 
 24 Moray Place, 30th December 1846. 
 
 ^"T^\EAR SIR — I have now read through your 
 Jl Js little volume, and with very considerable 
 satisfaction; but have scarcely anything to add 
 to what I said to you personally after I had perused but 
 a part of it- The marked superiority of what I 
 understand to be your later compositions gives good 
 reason to look for still greater improvement in those 
 you may produce in future ; you are still young 
 enough to contemplate great advances, and become a 
 pleasing versifer, and express amiable sentiments and 
 domestic affections in a natural and touching way. 
 
 The thoughtful and tender parts are decidedly the 
 best, and some of the songs are not without merit. 
 
 You ask my sincere opinion of your work. The 
 expression of it is, The talent you possess, if rightly 
 estimated, may always afford you an innocent and 
 elegant amusement, and obtain for you the notice and
 
 12 
 
 regard of many who may be of use to you, and with 
 these advantages I trust you have sense enough to be 
 satisfied. 
 
 In the meantime, believe me, with all good wishes, 
 
 Your faithful and obedient servant, 
 
 F. JEFFREY. 
 
 To Mr. Peter Livingston, Dundee. 
 
 [The above letter was highly appreciated by the 
 Author, as a valuable gift from that prince of critics ) 
 and highly gifted and great man.]
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 OF 
 
 .A. LETTEE 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE QUEEN 
 
 ox 
 
 SIR JOHN FRANKLIN 
 
 AND THE 
 
 ARCTIC REGIONS. 
 
 May it please Your Majesty — 
 
 tHE theme upon which I take the liberty to 
 address you is invested with a deep and 
 distressing interest. There are concerned in 
 it the lives and deaths of many individuals, the hopes 
 and fears of many hearts. Your Majesty will pardon 
 me being somewhat minute — I shall not be lengthy — 
 as on this subject I address not your Majesty alone, 
 but also the public, in whom there exists an ardent 
 desire to know all that can be known on this im- 
 portant subject. It may be of importance briefly to 
 inquire into the causes that have led to our earnest 
 exertions on the subject. "Wherefore is it that man 
 has sacrificed life — left friends, home, and country ? 
 Why has Government spent so much money and been
 
 14 
 
 so unwearied in its exertions to explore the unknown 
 regions of the North, where is nothing but eternal ice 
 and snow 1 The question is answered to a certain 
 extent by our knowledge of man's nature — it is man's 
 nature to inquire, to know, and to understand all 
 that is round and about him. Man has got the earth 
 for an inheritance, and he wishes to understand it. 
 We do not like to live in a house without knowing its 
 apartments. Such is the cause, found in man's 
 nature, of all his intrepidity and daring. It is this 
 that has led man forth with brave heart, to encounter 
 all the dangers and difficulties which he is sure to 
 meet with in his journeys over flood and field. It 
 was this that led forth the great Columbus to find out 
 the New World of the West, and has made him 
 immortal for his enterprise and daring. This led 
 forth the fearless Cook over the wide waste of waters 
 which covered our earth like a shroud, in the midst of 
 which he alighted on the Owyhee, where he fell a 
 victim to the fury of the natives of a country into 
 which he went intending to bequeath the blessings of 
 civilisation. This led Bruce to the mysterious Nile, 
 and Park to the undiscovered Niger, where he, too 
 fell in the midst of those desert regions which have 
 well been called the white man's grave. It was this 
 desire to know that has made man to ascend the 
 everlasting hills, penetrate the unknown deserts, and 
 plant his foot on spots of the earth where the foot of 
 man had never been before. And this desire it is, 
 coupled with a love of gold (perhaps a commendable 
 love of gold), which had led forth our daring mariners 
 to explore these unknown regions of the North, where
 
 15 
 
 is nothing but everlasting ice and snow holding sway 
 in the dismal wilderness. 
 
 It was doubtless a love of gold, in conjunction with 
 our thirst for knowledge, that has led to all our 
 exertions to discover a North-West Passage. The 
 British Isles are situated on the globe so as to be 
 far from many commercial ports of great importance 
 in the world. On the west, we have the continents 
 of North and South America between ourselves and 
 the western shores of these continents. On the east, 
 Ave have the continents of Europe and Africa between 
 us and China and Hindostan. These facts are seen 
 and known by our commercial men, and their desire 
 to find a speedy passage to the western shores of 
 America, and the golden land of the east, found a 
 ready response in the minds of our navigators, in 
 whom there existed a desire to know if there was a 
 way in the north by which they could sail round the 
 world. The propriety, however, of any exertions on 
 our part, and, indeed, at any time, may with some 
 show of reason be questioned. In a commercial 
 point of view, the passage, although discovered, could 
 never be rendered available for any practical or 
 useful purpose. In these regions the ice closes in 
 upon us, and thus seems to present a lasting barrier 
 to man's progress in that direction. 
 
 Thus, although the passage were at once discovered, 
 those who come after the original explorers must 
 have the same difficulties to encounter, the same 
 natural impediments in their way that the original 
 explorers had to contend with. Till the sun himself 
 shall melt the everlasting hills of snow, man may
 
 16 
 
 never be permitted to approach these regions. Be 
 this as it may, the necessity for further exertions on 
 our part to discover a North-West Passage is now 
 done away with, from the fact that the railway by 
 the Isthmus of Panama and the canal by Lake 
 Nicaragua, as also the proposed railway across the 
 continent of Europe and direct from England to 
 India, will give us the desired end without having 
 to encounter any of those physical difficulties which 
 impede our progress in the Northern Seas.* 
 
 This, however, is incidental ; we have to deal with 
 
 * The passages to which I have referred will entirely do away 
 with the necessity, in a commercial point of view, for our 
 prosecuting the discovery of a North-West Passage further. 
 Those by the Isthmus of Panama and Lake Nicaragua will open 
 up a floodgate of commercial prosperity to the world which we 
 have never known before ; they will bring within a short dis- 
 tance to our shores the western coasts of North and South 
 America ; they will also open up a direct passage to the vast 
 Pacific Ocean, and to the many islands which stud that ocean, 
 which are too numerous for me to name or to number. The 
 railway across the continent of Europe from England to 
 India is one of the most gigantic ideas ever conceived by the 
 mind of man. When this railway is completed — which in the 
 course of time it doubtless will be — the golden land of the east 
 will be brought within a distance of seven days' journey from 
 England. Thus do we stand in the prospect of seeing realised a 
 fact so great and so gigantic, that had it ueen told to our 
 forefathers they must have deemed it little else than an Arabian 
 tale. Many parties tell us that such a project can never be 
 carried out. Doubtless, to the minds of many, it may seem an 
 impossibility ; but there is more in heaven and earth than is 
 dreamt of in their philosophy. In the vocabulary of some men 
 there is no such word as Fail ; and such men necessity will find 
 to carry out this great undertaking. Not only will a railway
 
 17 
 
 what has been done. The conclusions to which 1 
 have referred being come to, expeditions have from 
 time to time been fitted out, only a passing allusion 
 to several of which I can give before coming to that 
 of Sir John Franklin ; the voyages of Mackenzie, 
 Davy, Beechy, the Rosses, Back, Dease, Simpson, and 
 others, may be named as connected with our present 
 subject. Captain Parry discovered many lands, bays, 
 and large islands, the principal of which he named. 
 Captain Ross discovered the large island of Boothia, 
 which is thinly inhabited by Esquimaux. These 
 various expeditions and their successes led to the 
 expedition under the command of Sir John Franklin. 
 That expedition left this country in the month of 
 May 1845; there were composing it in all two ships, 
 the Erebus and Terror, and one hundred and thirty- 
 eight men; they took with them provisions calculated, 
 with economy, to last four years and a-half. Sir 
 John Franklin's instructions were to proceed up by 
 Davis' Straits to Baffin's Bay, so on to the Lancaster 
 Sound, Barrow Straits, and thus by Cape Walker, 
 then to use his own discretion. The expedition was 
 last seen in Baffin's Bay, bound on to an iceberg, 
 waiting for a passage through the ice. Traces of Sir 
 John Franklin's expedition have, however, since been 
 
 be laid down from England to the East, but we may not err in 
 prognosticating that an electric telegraph will soon be laid down 
 also. Then the pilgrim by the banks of the river Indus, and 
 the hero of Hindostan, may converse with his friends in father- 
 land ; then will the daring fancy of our immortal Shakespeare 
 be reduced to a vulgar reality — that of putting a girdle round 
 the earth in forty minutes. 
 
 2
 
 18 
 
 found on Beechy Island, which is situated at the 
 entrance to Wellington Channel. Here were found 
 three graves of men who had been buried — there 
 where the white sea foam shall wash them daily ; here 
 also were found a carpenter's shop, a forge, a post, 
 and several other sad memorials of the missing men. 
 
 This fact has led many to conclude— we think 
 justly — that Franklin must have penetrated in by 
 Wellington Channel and Victoria Channel, which is a 
 continuation of the former, and so on to the north 
 pole on the earth. It seems very reasonable to come 
 to this conclusion from the fact that it was Franklin's 
 own impression that the most likely way to discover a 
 North-west passage, if defeated in his course by Cape 
 Walker, was to proceed up Wellington Channel, and 
 so on through the Arctic Ocean, if possible, to 
 Behring's Straits. 
 
 Such are the simple facts connected with Franklin's 
 expedition into the Polar Seas, and the conclusions to 
 which we come regarding these facts lead us to believe 
 that he yet may be found in these regions, and may 
 yet return from them. 
 
 We find that it is now upwards of six years since 
 he left this country, and he took with him provisions, 
 calculated with economy to last four years and a-half. 
 The question then presents itself to the mind, how can 
 Franklin and his companions have existed during the 
 year and a-half beyond which his provisions were cal- 
 culated to last ? This question is answered to a certain 
 extent by our knowledge of the fact that in these 
 regions he may have been able to procure reindeer, 
 white foxes, seals, birds, and indeed various other
 
 19 
 
 animnls winch abound in these northern regions. This 
 supposition is strongly confirmed, if not reduced to a 
 certainty, by our knowledge that in the regions to which 
 we suppose Sir John Franklin must have gone — namely, 
 Wellington Channel and Victoria Channel — have been 
 seen many specimens of animal life, all of which could 
 support Sir John Franklin and his brave companions. 
 That which makes us urge this view of the question 
 with the more earnestness is, if Sir John Franklin has 
 penetrated through Victoria Channel, it is possible 
 that he may now be in the Polar Sea, where he knew 
 full well it is not so cold, and where animal life is 
 much more plentiful than it is at what is called the 
 magnetic pole of the earth. That Franklin did pene- 
 trate into Wellington Channel and Victoria Channel, 
 we think there can be now no reasonable doubt. 
 
 We have before remarked that it was Sir John 
 Franklin's intention to proceed by Wellington Channel 
 if defeated on his way by Cape Walker. This, coupled 
 with the fact that remains of the expedition have been 
 found on and beyond to the north of Beechy Island, 
 seems to leave no reasonable doubt on the mind that 
 he must have penetrated up that channel. Upon 
 Beechy Island were found several sad and melancholy 
 remains of the missing men. Here Franklin wintered 
 in 1845-46; there also were found three graves — 
 sublime in their loneliness — of men belonging to the 
 expedition who had died. Here also were discovered 
 a garden, a carpenter's shop, a forge, a post, and 
 several other sad remains of the Northern Vovagers. 
 Beechy Island is situated a little to the north of Cape 
 Hotham, and therefore seems to be a favourable start-
 
 20 
 
 ing-point for Wellington Channel and the Polar Sea. 
 The facts, then, coupled with Franklin's wish before he 
 left this country to proceed in that direction, seem to 
 warrant us in coming to the conclusion that he did pene- 
 trate intothePolar Sea, and havingdone so, we have more 
 than one reason for believing that he may be there still. 
 The objections brought against this conclusion do not 
 seem to carry with them much weight. Your Majesty 
 is aware that there has been going the round of the 
 press a story to the effect that Sir John Franklin and 
 his companions have long since been murdered by a hos- 
 tile tribe of Esquimaux. This melancholy tale is given 
 to the world upon the authority of the veritable Adam 
 Beck, an Esquimaux, who, by virtue of the fact that he 
 can read and write well, was at once initiated into the 
 solemnity of an oath and all the paraphernalia of 
 English justice. This absurd report has been charac- 
 terised by an able writer on the subject as a crude and 
 heartless tale. We can scarce doubt the propriety of 
 this conclusion. If such a report be true, did no one 
 see the murder but Adam Beck 1 If so, who were they 
 that saw it — are they living or are they dead ? Where 
 did it take place, and when did it take place ? Did Sir 
 John Franklin leave no vestige behind 1 By whom was 
 he killed, and where was he buried 1 Let those ques- 
 tions, and questions like them, be answered, till we see 
 if this tale be true. But I shall no longer weary the 
 patience of your Majesty with further allusion to this 
 idle story. I look upon it as a mockery and an insult 
 to the judgment of the British people. We are also told 
 that his ammunition may not have lasted; that the in- 
 tense and biting cold of these northern regions, so long
 
 21 
 
 continued, may ere this time have destroyed him, or 
 that he may have sunk a total wreck within the raging 
 sea. All these conclusions to this whole matter are 
 doubtless possible, and cause conflicting feelings to cross 
 the mind when we contemplate the fate of these brave 
 mariners. Speculation regarding them seems to a 
 certain extent out on a shoreless sea. But so long as 
 there remains the bare possibility of their existence, to 
 that possibility it is right for us to cling in hope, even 
 though that hope be so long deferred that it make the 
 heart sick. This conclusion come to, then, our duty in 
 the matter seems palpable and plain. That duty seems 
 to me to be to send out another expedition in search of 
 the missing men. Let that expedition be well fitted out ; 
 let it also be done speedily, so that in the spring-time 
 of the year it may reach the Northern Seas. We have 
 had several reasons for comins: to the conclusion that it 
 is our duty to send out further expeditions in search of 
 the missing men. In the first place, Sir John Franklin 
 and his brave associates left their country, their friends, 
 and their home, in the service of the government of the 
 country to which they belong ; Sir John Franklin and 
 his companions have been tried and trusty friends of the 
 State ; they had done the State some service, and we 
 know it. Such being the case, we conceive them to be fit 
 and becoming objects of the State's care and protection. 
 As a matter of justice alone, it is our duty to do what 
 we can for the safety of the missing men. This is 
 our duty on the ground of justice alone ; what shall 
 we say when we come to those of charity and mercy 1 
 Shall we stand idly looking on 1 Shall we live at 
 home at ease 1 Shall we sit under our own vine and
 
 22 
 
 fig tree while our brethren, brave in heart and strong 
 in arm, may still be living in the dark and dismal 
 regions of the north, bound by eternal ice and snow. 
 
 Your Majesty, let it not be said that England can be 
 guilty of this crime; let not the sin of ingratitude be laid 
 to our charge. I have before given proofs of the means 
 by which it is possible our countrymen may still be in 
 existence. I spoke of the provisions, of the means of 
 living they might get in the North — reindeer, foxes, 
 seals, birds, or indeed many other animals. I also 
 referred to the fact that the climate towards the pole 
 of the earth is more congenial than it is towards the 
 magnetic. All these things, I repeat, taken into con- 
 sideration, give us proof that hope should not yet be 
 dead within us ; so long as there exists a single chance 
 of their safety, we are bound to try to save them ; 
 thus our duty seems palpable and plain. We may 
 rest upon our oars, perhaps in sadness and in sorrow, 
 till the dark days of winter have passed away, then, 
 when the spring-time shall have come upon us, when 
 the sun shall gild again the hills of everlasting snow, 
 then let us heart and hand send out further help and 
 aid to our countrymen, so that, if still in existence, 
 they may be saved from a watery grave. 
 
 It is true that our efforts may not be crowned with 
 success ; we may search and seek for that which we 
 cannot find. So let it be, if Providence will have it so; 
 we cannot change it, but our duty done, we have gained 
 for ourselves that self-satisfaction and peace which 
 passeth all understanding. If our daring mariners 
 are in the deep, we can only say it was the will of 
 God, and may not be grieved nor mourned over.
 
 23 
 
 If they are dead, they have fallen blessed martyrs ; 
 after life's fitful fever they sleep well, with the sea for 
 an everlasting mourner. But for the sake of the living, 
 if not for the dead — by the blighted hopes and bleeding 
 hearts of the mournful survivors ; by the widow's tears, 
 the orphan's cries, and the mother's crucified affections; 
 by the honour of that great nation of which you are 
 the head — do I call upon your Majesty, respectfully but 
 earnestly, to use your royal prerogative and send out 
 another expedition in search of the Northern explorers, 
 so that our minds may be set at rest and kept no longer 
 on the rack, but that we may know the best or worst 
 of this perplexing business. And we would, in conclu- 
 sion, humbly suggest to your Majesty the propriety 
 that if it is to be done, it were well that it were done 
 quickly ; there is no time to be lost, for every day may 
 bring with it death. So long as a lingering hope re- 
 mains behind — so long as there is a shadow of belief 
 that our countrymen may still be in life — it is our 
 duty to try to save them.* Our duty done, we may 
 safely leave the rest with that Providence, who in His 
 mercy ever tempers the wind to the shorn lamb. 
 
 I have the honour to be, 
 
 Your Majesty's 
 
 Most humble obedient Servant, 
 
 PETER LIVINGSTON. 
 
 * Farther traces o f the missing expedition have been found ; 
 ships are being again sent out by the Government, under the 
 command of Sir Edward Belcher, and Dr. Eae, overland, in 
 search of Sir John Franklin and his companions.
 
 LECTURE ON ROBERT BURNS, 
 
 hT_3 OBERT BUR1S T S— Scotland's best and greatest 
 :XY\ poet — was born on the 25th of January 1759, 
 in a small cottage about two miles from the 
 town of Ayr. He was ushered into this world amid 
 storm and darkness. Part of the house in which he 
 was born, just as he saw the light, was blown in by 
 the tempest. The new-made mother, with her baby- 
 boy, sought and received shelter from a neighbour. 
 His father, William Burns, had been a farmer ; but 
 worldly adversity compelled him to betake himself to 
 the field as a labourer. Robert, at the age of six, was 
 sent to school, where under Mr. John Murdoch, a man 
 of whom the poet makes honourable mention, he 
 remained two years. Here he acquired reading, 
 grammar, and some knowledge of the French language. 
 Beyond this, he had not much of what is called school 
 education ; but, as we shall hereafter see, he was 
 " quick to learn, and wise to know." 
 
 He was at an early age somewhat fortunate in the 
 books he read, having a few of Shakespeare's plays, 
 Locke on the Understanding, Ramsay's Poems, along 
 with other books of value. 
 
 It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth years of 
 his age that Burns first wrote poetry. Love was the 
 mother of his muse. He was early blest with what was 
 early blighted — his love for Highland Mary. This was 
 a sacred affection, almost too pure for earth. She died, 
 alas ! too early — died, as all the good die, loving, hoping.
 
 25 
 
 Burns, when a young man, engaged in partnership with 
 a flaxdresser ; but in a hapless hour the premises took 
 fire, and left the poet penniless. He now took the farm 
 of Mossgiel, in conjunction with his brother Gilbert, a 
 man of sound understanding. Here Burns first met 
 Jean Armour, afterwards his wife, and their first in- 
 timacy ended in misfortune. Our poet now looked to 
 a foreign land for that peace and prosperity which his 
 own denied him. He resolved to go to Jamaica, and 
 published his poems to provide him with the necessaries 
 for the voyage. These wild irregular utterings came 
 upon the world to make it wonder and admire. He was 
 at once exalted from the condition of a ploughman to 
 that of the first poet of his country. He changed his 
 plans ; was advised to go to Edinburgh — did so, as we 
 shall hereafter see, to his sorrow. He became a lion 
 among the literary men of the great city. The Ayrshire 
 Ploughman sat at the table of the nobility- — drank wine 
 — they taught him to drink deep ere he departed — he 
 here carried a Duchess off her feet with the brilliancy 
 of his conversation — fell in love with the charming 
 Clarinda — and indulged too often in wild potations. 
 This could not last long; he sought peace and something 
 permanent. He left the gay city and took the farm of 
 Ellisland; spent too much time in preparing for his wife; 
 and the habits he had contracted in Edinburgh some- 
 times assailed him. He was now appointed to the excise. 
 A ludicrous mistake. Burns was seen sounding the 
 depth of whisky casks when he should have been holding 
 the plough. The man's days and pleasures on earth were 
 brief but not delightful. The earthly tabernacle gave 
 way under the fiery spirit. His body was racked with
 
 26 
 
 pain ; there was malady in his soul. He tried all 
 things ; all would not do. Death was upon him. The 
 strong man was bowed down — the daughters of music 
 were brought low — desire had failed, and all was dark- 
 ness. In the thirty-eighth year of his age this great 
 man, after severe bodily and mental suffering, yielded 
 up his spirit into the hands of Him who gave it. 
 
 Such is a brief account of the career of Robert Burns. 
 Gentlemen, this man's life was a tragedy in one act. 
 Like all other great tragedies, there was much glory, 
 much sublimity, much beauty, and much truth in it. 
 There were besides, interspersed throughout, a few 
 comic scenes, and good. Burns, when a young man, 
 was a happy man ; and during the whole of his life he 
 had scenes of exalted, yea, delirious joy. This we are 
 glad to know and say ; but taking it all in all, it were 
 difficult to point out a story of more woe than that of 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 Born amid poverty, this were nothing — bred to the 
 plough, would he had never left it — touched by the 
 empyi-ean fire of genius, honourable ambition seized 
 his soul ; it was first fed, then foully abused ; he was 
 exalted to a giddy height of glory, placed at length 
 upon a pinnacle of fame, from which he did not fall, 
 but which fell under him; and when he did come 
 down he fell like Lucifer, but, so far as the world is 
 concerned, never to rise again. 
 
 Gentlemen, I do not mourn over the life of Burns as 
 many do. I do not mourn over it for the world's sake ; 
 but I mourn over it for his own. Even then we need 
 not become very pathetic. What was the world to 
 him ? he seems to have been born not so much to live
 
 27 
 
 as to fly across life " like a fierce comet of tremendous 
 size, bidding the nations wonder as he passed." 
 
 Many point to him, and say, " You see what he 
 was ; what might he have been 1 " We venture into 
 no such dangerous speculations. We are thankful for 
 him as he was ; and as for the world, why he was 
 more to the world than the world was to him. 
 
 It is my impression that the most unfortunate, not 
 to say the most fatal, step in the life of Burns was 
 his visit to Edinburgh. 
 
 I know that at the time this step was necessary; we 
 nevertheless regret the effects which flowed from it. 
 Burns went among the great folks there as a world's 
 wonder. They kept him such during his stay. He 
 left them, and was forgotten by them. It was a natural 
 result. He said he knew it would be so. He said he 
 would bear it like a man. Doubtless he thought he 
 would and could do so. It turned out to be easier to 
 say this than to do it. He was forgotten, but could not 
 in his turn forget. When the trumpet of fame ceased 
 to sound at his coming, the remembrance of what he 
 once was rose up before him, to heat his very brains, to 
 crucify his soul, and to send him, or to do much to send 
 him, to an untimely grave. Edinburgh did more ill to 
 Burns than all this. It did not rob him of his independ- 
 ence — this was past the power of man ; but it robbed 
 him to a great extent of his self-dependence, which was 
 a gigantic evil. He was a great poet, and as such 
 could little brook the idea of again becoming a plough- 
 man. I blame no one for this ; I pity all concerned, 
 and speak for the future. In this matter the world 
 has yet to learn a lesson. We must not neglect genius ;
 
 28 
 
 but we must not abuse it ; we must not kill it with 
 kindness. We must not deprive it of purpose and aim 
 in life. We must teach it that it has to work and live 
 in this world as well as to expose untruths. Burns 
 was treated in much the same way as a few well-meaning 
 men lately treated William Thorn. They took him to 
 London, gave him dinners, drove him about in carriages, 
 took him through the great city to see and be seen ; he 
 left them at last, and died a beggar — broken-hearted. 
 
 Far better would we treat genius were we to put a 
 spade in its hands, and say, " Go now and till the 
 soil ; bring forth good fruit — feel great truths and tell 
 them — be a blessing to thyself and mankind ; shew to 
 the world that you are a God-sent man." 
 
 Thus do we leave the life of Burns ; we come now 
 to his character. The tongue of slander slaked over it 
 too ; the venom of vile thought has been busy with this 
 man's memory. Far be it from me to say he was 
 infallible. We are not blind to his errors. We think 
 he sinned not a little, and suffered much. But we are 
 strong in the belief that we shall be able to repel many 
 of the charges that have been brought against him. 
 We humbly think that we shall be able to prove that 
 since his death he has been more sinned against than 
 he ever sinned, by men to whom (as it has been well 
 said) he was as superior in virtue as he was in genius. 
 
 First of all, he has been called an uneducated man. 
 Secondly, he has been called an irreligious man. 
 Thirdly, he has been called an immoral man. 
 
 I shall notice these charges in the order in which 
 they are here set down. First of all he has been called 
 an uneducated man. This charge is true only to a
 
 29 
 
 certain extent. He had not what is called a classical 
 education. He did not know Hebrew, he did not know 
 Greek. He did not read so many books as we in this age 
 of wondrous wisdom are supposed to read; but therein 
 he was wise, and it was well. If he did not read so 
 much as we do, perhaps he thought more. He was not 
 an educated man in the high sense of the term, but he 
 cannot with truth be called an unlearned man ; he read 
 his Bible, he read Milton, he read Shakespeare ; and 
 who will tell me that the man who reads and under- 
 stands these books as Burns did, can remain un- 
 educated 1 But above and beyond all this, Burns was 
 learned, deeply learned, in the mysteries of the human 
 soul — he was a philosopher by inspiration. But 
 farther still, Burns was taught, and taught profoundly 
 too, by the book of nature, which was his favourite 
 book ; he gazed upon the stars, which were to him then 
 what they are to us now — the poetry of heaven ; the 
 wind when it blew high, rocking castles, telling the 
 wretch to tremble, and letting the world know that the 
 Lord was abroad, was to him a source of deep inspira- 
 tion. The trees bending beneath the blast, as if in 
 adoration of their God, taught him a lesson of devotion. 
 The morning star, as it lingered between daylight and 
 darkness, wafted his soul to heaven as it died away. 
 He saw the moonbeams sleeping in the waters, and said 
 it was no purer than the love of a true woman's soul. A 
 summer cloud floating in the blue heaven, like the last 
 vestige of the breath of God, could not pass over him 
 without his special wonder. Spring with her beauty — 
 Autumn with her bounty — Summer with her golden 
 sunshine — and Winter with her sheet of snow — to him
 
 30 
 
 were teachers all. The flowers of earth were dear to 
 him — the rosebud, blushing in the morning dew — the 
 lily, pale as the cheek of a dying child — the daisy, 
 modest as the blush of a young maiden — he loved them 
 all. The birds, too, earth's sweetest choristers, were 
 his delight. The lark's loud song at heaven's gate — 
 the cuckoo, welcome with the spring — the robin's sweet 
 domestic chirp — the lapwing lamenting the loss of her 
 love — all, all, were very dear to him. Nature in all 
 her phases was to him an exceeding joy. The solitary 
 cottage on the desert moor, with its reek curling to the 
 clouds — the lonely cairn on the mountain side touched 
 his soul with reverence for the glory of the past. The 
 shepherd in his grey plaid under the old oak tree — 
 the milkmaid's song — the loud laugh of playful 
 children — cattle grazing on the field — sheep at the 
 fell— all were very dear to him. His book, we say, 
 was the book of nature, and by it he was taught 
 profoundly. We but shew our want of education 
 when we say Burns was an uneducated man. 
 
 It has also been said that Burns was an irreligious 
 man. I do not believe it, but I deny it. This slander 
 was first sent abroad by those among whom Burns 
 mingled, and it was sent abroad because he differed in 
 opinion from the time in which he lived, and the men 
 among whom he mingled ; but to call him irreligious 
 because he did this is to take him up before he has fallen. 
 For a man to differ from the religion of his time is, I 
 maintain, no proof that that man is irreligious. After 
 this fashion Socrates was irreligious. According to the 
 fashion which they call heresy, Paul worshipped the God 
 of his fathers. Because Burns after this fashion differed
 
 31 
 
 from his fellow-men he has been called irreligious. We 
 stay not here to inquire what was the religious belief of 
 the times in which Burns lived ; our business now 
 simply is to prove that Burns was no irreligious man. 
 To that do we now address ourselves. Let us first of all 
 take a broad view of the man. Burns believed in God. 
 He believed in Christ, and loved and admired the 
 beauty of His character. He believed in immortality, 
 and while here longed much for another and a better 
 world. If these statements be true, we think it would 
 be hard to prove that the man who held such opinions 
 could be irreligious. But above and beyond all this, we 
 believe that Burns was not an irreligious man, because 
 of the general tenor of his writings. As proof of this, 
 witness his many letters in which he speaks of religion. 
 Witness also his many poems wherein he refers to the 
 subject. His " Cottar's Saturday Night," a strain 
 which, without profanity be it spoken, angels might 
 admire. I would direct attention to several written to 
 Mrs. Dunlop, and one to his friend Cunningham. His 
 " Address to Mary in Heaven," wherein " he holds 
 communion with the sainted spirit of his first affection, 
 each word sealed with a tear and a sigh, the purest 
 that ever flowed on earth, and the sincerest that was 
 ever uplifted to heaven." Above all, remember his 
 own declaration that an irreligious poet was a monster. 
 This we conceive to be perfectly true, but we go beyond 
 it ; we say that an irreligious poet was not only a 
 monster, but an irreligious poet is an impossibility. 
 There can be no such thing — no such being ever 
 walked God's earth. Shelley said there was no God, but 
 he did not believe it. Byron, for all his waywardness, 
 said what we believe to be true, that he was readier
 
 32 
 
 to die than the world supposed him to be. So was it 
 with Burns. We look in vain in the world for an 
 irreligious poet. What is a poet 1 He is the very- 
 man above all others who cannot be irreligious ; he is 
 a being who feels great truths and tells them ; whose 
 soul is attuned to the harmonies of nature. He cannot, 
 even if he would, turn against the giver of his gift ; 
 he must be true to his mission, true to God — such 
 was Burns, both in word and deed scorning and giving 
 the lie to much of the world's morality, and also its 
 religion ; he was, nevertheless, not an irreligious man. 
 His soul was deeply imbued with the spirit of nature, 
 open to the grace of God. He reverenced all that 
 was divine and holy, and admired with a devout 
 admiration beauty and truth. 
 
 Burns has been called an immoral man. In answer- 
 ins this charge we must take a broad view of the man 
 and a liberal view of human nature. Man is a com- 
 bination, shall I not say, of good and evil ; he has a 
 body which is of the earth, earthly — a soul which is 
 of heaven, heavenly ; he is a compound of sense and 
 soul — the quintessence of dust and deity, he has two 
 natures what the Scriptures expressively call the carnal 
 and the spiritual — the one leads to what we call good, 
 the other to what we call evil. To take this view of 
 human nature is, I think, the best, perhaps the only 
 way in which we can account for the actions of our 
 great men ; while at the same time it leads us to have 
 but little sympathy for the erring philosophy which has 
 been propounded by the living sitting in stupid wonder 
 over the sepulchres of the dead, bespattering the 
 departed spirits of the mighty with condemnation — 
 making them out to be demons only. Equally vain is
 
 33 
 
 that philosophy which in opposition to this has made 
 out our great men to be angels. The truth is wholly 
 with neither of these parties ; those among men who 
 have had the hoof of the fiend have also had the tongue 
 of an angel. Giant sons of God, great in good and 
 great in evil, but ever great ; now grovelling in earth, 
 now aspiring to heaven. Thus do we account for the 
 lewdness of Voltaire, the vulgarity of Paine, the 
 misanthropy of Byron, the atheism of SheUey, the 
 debauchery of Burns, the ambition of Bonaparte. 
 
 Looking, then, at human nature in this light, we can- 
 not and do not deny that Burns had strong passions ; 
 sometimes they laid him low, and stained his name. 
 But because of this, for his fellow-men to bring against 
 him the general charge of immorality, is to sin against 
 the living and slander the dead. If Burns had the vices 
 of mankind he had also their virtues — if he sinned he 
 suffered ; and we hope that he was made pure through 
 suffering. He was a dutiful son, a loving husband, an 
 affectionate father — what more can mortal be ? These 
 general charges, damning to the memory of man, are 
 brought against Burns, and such as he, by men who 
 have neither his power to do good nor his power to do 
 evil ; by men whose chief delight it is eternally to 
 rake up the ashes of the dead, and rail on the Lord's 
 anointed. Thus do we hurl back those strictures, and 
 for ever consign them to the "tomb of all the Capulets," 
 that from it there may be no after resurrection. 
 
 We come now to the writings of Burns, before which, 
 
 however, we have one other charge to refer to, one other 
 
 murmur to chastise and rebuke. He has been accused 
 
 of writing no long poem. Now, when will this (as it 
 
 3 ,
 
 34 
 
 would seem everlasting) murmuring cease ? Had the 
 man not liberty to write what he pleased 1 Who has a 
 right to accuse him for what he has not done 1 Burns 
 was like all the truly great, too great for writing books, 
 The truly great among men write no books— they 
 have too much faith for this ; they do with their 
 thoughts what we are told to do with our bread — cast 
 them on the waters, believing that, after many days, 
 they will find them safe. Socrates wrote no books —   
 he just uttered his thoughts, and once uttered they 
 were for ever immortal. So it was with our own 
 Shakespeare ; he while living wrote no books — he 
 wrote a few irregular poems, which modern admira- 
 tion and art hath collected into a book ; but the 
 thoughts expressed of such men live long after books 
 have crumbled into the dust from whence they came. 
 So it was with Burns — he wrote no long book ; he 
 could not be for ever inspired. The wind bloweth 
 where it listeth — he wrote when the spirit moved him. 
 He wrote no great epic, but his poems when collected 
 together may be said to be one great and glorious lyric; 
 abrupt, irregular, lofty, sublime, soft and tender, ravish- 
 ing the soul. He was great "either for tragedy, comedy, 
 history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, pastoral-historical, 
 tragical-historical, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral 
 — scene, individual, or poem unlimited." Now moving 
 you to tears, now convulsing you with laughter ; now 
 lifting you to heaven on the wings of the wind ; anon 
 chaining you with love's willing fetters, as he mourns 
 the loss of his Mary. Now singing a song to rouse up 
 the patriotic love of a people against oppression. 
 Now inditing his verses to the mouse, wherein he 
 shows us that the humblest thing in God's creation is
 
 35 
 
 the earth-born companion and fellow-mortal of man. 
 In his " Cottar's Saturday Night " he has lit the lamp 
 of love, and poured a gleam of glory round the family 
 altar. In his " Man was made to Mourn " he has given 
 us a gloomy view of Man, and told us some truths which 
 the world will not willingly let die. In his "Tarn o' 
 Shanter " he draws a picture of pleasure, and sums up 
 the whole in words not soon to be forgotten. In his 
 " Epistle to a Young Friend " he has shown that he 
 was both poet and philosopher. In his " Address to 
 the De'il " he gives us a proof of the charity that was 
 in his soul, for he tells us that even he may have a 
 stake in heaven. In his song of '" A Man's a Man for a' 
 that" he shows us that a true soul can beat under 
 a tattered garment as well as beneath a Roman toga. 
 
 It was the mission of Burns to bind man to man — 
 to teach us love and kindness— to soothe the sorrows 
 — to sing the joys — to lighten the labour of the poor 
 — to vindicate the dignity of the mind — to speak 
 trumpet-tongued against oppression and make us in 
 love with liberty — to tell the world great truths which 
 the world must one day believe. All this he has 
 done, and in doing this he made life more delightful 
 by the rich feast of poetry and music which he hath 
 provided for his fellow-men. 
 
 Burns was a remarkable writer in prose as well as 
 poetry, though his poetry has eclipsed his prose. Like 
 Milton, he has been remembered chiefly hitherto as a 
 poet. Still the letters of Burns are remarkable produc- 
 tions. I grant that in them we behold him too often on 
 stilts. But all things considered, we cannot but wonder 
 that in his letters there is so much that is noble, good, 
 and true. Had it been a peer instead of a ploughman
 
 3G 
 
 that wrote them, and had he, the peer, died young, men 
 would have said that he was a wild and wondrous genius, 
 and but wanted years to amaze mankind. I know few 
 books of the same dimensions from which so many 
 beauties could be culled as from the letters of Burns. 
 
 "The poetic genius of my country found me, as the 
 prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough, and 
 threw her inspiring mantle over me." Such is the 
 language of the poet. We do not wonder at the fact — 
 we only name it. Heaven and earth are full of poetry, 
 and nature, when she wished a voice wherewith to 
 speak, had as good a right to choose her man from the 
 plough as from the professor's desk. Ferguson the 
 astronomer was a shepherd boy ; Bloomfield the poet 
 was a shoemaker; Burns was bred to the plough. 
 God is with His children everywhere, to bless them 
 and to do them good. 
 
 Such was Burns, such is the legacy he has left to 
 man. His place as a poet we do not and cannot fix ; 
 but he has well been called one of the brightest stars 
 shining round the sun — Shakespeare. 
 
 Thus let him be — thus let him shine. So long as 
 the thistle bends to the blast — so long as the heather 
 grows in the sun, and gilds the mountain top — so long 
 as honest men and bonnie lasses people the town of 
 Ayr — so long as birds sing from the bush, and flowers 
 are beautiful — so long as grass waves green on the 
 banks o' bonnie Doune — so long as man loves woman, 
 and woman trusts to man — so long shall Burns be 
 remembered. I bid farewell to his memory with 
 gratitude and joy. I rejoice at the opportunity I now 
 have had of strewing this frail garland of love and 
 admiration on his glorious grave.
 
 GEORGE GILFILLAN AND HIS WRITINGS, 
 
 ^EORGE GILFILLAN is a remarkable man. 
 
 He is the critic of the present age, as Byror. 
 
 was the poet thereof some years ago. Gilfillan. 
 the critic, like Byron the poet, has not had to climb 
 up the hill of fame ; but from the natural height on 
 which he found himself exalted, he has lighted down 
 upon its top, whereon he now sits enthroned in the 
 garb of immortality. The critic, like the poet, has by 
 one giant stride outstripped all his contemporaries. 
 What it took them years of labour to accomplish, he 
 has by one great effort achieved. Gilfillan as a critic 
 has the power and eloquence of Macaulay ; the 
 sparkling brilliancy of Jeffrey ; the wildness if not 
 the wit of Sydney Smith ; is just and unerring in his 
 judgment as Hazlitt. Above and beyond this, he has 
 an eloquence belonging to himself, peculiarly his own. 
 He has, among other things, written a book, called 
 " A Gallery of Literary Portraits," which has given 
 him, who six years ago was not known, a fame which, 
 if not as yet European, is at least British and 
 American. Gilfillan is a painter, and has drawn the 
 mental characteristics of the most eminent literary 
 men of the present and past generations. 
 
 Jeffrey — alas ! we can no longer say as Byron said, 
 health to him ; but we can at least, and do say, peace 
 to the memory of the great immortal ; Christopher 
 North among the mountains ; Chalmers, fit follower 
 of the Apostle Paul ; Emerson, the transcendentalist, 
 deeply embued with the spirit of nature ; Wordsworth,
 
 38 
 
 king of rocky Skiddaw, now no more (the stars are 
 falling from us, the firmament is all but left in dark- 
 ness ! Even the harp of Erin is broken among the 
 mountains, it is now for ever silent, and no longer 
 vibrates to the passing breeze) ; Carlyle, the thinker 
 deep and strong ; Byron, a weed thrown upon the 
 water; Shelley, the enthusiast; Coleridge, the 
 dreamer ; and many more are treated of in this 
 delightful book. 
 
 Gilfillan is not only a clever man, but he is a man 
 of the highest talents, of the most exalted genius. 
 This gift from God, genius, quivers on his tremulous 
 lips, extends his keen nostril, and flashes in his fiery 
 eye. His intellect is piercing ; what other men see 
 as through a glass darkly, is, to his keen vision, as the 
 bright and broad noonday. He is guided, not by 
 the light of cleverness or talent only, but of genius ; 
 and thus gifted, he leaps, as if by instinct, to a 
 conclusion regarding the mental qualities of an author, 
 in a way which almost invariably insures success and 
 certainty. In his analysis of an author, Gilfillan takes 
 hold of him frankly and freely ; he looks at him from 
 top to toe, turns him round about and round about, 
 lifts him up and down, and scrutinises him in every 
 possible way. He surveys him from all points, and is 
 monarch of all he surveys. Thus the very shades of 
 his author's meaning are caught, every phrase of his 
 mind are laid hold of, and put down palpably upon 
 the printed page. It is an eloquent and glowing book, 
 full at once of love, benevolence, and stern truth. It 
 awakes the finest feelings of the soul ; while you read 
 it your blood runs cold and warm at once. In a
 
 39 
 
 language which is now withering and now wild in its 
 attire, the author does much to make us love with a 
 still fonder affection the truly great — nature's nobles, 
 those who have left behind them a legacy for the good 
 of man. We are transported with the author, wander 
 where we will ; and where has he not wandered 1 He 
 is a divine with Irving, an historian with Macaulay, 
 an astronomer with Nichol, and a poet with Keats. 
 When he reviews " Chalmer's Astronomical Sermons," 
 you fancy yourself seated on a golden cloud, and feel 
 in a fit humour for Festus to be by your side. In his 
 notice of "Oarlyle's French Revolution" he hurries 
 you through that scene of blood, and makes you for 
 the time being sup full of horrors. He has elevated 
 many of his heroes to heaven, and is wonderfully 
 eloquent when speaking of death. When he relates 
 the sad fate of Shelley, who perished in the waters, 
 the soul is moved with thoughts that are too deep for 
 tears. In his article on Wordsworth, how beautifully 
 he shows that the mission of the true poet is high and 
 holy, God-like and great. He, too, has exalted the 
 lowly, lifted up the fallen ; and one must ever regret 
 that Keats had not Gilfillan instead of Gifford for his 
 reviewer. He has in a few instances dragged from 
 obscurity men who, but for him, might long have 
 blushed unseen. It may be unlike the law of nature, 
 nevertheless, so it is — the stars are made brilliant in the 
 glory and light of the sun. Embalmed in his eloquence, 
 they now bid fair for immortality ; they shall now be 
 known and remembered so long as truth and beauty 
 are loved among men. With all his benevolence and 
 kindness, which we so much admire, he is always
 
 40 
 
 truthful and stern, sometimes sarcastic and severe. 
 One thing that will strike the reader of Gilfillan is his 
 wonderful power of concentration — giving us much 
 thought in a few words. Thus we have a history of 
 the literature of America in a few pages ; and taking 
 it as a whole, we cannot doubt its correctness. We 
 have also an account of the various kinds of preaching 
 graphically given in a page or two. "We lately read 
 to a learned German friend a single passage from this 
 book, that in reference to the learned German writers, 
 in the review of Carlyle ; our friend was astonished, 
 and said that although he had read ere now volumes 
 on the same authors, he had not before so succinct and 
 clear an idea of their various merits. The book before 
 us is calculated to cultivate the affections, to elevate 
 the soul, to lift it from the grovelling things of earth 
 to the better things of heaven. It does much to bind 
 us in a bond of eternal union to the mighty living and 
 the mighty dead ; and more than all does it bind us in 
 a love which language is poor to express — to God, 
 from whom the gifted among men receive their power 
 and greatness. 
 
 About Gilfillan's style we know not what to say. 
 He is master of all kinds of style, and in his book are 
 all kinds. The plain, the neat, the elegant, the florid, 
 are familiar to him. He can turn a period with his 
 pen as easy as a sugar plum in his mouth. He does 
 not think much if at all of style ; he is out of his 
 " Blair's Rhetoric " long ago. As a general rule, how- 
 ever, there is about his style a reckless revelry, a wild 
 savagery, profound, and deep, and strong. There is, 
 moreover, the glow of poetry ever hanging over it,
 
 41 
 
 which renders it mellow and beautiful — pleasing to the 
 soul. 
 
 Gilfillan has faults ; he is too great to be perfect. 
 He quotes by far too many pretty bits from the poets, 
 which, along with other beauties, makes his pages run 
 over with sweets. 
 
 Besides the volume to which we have referred, our 
 author has published several other things, all of them 
 more or less characteristic. Sermons and lectures 
 have at intervals come from his pen. He also writes, 
 among other things, in " Hogg's Instructor," a series 
 of papers called a " Bundle of Books." In one of 
 those he lately smote our humble selves in a way 
 which, though ticklish at the time, we now thank him 
 for, and hope it improved us.* 
 
 Mr. Gilfillan has also just published a second 
 " Gallery of Literary Portraits," a work somewhat 
 like the first. To it in the meantime we cannot 
 particularly refer. He says it is written in a tone 
 more subdued than his former book. For some 
 
 * The late respected and favourite Provost Burness of Mon- 
 trose, when showing the writer of this note several relics of his 
 cousin the poet, pointed out the letter sent by Robert on the 
 death of his father, in which were the words, " I have lost one 
 of the best of fathers." On finishing the sentence, Burns' tears 
 had evidently begun to flow, for their indentation was visible on 
 the paper below the line ; the sight of whicli led to some 
 conversation on the sensitiveness of authors. The Provost 
 remarked, " I can give an instance of this in Egbert's own case. 
 When Will Nicoll and the poet were returning from their 
 northern tour, my father and myself went out as far as Mary- 
 kirk to meet them ; among the first words Robert said, after
 
 42 
 
 reasons we like this, for others we do not. Gilfillan 
 should take care how he subdues himself. For our- 
 selves we are willing to tolerate a good deal of 
 extravagance when we have his fire and truth. He 
 will understand us when we say that the lion wanting 
 his mane is no longer the king of the forest. The 
 sun in a mist is no such glorious thing as when he 
 goes through the heavens with his locks of golden 
 fire. 
 
 Our author is also about to publish a work on the 
 "Hebrew Bards." We do not, as a wretched critic 
 lately said in the Athenaeum — a journal which is day 
 by day sinking in the estimation of honest men — a 
 journal which, unless it changes its course, will sink 
 and sink speedily till it can sink no more — a journal 
 which of late has been as remarkable for its false 
 philosophy as for its bad grammar ; for a recent 
 specimen of both of which witness its review of the 
 noble genius, David Scott — a journal notorious for its 
 vile and heartless attacks on the three men of the 
 present generation, the trinity of talent — Carlyle, 
 
 kindly embracing us, was, ' I have been at our paternal farm in 
 the Mearns, and showing our old cousin some things I have 
 wrote by the way, which I mean to publish — but the farmer 
 streekit himself up, gave a knap with his stick on the floor, and 
 said, Fie, fie, man, are you gaen to affront your respectable 
 friends by printing godless nonsense ? na, na, gie me them, 
 and I'll put them in the fire.' The incident was again alluded 
 to with evident chagrin before the poet left Montrose — and his 
 old cousin was no great favourite with Robert as long as he 
 lived. [This note is inserted with the view to show the extreme 
 sensibility of most authors.]
 
 43 
 
 Gilfillan, and Emerson, to whom no parallel, not the 
 most distant comparison, can in those days of ours be 
 found. We do not, like this journal, look forward to 
 the appearance of Gilfillan's book with " awe and 
 apprehension;" but we look forward to its coming with 
 impatient expectation, hopes, and joy. We fancy 
 that here Gilfillan will rise to the height of his great 
 argument, and soar away into regions which even he 
 has never reached before."* Indeed, Gilfillan has not 
 yet done nearly all that he can do ; the world has 
 reason to expect great things from him in time to come. 
 He has hitherto been, to a certain extent, by the high- 
 ways and by-ways of the world a gatherer of weeds and 
 wild flowers that grow rank upon the mountain side, 
 many of which, wanting his fostering aid, would have 
 wasted their sweetness in the desert air. We have hope 
 that he will one day give us a full-length portrait of 
 Jesus ; his picture of a prophet in the notice of Shelley 
 shows his ability for the task. We know no pen of the 
 present age more fit for the theme than Gilfillan's. We 
 can fancy how great would be his picture of Christ — 
 He who was God among men. Deep into time, and 
 through the dim vista of far distant years, He had an 
 eye to pierce — He sounded the depths of eternity — 
 He lived in the future and liveth now. The mantle 
 of the Everlasting fell upon Him while He slept in a 
 
 * Since the above was written, "The Bards of the Bible" 
 has appeared ; we hesitate not to pronounce it one of the most 
 sublime creations of genius that was ever laid at the feet of 
 Him who bore the cross — the production and fruit of undying 
 inspiration.
 
 44 
 
 manger ; and He rose from the river Jordan embalmed 
 in the Spirit of God. 
 
 We must now say a word respecting the personal 
 history and personal appearance of our author. He 
 was born at Comrie, in Perthshire, where we have 
 heard him say that his cradle was rocked by the earth- 
 quake. There is poetry in everything he says. He 
 studied at Glasgow University for the ministry. At 
 college he was a great devourer of books, the fruits of 
 which are now seen in his writings. He panted not for 
 college honours, the greatest honour to him evidently 
 being to get enshrined in the hearts of the people. He 
 is now, and has been for several years, pastor of a large 
 and flourishing congregation in Dundee, connected 
 with the United Presbyterian Church ; here he labours, 
 beloving and beloved. Some persons who know 
 nothing of him, and little of anything else, have 
 shaken their heads and shrugged their shoulders, and 
 wondered much if he could pay attention to his clerical 
 duties and write so many books. There is more in 
 heaven and earth than is dreamt of in their philosophy. 
 Do they imagine for a moment that they can repress 
 the outpourings of a soul bursting with the beautiful 
 in nature and man 1 Gilfillan is only now spreading 
 abroad that which years of reading and reflection in 
 former clays enabled him to store up in his mind. He 
 is thirty -nine years of age, tall, but not stout, accord- 
 ing to the fashion of Old Joe in " Barnaby Pudge ; " 
 lie is, however, what connoisseurs in these matters — 
 which we are not — would call a muscular man. His 
 hair is dark brown, inclining to curl ; his brow, broad 
 and high. As if his far-seeing mind took away from
 
 45 
 
 him the power of his natural vision, he wears spectacles. 
 In his walk on the street there is something very odd ; 
 and it has often struck us that there is something 
 remarkable in the walk of many great men. That of 
 Emerson is a calm and holy soliloquy ; that of Pro- 
 fessor Wilson the unfinished fragment of a great epic ; 
 that of Gilfillan a fiery ode. You see at once he is a 
 son of the mountains. In the pulpit or on the platform 
 there can be no mistake about him. Whether sitting 
 or standing, he seems somewhat fidgety, and you see 
 at once that he is something to look upon. In speaking 
 he is dreadfully in earnest. Elocution is an art he has 
 never studied ; nevertheless he is, as Dr. Chalmers was, 
 and as all earnest men must ever be, an elocutionist. 
 When wishing to impress some great truth upon his 
 hearers, there is a rude grandeur about his manner 
 that is truly sublime. He holds you with his " glitter- 
 ing eye," and gives out his words in a voice now loud 
 and long, as thunder among the mountains; anon, 
 deep and low, like the dying cadence of a powerful 
 gong, sounded to summon the loitering idlers of a 
 baron's hall to a Christmas feast. As he utters the 
 last word, he seems to get relieved of a burden that 
 pressed hard upon him, and he rises, like a giant 
 renewed in his strength, fresh for another effort. 
 
 For the present, our brief labour of love is ended. 
 Farewell, thou great and gifted spirit — thine is a soul 
 prophetic, burning with true fire. Thou hast made us 
 more and still more in love with the beautiful in 
 nature and the noble in man ; and in doing this thou 
 art working at once for an earthly immortality and an 
 inheritance in heaven.
 
 LETTER ON DR, DICK, 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 r* IR * — Can we stand idly on ; can man, can 
 humanity stand idly on 1 Is the old tragedy 
 once again to be enacted. Do the voices of 
 the dead call to us in vain 1 ? From the graves of 
 Burns, Chatterton, and Thorn, do we learn nothing 1 ? 
 If so, then let the dead past bury the dead ! How 
 fares the living 1 Alas ! there are at the present 
 moment prophets being neglected among us. There 
 is a popular authoress, a woman, and an ornament to 
 womankind — she is in poverty ; the Christian Philo- 
 sopher, Dr. Dick, is overlooked. Can such things 
 be, and overcome us like a summer cloud, without 
 our special wonder? Here is a man over whose 
 eloquent pages millions in this country, in Europe, 
 and America, have hung with rapture and pondered 
 with profit. Here is the man who has done more 
 than any other man we know to popularise science 
 among the people. 
 
 The man who has written the " Christian Philoso- 
 pher," in which he speaks of the works of God, and 
 shows that in wisdom He hath made them all— rthe 
 man who has written the philosophy of a future state, 
 in which he has built up our hope ; confirmed our faith 
 
 * This letter was written for the Cardiff and Merthyr 
 Guardian.
 
 47 
 
 in another and better world — the man who has 
 written the " Sidereal Heavens," in which he holds 
 communion with the stars, and talks to the sun as to 
 a play-fellow — the man who has done all this, and 
 much more than this ; he who has given the world so 
 much bread, has received in return for his gift — a 
 stone. 
 
 The British parliament, as we think, is in many- 
 respects a good parliament. It is in many respects a 
 good parliament ; but in one thing, we think, it is very 
 deficient — that is, in the patronage of good and great 
 men. All parliaments are, and ever have been, 
 deficient in this. We, however, offer this complaint 
 more in sorrow than in anger. Parliament cannot do 
 everything. We very often ought to be doing 
 ourselves when we are babbling about the duties of 
 parliament. Let it be so now ; let us have home 
 reformation — let us assist ourselves and our fellow- 
 men who have done us good. With this feeling I 
 call upon Scotchmen ; I call upon Englishmen and 
 Irishmen ; I call upon Britain not to let this man of 
 whom I have been speaking die neglected. He will 
 die some day ; in the course of nature that day cannot 
 be far distant, and when he dies we shall all then 
 make a universal rush to erect a monument over his 
 grave. But should we before doing this let the living 
 object, whom when dead we should thus honour, die 
 without showing him our gratitude ; then 1 say, and 
 I say it without sentimentality, that the very stone 
 we use shall rise up in mutiny against us. I have not 
 written without a knowledge of the facts that call 
 forth my remarks. I know that Dr. Dick has lived a
 
 48 
 
 long and laborious life, writing books which have 
 done much good to man. Should man, therefore, not 
 show him good in return 1 I know, too, that through- 
 out his life he has lived with the moderation and 
 meekness of a saint, as he has written with the 
 wisdom of a sage ; and knowing these things, I would 
 fain save the country the shame of his becoming a 
 martyr. 
 
 I call, then, on the public to protect this man. Why 
 does not a body of literary men — with George Gil- 
 fillan at their head — without delay set about this 
 labour of love ? We hope, and have faith, that it will 
 at once be done, and be the means of saving the 
 feelings of the friends of this great and good man. 
 
 P. L. 

 
 poems anb Sonos-
 
 POEMS AND SONGS. 
 
 Sabbatb in a Scottisb Cottage. 
 
 " From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 That makes her loved at heme, revered abroad." 
 
 — Bukns. 
 
 I. 
 
 o[& TAIL! Sabbath morn ; welcome, sweet day of 
 (3F^L rest ; 
 
 Hail to that peaceful joy that comes with 
 thee ; 
 I love this holy feeling in my breast, 
 Which now is caused by all I hear and see. 
 Hushed is the din of labour, mute and still 
 Is the loud voice of reapers 'mong the corn ; 
 No more is heard the ploughman whistling shrill ; 
 The milkmaid's song has ceased, the hunter's horn 
 Is silent and hung by — all hail to Sabbath morn ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon as the bright sun beams across the lawn 
 The humble cottar leaves his lowly bed — 
 With gi-ateful heart he welcomes in the dawn, 
 And thanks the God who watches o'er his head ;
 
 52 
 
 The youngsters soon assemble ; and all kneel 
 Before the Almighty's throne ; the Father prays ; 
 His words go from the heart to heaven — all feel 
 Comfort and peace, and soon their voices raise 
 In humble notes of joy, of thankfulness and praise. 
 
 III. 
 
 And now he takes the Bible — blessed book, 
 And reads a portion from the Holy Word ; 
 He reads of Joseph's story, and all look 
 Amazed, whilst listening to the strange record ; 
 He reads of Jesus — God's beloved Son, 
 Who came on earth to wash our sins away • 
 He reads of what He did — of what was done — 
 Of what He bore for us by night, by day ; 
 His feeling heart is touched, and thus the sire doth say- 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lo ! Christ our Lord was in a stable born, 
 And the young babe was in a manger laid ; 
 No pomp, no grandeur, did his birth adorn, 
 The humble shepherds o'er his body prayed ; 
 He was a man of sorrows, and became 
 Acquainted with our weakness and our woe ; 
 He knew our frailties, and He bore the same 
 With patience ; our rebellious state below 
 Caused tears of sorrow o'er His sinless cheeks to flow.
 
 53 
 
 V. 
 
 While on this earth He cured the deaf and dumb, 
 He healed the sick, and made the blind to see ; 
 At His command the silent dead did come 
 From their dark graves, the captives were set free ; 
 He stilled the raging waters with a word : 
 He cast out devils ; walked upon the sea ; 
 He came to teach mankind to sheath the sword, 
 To live in peace and brothers all to be ; 
 Yet man received Him not, but pierced Him on a tree ; 
 
 VI. 
 
 They planted on His head a crown of thorns 
 And led Him forth to Calv'ry, there to die ; 
 He bore the cross, and meekly bore the scorns 
 Of jeering soldiers, and was heard to cry — 
 " My God ! My God!" and then He closed His eyes 
 In death. The Temple's veil in twain was riven ; 
 The sun is darkened — lo, the dead arise — 
 Huge rocks are rent — men to despair are driven — 
 And earth affrighted shakes beneath the frown of 
 heaven. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh ! think on Jesus, think on what He bore, 
 Obey His word, the sinner's way despise, 
 Oh ! strive to enter in at the strait door 
 Which leads to peace for aye beyond the skies. 
 Remember thy Creator, and in prayer 
 Implore His aid, then nought hast thou to fear.
 
 54 
 
 Make God your staff and comfort — then tho' caro 
 Oppress you, when your days are ended here 
 A bright beloved saint with Christ you will appear. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And thus with them the pleasant moments flow, 
 The dainties soon are on the table spread, 
 Of which they all partake, and then they go 
 To where their father's fathers have been laid — 
 To the churchyard and the church. Hark, the loud 
 
 bell 
 Is pealing through the wood and o'er the lea ; 
 Now groups are seen on distant hill and dale, 
 Wending their way with joy to where we see 
 The spire that points to heaven, in which they hope 
 
 to be. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The guidman and guidwife hae each put on 
 Their Sunday claes, and seen the bairnies drest ; 
 Their eldest daughter Jessie, peered by none, 
 She too is buskit in her very best ; 
 And John, their worthy, guid, respected son — 
 Wha toils wi' pleasure for them day by day ; 
 He wearies not, but still he labours on, 
 And ne'er an angry word is heard to say. 
 He's ready for the kirk — his heart is glad and gay. 
 
 X. 
 
 They reach the lone sequestered house of God, 
 Where friends are loitering in the auld kirkyard,
 
 55 
 
 Speaking of those who lie beneath the sod, 
 And heaving sighs o'er friends langsyne interred. 
 Lo ! here the widow weeps her husband lost ; 
 Here the forsaken lonely maid may mourn 
 And tell her hapless tale to midnight ghost ; 
 Here wild flowers and the green yew tree adorn 
 The graves of those who sleep till life's eternal morn. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The bell has ceased, all enter church, and now 
 Service begins — a psalm is read and sung — 
 Their pastor prays — and see, on every brow 
 Sits holy thought at his instructive tongue — 
 He reads a chapter, then the text is given — 
 He knows what erring mortals need and want ; 
 He acts and speaks as should a guide to heaven ; 
 With him there is no hypocritic cant, 
 No nauseous statements made, no rhapsody, no rant. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He bids them first honour and serve their God, 
 Love and adore Him, and you will do well ; 
 He bids them strive to gain that blest abode 
 Beyond the skies, where saints for ever dwell. 
 He bids them all respect their fellow-men, 
 And oh ! be kind, and feel for other's woes ; 
 Be just — from all dishonest acts refrain, 
 And the reward is yours. Peace and repose 
 Attend the good man still, where'er on earth he goes.
 
 56 
 
 XIII. 
 
 And thus time passes. Service soon is ended, 
 The congregation slowly wears away ; 
 Pleasure and joy on every face are blended — 
 Oh, they have cause to bless the Sabbath day. 
 And soon our humble family reach their home, 
 A lonely cot by whimplin' burnie seen ; 
 Meg gie's them hearty welcome as they come, 
 Spreads a repast before them a', I ween, 
 Which her ain hands prepared, sae wholesome, guid, 
 and clean. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A blessing's asked, and then they all partake 
 That food which God thus gives them day by day — 
 Again they thank Him for His mercy's sake, 
 And thus the time glides pleasantly away ; 
 The aged father now selects a book 
 Frae aff his shelves, on which are many seen — 
 Hail to these treasures, hail ! But let me look 
 What are they 1 Ah ! the best of books, I ween, 
 O'er which the earnest student ponders morn and e'en. 
 
 XV. 
 
 There's first the big Ha' Bible, and upon 
 
 It the good father ponders morn and night — 
 
 Then Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress" — honest John 
 
 Is read by king and cottar with delight — 
 
 The " Fourfold State " by Boston— Watt and Blair.
 
 57 
 
 Stackhouse and Harvey's " Meditations " too, 
 Palev's and Watson's noble works are there, 
 Which make the doubting sceptic turn, I trow, 
 And to his broken reed bid a long last adieu. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 There is no blind selection ; here are seen 
 Books on all subjects, art and science too, 
 Histories of men and nations ; and I ween 
 Of great and gifted poets not a few. 
 Shakespeare and Milton, Thomson, Blair, and Burns, 
 Are kept with care within his humble bield, 
 And all are read with rapture — read by turns, 
 While round the blazing fire or in the field, 
 Those great and gifted minds unmingled pleasui-e yield. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But now the sun is sinking in the west, 
 The day's declining — evening winds grow cool. 
 The younger cottars now again get dressed, 
 For they maun a' gang to the Sabbath School. 
 The auld guidwife gets a' her young sons near 
 To say their tasks to her before they gae ; 
 The guidman gets his daughters, he does speer 
 Their questions at them, ranged around his knee ; 
 He strokes their heads and bids them — say your tasks 
 to me.
 
 58 
 
 XVIII 
 
 And now they leave their humble home, and go 
 With willing hearts to school, at which are seen 
 Young groups, all free from sorrow, care, and woe, 
 With patience loitering on the village green ; 
 And soon they enter, soon their tasks are said, 
 Here all are told and taught to sing and pray ; 
 An exhortation's given, a chapter's read, 
 The young mind's made familiar with the way 
 Of Him who shall appear at the great Judgment Day. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But time flies on, the twilight bell is pealing, 
 The sun has sunk beyond yon heath-clad hill ; 
 Darkness on wood and dell is quickly stealing, 
 Night comes apace, and all is hushed and still. 
 Homeward in haste our humble group returning 
 Enter their cot — dispelled is every dread; 
 The door is barred, the lamp is dimly burning, 
 The Bible's opened — passages are read — 
 Which, thanks be to our God, console the heart and head. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Hark ! once again the voice of praise ascends ; 
 How the heart melts at melody so sweet ! 
 The contrite bosom in devotion bends, 
 And yields its grateful homage at the feet 
 Of Him who made the world in which we live, 
 Who gives us all our comforts day by day,
 
 59 
 
 And sent His Son, who taught us to forgive 
 Our earthly foes, and pointed out the way 
 To gain His love, who is our comfort, staff, and stay. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Hail ! to this humble family, peace and rest 
 Be ever with them in this world below — 
 All hail to him that hath a feeling breast, 
 Who sees and fain would share a brother's woe ; 
 Peace to the just, the generous, and the good ; 
 Hasten that time, Lord, when we shall see 
 Thy holy precepts practised — understood — 
 O then, and not till then, will mankind be 
 The good and God-like beings meant and made by Thee
 
 60 
 
 Ube Hulfc IRfrftsarfc. 
 
 " 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless night. 
 We make the grave our bed, and then are gone." 
 
 — Blaih. 
 
 WEEL I liked to wander 
 When the e'ening sun is set — 
 When the raven on the castle croaks, 
 
 And the grass wi' dew is wet — 
 When the birds hae ceased their singing, 
 
 And to their hames repaired, 
 Then, O then, I like to wander 
 
 In the auld kirkyard.* 
 
 * The small city of the dead that suggested to the author the 
 writing of these lines is as perfect a ruin as its citizens within ; 
 no kind offence defends it from the raid of the ruthless intruder 
 — yet would the poet reverently linger among its stones till the 
 eleventh hour had proclaimed the approach of summer's midnight. 
 About the time it appeared, a friend remarked to the author — 
 " That 'Auld Kirkyard' seems just an imitation of 'There grows 
 a Bonnie Brier Bush in our Kailyard.' " The youth stood some 
 minutes in a state of apparent stupefaction, his face becoming 
 whiter than the paper on which the poem was printed, but at 
 length said — "You do not know how much you hurt me ; I 
 declare I never saw nor heard of the piece of which you speak." 
 That friend has sometimes since regretted the occurrence, and 
 would say to others similarly situated — Do nothing rashly ; 
 remember the fate of poor Tannahill.
 
 61 
 
 II. 
 
 In the aulcl kirkyard I've pleasures 
 
 That the gay can never hae, 
 Though whiles I may be gloomy, 
 
 And my heart wi' trouble wae. 
 0, it's there that I see justice ; 
 
 There the cottar and the laird 
 Lie side by side in slumber, 
 
 In the auld kirkyard. 
 
 III. 
 
 Grim death comes fast upon us, 
 
 And tak's baith ane an a', 
 He flies about on fiery wing 
 
 And tears our friends awa' ; 
 The father and the mother dies, 
 
 And the bairnie it's no spared — 
 Folks are freed frae a' their sorrows 
 
 In the auld kirkyard. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I like to see the charnel-house, 
 
 Where lie decaying banes — • 
 I like to read the epitaphs 
 
 Engraven on the stanes — 
 I like to lean upon the tombs, 
 
 And tread the long green sward 
 That waves o'er friends departed, 
 
 In the auld kirkyard.
 
 62 
 V. 
 
 Here's a nook wi' nae memorial, 
 
 Where the village strangers* sleep, 
 At whose dying hour no bosom friend 
 
 Was heard to wail or weep. 
 Here they're laid to rest ; nae marbles tell 
 
 The toils on earth they shared ; 
 But their griefs and woes are ended 
 
 In the auld kirkyard. 
 
 VI. 
 
 How oft hae I sat lonely here —   
 
 Nae living mortal wi's— 
 When a' was dark and dreary, 
 
 And the loud wind 'mang the trees ; 
 I thought on grim ghost stories, 
 
 But e'en then I wasna feared, 
 For I kenn'd that God was wi' me 
 
 In the auld kirkyard. 
 
 VII. 
 
 0, wae's me what a strange, strange place, 
 
 Is this wee spot o' ground — 
 Sma' though it be, there's mony a true 
 
 And loving heart that's bound 
 
 * Mr. Robert Chambers, in a beautiful essay, speaks thus of 
 the Strangers' Nook : — " In country churchyards in Scotland, 
 and perhaps in other countries also, there is always a corner 
 near the gateway which is devoted to the reception of strangers, 
 and is distinguished from the rest of the area by its total want 
 of monuments."
 
 63 
 
 To wander here and shed sad tears 
 O'er friends langsyne interred : 
 
 There's something that's enticing 
 In the auld kirkyard. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Still and silent are they sleeping, 
 
 But the day will dawn on graves — 
 Their inmates will be roused from death 
 
 And ne'er again be slaves. 
 The great last day is coming, 
 
 When their God, eternal guard, 
 Will wake them from their slumbers 
 
 In the auld kirkyard.
 
 64 
 
 &>V tfathcfs 1ba'» 
 
 i. 
 
 EY Father's Ha' ! my Father's Ha' ! 
 O ! I've been happy there, 
 When sitting round the blazing fire, 
 Our hearts sae free frae care. 
 Despite o' a' the ills that came 
 
 To tak' our peace awa', 
 We were unco blythe and happy aye 
 Around my Father's Ha'. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've wandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 I've wandered 'mang the hills, 
 And flowery glens, and rocky dens, 
 
 And I hae felt the ills 
 That man is subject to, 
 
 But I hae felt that a' 
 The cares o' life were banished, 
 
 When round my Father's Ha'. 
 
 III. 
 
 O ! weel I mind the winter nights, 
 When Boreas blew sae bauld,
 
 65 
 
 "While round the ingle cheek we sat 
 An' smiled baith young and auld, 
 
 We naething had to trouble's then, 
 But we heard the loud winds blaw, 
 
 And wished the homeless wanderer wi's 
 Around my Father's Ha'. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It's there that I first learned 
 
 To read guid and holy books — 
 It's there that I first saw with joy 
 
 A mither's anxious looks — 
 It's there that I first heard the prayer 
 
 Sent up for ane an' a' ; 
 It's the sweetest, dearest spot on earth 
 
 To me — my Father's Ha'. 
 
 My Father's Ha', my Father's Ha', 
 
 To me 'twill aye be dear ; 
 And those wha round it used to sit — 
 
 Alas ! how few are here. 
 They're scattered noo, and some are to 
 
 A better world awa', 
 
 And left us here to think on them 
 
 Around my Father's Ha'. 
 5
 
 6Q 
 
 VI. 
 
 But we'll a' yet be happy 
 
 When life's journey here is o'er, 
 We'll meet beyond yon sunny skies — • 
 
 We'll meet to part no more. 
 Our bliss will be eternal there, 
 
 It will never flee awa' ; 
 We'll be happier than we've ever been 
 
 Around my Father's Ha'.
 
 67 
 
 H 1bame besonfc tbe Sfeies. 
 
 i. 
 
 T(t^7"HEN the heart's oppressed wi' sorrow, 
 
 V^V^ And the head bowed down wi' care ; 
 When we labour wi' a heavy load 
 
 0' grief and dark despair ; 
 When a' before seems mirky 
 
 And black clouds around us rise — 
 It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 II. 
 
 When friends wha dearly lo'ed us, 
 
 Wha by us were aye held dear ; 
 Were lowly laid by fell disease, 
 
 And stretched upon the bier ; 
 When we kiss the cheek so lately warm, 
 
 And close the glistening eyes — 
 It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 III. 
 
 When our earthly friends forsake us, 
 And upon us shut the door —
 
 68 
 
 When left by a' like some lone tree 
 
 Upon a blasted moor, 
 There's a Friend that never leaves us, 
 
 If we're just, and good, and wise; 
 It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah me ! I often wonder, 
 
 What this weary world would be, 
 If ye kenn'd nae o' anither 
 
 When in death we closed our e'e ; 
 When we're laid into the lonesome grave 
 
 From which we a' maun rise — 
 It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 V. 
 
 A' kinds, a' colours, and a' creeds 
 
 Are blest wi' hope in heaven ; 
 To Saint and Savage, Turk and Jew, 
 
 This balm of life is given. 
 The Catholic and the Calvinist, 
 
 Wha others' creeds despise, 
 Think it's a blessed thing to hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The burdened slave who lives on earth 
 A life of care and woe ;
 
 69 
 
 The Greenlander, who climbs o'er hills 
 
 Of everlasting snow ; 
 The poor untutored Indian, 
 
 Who for lack of knowledge dies — 
 Is taught by nature that he has 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Let us thank our God, the Giver 
 
 Of this cheering hope below, 
 Which dispels the darkest cloud of fate, 
 
 And sets us free from woe. 
 There's a land of bliss, where He will wipe 
 
 All tears from weeping eyes — 
 It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies.
 
 70 
 
 tDerses to mp Hunt 
 
 This is one of my earliest efforts ; it will explain itself. The 
 person to whom it was written — Mrs. Warden of the Plans of 
 Thornton — is one of the kindest and best of women. She is ona 
 of "Nature's Nobles," dearly beloved by all who know her. 
 Would that the world were composed of her like. 
 
 I. 
 
 St^\ EAREST Aunt, when thinking on your 
 Jl 4/ Kindness to us day by day, 
 I see that we are among your 
 Debtors wha can never pay. 
 
 II. 
 
 When I think upon the ruin 
 
 That comes ower baith ane and a' 
 
 When a father, wha's well doing, 
 Frae his family wears awa' — - 
 
 III. 
 
 When I think, and thinking shiver, 
 On the havoc it wad make, 
 
 Had my father been forever 
 Laid within his narrow bed —
 
 71 
 
 IV. 
 
 When I think upon your kindness 
 To him, Aunt, both air and late, 
 
 If my beating heart were mindless 
 Only when it stops to beat. 
 
 V. 
 
 A' the toil that you had wi' him, 
 Save yoursel' there's few did see'd ; 
 
 Still wi' pleasure did you gie him 
 Ilk thing he could wish or need. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Pale and wan he came out to you — 
 Wild disease made dismal strife, 
 
 But wi' grace that God did gie you, 
 You e'en saved his very life. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Aft ye gaed tae pu' at midday 
 A' the best fruit you could see, 
 
 Though he aft to stop did bid you, 
 Still you kindly bade him pree. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 When the sun had ceased his vigour, 
 And the warmth did shine nae mair, 
 
 Then when e'en was calm you placed him 
 At the door wi' mcikle care.
 
 72 
 IX. 
 
 Then he aften saw descending 
 In the west the setting sun ; 
 
 Balmy breezes him were mending- 
 Thus wi' joy the e'en did run. 
 
 X. 
 
 At the hour of midnight when you 
 Heard the lonely owlet cry, 
 
 You had need of rest, but then you, 
 Even then you couldna lie. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then you quietly gaed to see him, 
 And to speer if aught was wrong ; 
 
 Milk in plenty did you gie him, 
 Cooled the almost parched tongue. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Dearest Aunt, O can I ever, 
 Kindness such as that forget ? 
 
 No ! I'm sure that I can never, 
 Till this heart has ceased to beat. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I, 'tis true, can ne'er reward ye, 
 Which does fill my heart wi' care;
 
 Eut accept from humble bardie 
 A' he has — an earnest prayer. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Peace and pleasure to your cot aye, 
 Comfort to the ruling twa ; 
 
 0, may bliss attend your lot aye — 
 Peace to ane, and peace to a'. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Comfort to you a' the day time ; 
 
 Peace when laid upon your bed — 
 God forsakes the guid at nae time — 
 
 Then He hovers round your head. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When your days on earth are ended, 
 When you're o'er life's ocean driven, 
 
 Cares on earth will a' be mended 
 When we reap the promise given. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Dearest Aunt, 1 cannot gie you 
 Words to tell you what I feel; 
 
 I maun soon be oot to see you — 
 God aye bless you — Fare-you-weel !
 
 74 
 
 Zbc TltvstinQ XCree, 
 
 ^HE trysting tree ! the trysting tree ! 
 I'll mind it a' my days ; 
 
 It weel deserves a sang frae me, 
 Or something in its praise. 
 So sit ye down beside me, love, 
 
 And I will sing to thee, 
 The pure delights that we enjoyed 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 II. 
 
 D'ye mind when first we met there ? 
 
 I was reading at some book, 
 When you passed ae summer mornin', 
 
 An' you gaed me sic a look. 
 Weel I mind you gaed by slowly, 
 
 And you seemed to smile to me — 
 So I bade you come and rest awhile 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree.
 
 75 
 III. 
 
 Ye consented, and cam near me, 
 
 And, Jessie, that ae look 
 Gard me loe ye ever after — 
 
 I loot fa' the very book, 
 And I pressed you to my bosom, 
 
 While the tear stood in my e'e ; 
 0, sacred are the joys of love, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree began 
 
 A true love that will last 
 Till this fair earth be burned up 
 
 And all its glories past — 
 Yon sun may be extinguished, 
 
 But I'll live and think on thee, 
 And remember a' the joys we've haen, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yes, the time will come, dear Jessie, 
 
 When e'en you and I maun part — 
 O' ye needna look amazed nor let 
 
 This touch your tender heart ; 
 For ye ken tho' death divide us, 
 
 I will meet again with thee, 
 And hae bliss beyond the joys we've haen 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree.
 
 76 
 VI. 
 
 We ha'e met here ilka e'enin' 
 
 When the eerie bat flew hame, 
 And we've seen the pale moon gane 
 
 To the land I carina name ; 
 We hae met here ilka mornin' 
 
 Ere the sun cam o'er the sea, 
 And constant was our happiness 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When wearied nature sank to rest, 
 
 And a' was hushed and still, 
 Wi' lightsome heart I crossed the muir, 
 
 And passed the Haunted Mill.* 
 The feint a ghaist or bogle 
 
 Ere tried to hinder me — 
 I guess they kenn'd they couldna 
 
 When I sought the trysting tree. 
 
 
 * 1741 was a disastrous year for Scotland— bad seed and a 
 backward spring, followed by a wet summer and a late barvest, 
 brought on the country the evils of famine. At tbat time (and 
 not far from the trysting tree) there stood, and yet stands, a 
 meal mill romantically situated on the banks of an ever-running 
 brook. In a hut on the farm attached to tbe mill there lived a 
 labourer, having a numerous family, and out of work ; he asked 
 from the miller (on credit) a small quantity of meal ; the favour
 
 77 
 VIII. 
 
 O, it's here I vowed to loe you 
 
 While my life was spared below ; 
 Here I vowed to shield and guard you 
 
 Frae this world's care and woe. 
 It's here at times we baith hae prayed 
 
 Upon the bended knee — 
 We've tasted bliss beyond compare 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 was refused : the family was starving ; and driven to desperation 
 by their cries for bread, in the course of the night he went to the 
 mill, and getting in at a wide aperture in the wall, through 
 which passed the axle of the wheel, was in the act of filling a 
 bag with meal, when, unfortunately for him, the miller entered 
 with a light in his baud, for the purpose of setting on the mill. 
 Being thus detected, the miller took him to his house, where a 
 fire was already blazing on the heartb, upon which was a heated 
 girdle, for the purpose of firing the bread which the servants 
 were baking for the family's use. Either from infatuation or 
 frolic it was agreed — that as his feet had brought him to the 
 mill, and his hands had stolen the meal — to place all four on the 
 red-hot girdle, which they accordingly did with great violence, 
 his agony and cries of mercy being of no avail. A female 
 relative of the miller's cried out, " Dinna let him go till I put 
 in anither cowe yet." Getting at last released, he crawled out 
 on his elbows and knees until he reached the cart shed, where 
 death ere long put an end to his sufferings. The man being 
 poor, the miller's influence prevailed, and the affair was there- 
 fore hushed over. The mill was ever after said to be haunted. 
 The miller's family is now extinct, their affairs having previously 
 gone to ruin, and not a few of them suffered violent deaths. To 
 this time, if the neighbours have to go that way at night, they 
 generally feel timorous as they pass the haunted mill.
 
 78 
 IX. 
 
 Here I rowed you in my plaidie, 
 
 Frae the cauld and biting blast, 
 Though the trysting tree can shield us 
 
 Frae the north wind or the wast ; 
 I bound a wreath around your brow — 
 
 A token true to thee, 
 That we were bound in bands of love, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 X. 
 
 When I think on thae days, Jessie, 
 
 My fond heart is like to break ; 
 But I stop the tears, for weel I ken 
 
 That her for wha's dear sake 
 I sigh, still loes me fondly — 
 
 Still is fondly loed by me, 
 And our first affection was begun 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 XL 
 
 D'ye mind that time, dear lassie, 
 
 When I left ye to yourseP 1 
 I'm sure we baith had sorrows which 
 
 Nae tongue can ever tell. 
 I came and waited, though I kenn'd 
 
 I wadna meet wi' thee; 
 0, I thought my very heart would break 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree.
 
 79 
 XII. 
 
 When winter conies, our trysting tree 
 
 Grows naked, brown, and bare ; 
 Like mother nature round about, 
 
 It hanss its head wi' care. 
 But spring returns, and it revives, 
 
 As ye may plainly see — 
 There's no a tree about the burn 
 
 Like our ain trysting tree.
 
 80 
 
 fiftan to peace was Born. 
 
 An Imitation of "Man was Made to Mourn." 
 
 1. 
 
 TiTwHEN gentle spring's ethereal bloom 
 ^TyT Made fields and forests gay, 
 
 One morning as I wandered forth 
 Along the banks of Tay, 
 I spied a man whose back was bent ; 
 
 But cankering <mef and care 
 Seemed utter strangers to his heart, 
 Though hoary was his hair. 
 
 II. 
 
 Young stranger, whither wanderest thou 1 
 
 Began the reverend sage, 
 Does love of nature call thee forth, 
 
 Before bowed down with age 1 
 Or haply wilt thou talk with me 
 
 Of Providence's plan, 
 And vindicate the ways of God 
 
 To noble-minded man.
 
 81 
 III. 
 
 Yon sun, that sheds a golden flood 
 
 Of light on tower and tree, 
 And tells us there's a God above, 
 
 Delights and pleases me. 
 I've seen yon glorious summer sun 
 
 Twice forty times return, 
 And every time has added proof 
 
 That man to peace was born. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My son, when young, be wise — be not 
 
 Too prodigal of time ; 
 Do not misspend thy precious hours, 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime. 
 O ! let not follies take their sway, 
 
 Do not let passions burn — 
 Curb and contemn them, e'en to-day, 
 
 And then thou wilt not mourn. 
 
 'Tis true that tyrants, while in power, 
 
 Oppress man here below ; 
 But why from this should it be said 
 
 That man was doomed to woe 1 
 
 'Tis madness for the rich and great 
 
 To treat the poor with scorn ; 
 6
 
 82 
 
 Oh, why has man the will and power 
 To make his fellow mourn % 
 
 VI. 
 
 Were mankind wise, we all might be 
 
 In pleasure's lap caressed — 
 There's plenty here for high and low, 
 
 To make us truly blest ; 
 But sordid, sinful, selfish men 
 
 Hoard up all that they can, 
 And while they only serve themselves, 
 
 Oppress their fellow-men. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Many and sharp the numerous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame, 
 And oft we cause remorse and grief 
 
 By bringing on the same. 
 Oh, were mankind when young all taught 
 
 The wicked's path to scorn, 
 Then blest experience soon would show 
 
 That man to peace was born. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 See yonder ploughman on the field, 
 He whistles as he goes ;
 
 83 
 
 He knows not grief nor care — his heart 
 Is ne'er oppressed with woes ; 
 
 And when at e'en his toil is o'er, 
 He homeward doth return, 
 
 Lo, there he meets a cheerful wife, 
 And babes to bless him born. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Proud man to be a slave was ne'er 
 
 By nature's law designed, 
 Then why should weak and puny man 
 
 To earth his brother bind % 
 Oh ! shake the fetters from the feet 
 
 Of slaves ; wipe off this scorn 
 And just reproach from nature ; show 
 
 To freedom man was born. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yet let not this too much, my son, 
 
 Engage thy youthful breast ; 
 Think not this world's a paradise — 
 
 Perhaps indeed 'twere best 
 To think and to believe that we 
 
 Are happy here below, 
 But only if we're just and good — 
 
 If not we dwell in woe.
 
 84 
 XI. 
 
 Death is the good man's greatest friend, 
 
 The kindest and the best ; 
 For then his toils are at an end — 
 
 He's taken to his rest. 
 The vile and wicked fear its blow, 
 
 From sin to sorrow torn ; 
 But the just and good ne'er fear to go 
 
 Who know for what they're born.
 
 85 
 
 flfeartba palmer. 
 
 i. 
 
 DEAR, dear Martha Palmer, 
 A' the grief you've gien to me, 
 It's far beyond my humble power 
 In words to tell to thee ; 
 But my heart's sae fu' o' sorrow 
 
 At the change I've lately seen, 
 That I canna do but tell you o't, 
 And ask what ye could mean. 
 
 II. 
 
 I little thought that slanders, love, 
 
 Of heartless, envious men, 
 Could e'er hae poisoned your high mind, 
 
 Or made you false ; but then 
 I find the love of woman 
 
 Is a frail and quivering reed, 
 And the heart that doats too fondly 
 
 Is the heart that doats to bleed.
 
 86 
 
 III. 
 
 D'ye mind the scenes that we twa had 
 
 Since first me met thegither ; 
 D'ye mind the vows we made, to live 
 
 In love wi' ane anither ; 
 D'ye mind the tears we af ten shed, 
 
 For very bliss and joy — • 
 Did you think then, Martha, did you mean 
 
 Our rapture to destroy 1 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh ! how aften did we wander, 
 
 When the sun sank o'er the hill, 
 Down the saugh road, across the burn, 
 
 And by the haunted mill, 
 Up to the kirk, and auld kirkyard, 
 
 Which ye would hardly leave, 
 For weel you lo'ed to linger 
 
 By the murdered martyr's grave. 
 
 V. 
 
 Whiles, when we stood frae wind or rain 
 
 Beside the auld grey tower, 
 An' saw the pale moon glimmering 
 
 At the solemn midnight hour, 
 I told you warlock stories, 
 
 And I've felt you cling to me,
 
 87 
 
 As if I were your salvation — 
 Which indeed I well could be. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And ah, we often sat, my dear, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree, 
 Where I made love to you, my dear, 
 
 And you made love to me. 
 And when we baith were left alane, 
 
 And na' intruder near, 
 We spoke the poems and sung the sangs 
 
 That true hearts like to hear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah, then, dear Martha, then this earth 
 
 Was paradise to me ! 
 This heart, sae heavy now, was light 
 
 When I was lo'ed by thee. 
 The flowers were bonnie, fields were green > 
 
 Frae ilka bush and tree 
 The birds sang sweetly, very sweet, 
 
 When Martha smiled on me. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But now that you hae left me, 
 Now that we by fate are parted, 
 
 Now that ye hae sought to live alane, 
 And I am broken hearted —
 
 88 
 
 I see not nature as it was — 
 The earth, the sun, the sea, 
 
 The trees, the birds, the bonnie flowers, 
 Are naething now to me. 
 
 IX. 
 
 At midnight like a ghaist I gang, 
 
 An' love, 'tween you and me, 
 I've fearfu' thoughts o' something 
 
 Which I darena tell to thee. 
 I weep whiles like a very child, 
 
 For a' my hopes are hurled 
 To fell destruction, and I'm left 
 
 Alane in this dark world. 
 
 You, dearest, have the triumph 
 
 Of disdaining, slighting me ; 
 But I would not boast or glory 
 
 Had I done the same to thee. 
 True love should not be scorned —   
 
 It is sent to earth from heaven, 
 As the purest and the rarest gift 
 
 That God to man hath given. 
 
 XL 
 
 Fareweel, dear Martha, you may ne'er 
 Forget me a' th'gither —
 
 89 
 
 And I ken you'll keep your aith to God, 
 That you'll ne'er wed another ; 
 
 If it be sae, I know that when 
 Erae earth we gang awa', 
 
 I'll meet you in a better world 
 As pure as winter snaw. 
 
 H Welcome to (Sfcueen Victoria anb 
 prince Blbert, 
 
 ON THEIR VISIT TO DUNDEE. 
 
 The following verses were sent to the Queen during her 
 residence at Blair Castle, through her Foreign Secretary, the Earl 
 of Aberdeen. His Lordship was kind enough to send me a note 
 acknowledging the receipt of the Poem by Her Majesty. 
 
 "Stir the beal fire — wave the banner — 
 
 Bid the thundering cannon sound, 
 Bend the skies with acclamation, 
 
 Stun the woods and waters round, 
 Till the echoes of our gathering 
 
 Turn the world's admiring gaze, 
 To this act of duteous homage 
 Scotland to Victoria pays." 
 
 —Delta. 
 
 
 . UNDEE welcomes with kind greeting 
 
 Fair Victoria to our shore; 
 And we hail the Queen of nations, 
 Whom we honour and adore.
 
 90 
 
 And we hail her joyful Consort, 
 
 "Worthy of her fondest love ; 
 May their days on earth be happy, 
 
 Till they reach the land above. 
 
 II. 
 
 Thou bright sun ! shine forth in splendour, 
 
 Shine out on the royal pair — 
 Raise our beating hearts, and let us 
 
 Bid a long adieu to care. 
 For this the day and this the hour 
 
 With heartfelt joy we see 
 Britain's great and peerless Queen 
 
 In our native home, Dundee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lo ! the lofty arch triumphal 
 
 Bears its columns to the skies — 
 Widely opened be its portals 
 
 To our Queen's admiring eyes. 
 The cannons sound — the banners wave— 
 
 The fairest flowers are seen, 
 All bound in wreaths right royally 
 
 To welcome Albion's Queen. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We would wish that this their visit 
 
 In auld loyal Scotland be 
 Marked by all that kindly feeling 
 
 Which is ever with the free !
 
 91 
 
 We would wish them to be happy 
 While in Scotia they remain ; 
 
 And may every joy attend them 
 To the " merry " land again. 
 
 May their sports among the heather 
 
 Be what bounding hearts desire ; 
 May the hills, and glens, and fountains, 
 
 Them with health and mirth inspire. 
 Let us welcome Queen Victoria 
 
 To her Highland home with glee, 
 Where the heathcock's screaming loudly, 
 
 And the wild deer bounding free. 
 
 VI. 
 
 May the reign of Queen Victoria 
 
 Be a reign of rest and peace ; 
 Prompted by her bright example, 
 
 May all strife and discord cease. 
 May her ministers act wisely, 
 
 And may all her subjects be 
 Ever loving, ever loyal, 
 
 Ever fearless, bold, and free. 
 
 VII. 
 
 May the royal babes be happy 
 Till their parents home return ; 
 
 In their own loved land, O, may they 
 Ne'er have cause to grieve or mourn.
 
 92 
 
 May they grow in grace and beauty, 
 May they ever, ever prove 
 
 Choicest blessings to their parents, 
 Who reward them with their love. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 So we welcome here Prince Albert, 
 
 Consort to our Royal Queen — 
 May his days on earth be happy 
 
 As his days gone by have been. 
 And we welcome with kind greeting, 
 
 Fair Victoria to our shore ; 
 And we hail the Queen of nations, 
 
 Wliom we honour and adore.
 
 93 
 
 XTbe Utirfc* 
 
 WAS Sabbath e'en ; the setting sun 
 Out o'er the Law* was glowering ; 
 The day o' rest was nearly done, 
 And night's dark clouds were lowering. 
 
 The golden west I gladly saw 
 "Was by the sun's rays riven ; 
 
 At length he calmly sank away, 
 Like saint who soars to heaven. 
 
 As I stood, and wi' pleasure gazed 
 
 Upon the face of Nature, 
 I saw what made me much amazed — - 
 
 A maid, wha's every feature 
 
 Betokened that she had not been 
 A dweller 'mong the rest o's, 
 
 For baith her manner and her mien 
 Were better than the best o's. 
 
 * The Law, a notable hill behind Dundee, containing on its 
 summit the remains of a Roman fortress.
 
 94 
 
 Wi' smiling face she took my hand, 
 And, pointing up to heaven, 
 
 Said, " Sir, that is the happy land — 
 There bliss to all is given." 
 
 She smiled again — " Dear sir," said she, 
 " My name is Guide to Glory ; 
 
 come wi' me, I'll let you see 
 A scene at which I'm sorry." 
 
 1 bowed, and kissed her bonny hand, 
 
 Then on wi' joy she led me, 
 An' aft to seek the happy land 
 Wi' smiling face she bade me. 
 
 She led me to the kirk, where I 
 
 Hae af ten heard a sermon ; 
 But, guid forgie me when I say 
 
 We landed 'mong a vermin. 
 
 " Now, sir, I've brought you here, you see, 
 
 'Mang mony lads and lasses ; 
 Sit down, and tell the world an' me 
 
 The scenes that 'mong them passes. 
 
 " And, oh," said she, her hand up high, 
 
 " Do a' as I would hae ye ; " 
 Then round my brow a wreath did tie — 
 
 " May that and God be wi' you."
 
 95 
 
 Soon as these kind words she said, 
 She frae my sight was hidden ; 
 
 I prayed to God to bless the maid, 
 Then strove to do her biddin'. 
 
 His reverence soon came up the stair, 
 And vow but there's a reaching 
 
 O' heads and caps — its a' the care 
 0' some to see wha's preaching ! 
 
 For mony a ane I ween is there 
 Wha to the text will listen ; 
 
 When this is got they dinna care 
 For sermon or for blessing. 
 
 I kenna what the kimmer means, 
 She's no doing ought but looking —   
 
 The trifling brat's but in her teens, 
 And watch her how she's poking 
 
 Her neighbour's ribs, saying, " Cast your e'e 
 
 Out ower amang the fellows, 
 And if a wise-like chield you see 
 
 You'll no forget to tell us." 
 
 Should some late comer want a seat, 
 And scarce ken whar to find ane, 
 
 Some bonnie queen will no be blate 
 To crush, and prove a kind one :
 
 96 
 
 And a' the pay for favour shewn, 
 Or fee that she seeks frae him, 
 
 Is just to get his arm when clone, 
 And take a dander wi' him. 
 
 I cast my e'e across the kirk, 
 
 Whar folk should aye sit douse— 
 
 A rotten seat comes down wi' jerk, 
 And this creates a noise. 
 
 It put the maist o' folk on edge ; 
 
 And yonder's three chields brisk aye, 
 See, Tarn's now in an awfu' rage, 
 
 For Bob's drunk a' the whisky. 
 
 A modest matron sitting douse 
 Was for some minutes pested, 
 
 She thought that 'mang her feet a mouse 
 Was jumping; but to test it, 
 
 She soon resolved in spite o' a' 
 She would be at the meaning ; 
 
 Sae looking down, I ween she saw 
 A fellow busy preening 
 
 Her petticoats ; but weel I wat 
 The kind chield got a token — 
 
 The matron rose to stand, wi' that 
 The gallant's joke was broken.
 
 97 
 
 Look ye up yonder, there's three chields 
 At " catch the ten " they're playing ; 
 
 An' hear yon gallant how he bans 
 At what his neighbour's saying. 
 
 And round and round are maids and men, 
 
 Quite the reverse o' civil ; 
 They make the house of God a den 
 
 In which to do a' evil. 
 
 Where is the genius of those rules, 
 Those precepts that would ease us ? — 
 
 Where are the teachers of those schools 
 Begun on earth by Jesus 1
 
 98 
 
 StoDb's afair. 
 
 fOME, Pate, gie't ower man, work nae mair, 
 Let's baith gae out and see the fair, 
 Ilk lightsome body's fleeing ; 
 The road, I see, is thickly clad 
 Wi' mony a bonnie lass and lad, 
 
 They'll a' be worth the seeing." 
 So said my friend, and quickly then 
 
 I rose and took the road, 
 On which were droves o' merry men, 
 
 And lasses neat and snod — 
 And a' that I saw, 
 
 As I here and there was driven, 
 Just proved that ilk ane loved 
 To be lightsome as weel's livin'. 
 
 II. 
 
 And mony a ploughman chield was seen 
 Wha that night got rowin' een, 
 And some could scarcely stand.
 
 99 
 
 I like a chield right glad to be, 
 Whene'er he meets wi' twa or three, 
 
 To grip warm friendship's hand. 
 I aften ower a hearty stoup 
 
 Hae spent a happy night, 
 But it's far the best and wisest plan 
 
 To keep ane's sell near right. 
 It's beastly — I maistly 
 
 Gould ca' the fellow down 
 Wha sits till his wit's 
 
 Wi' the vvarld's rinnin' round 
 
 III. 
 
 There's mony a puir thing on the road 
 This day has left their sad abode, 
 
 And waes me they maun beg — 
 Wives wed to poortith, wi' a bairn, 
 And mony a man without the arm, 
 
 And some without a leg. 
 I like to see a generous chiel, 
 
 Wi' open liberal hand ; 
 It shows, I ween, his heart can feel 
 
 For this neglected band ; 
 To gie what he'll see that 
 
 To him will ne'er be missing. 
 I like to hear with listening ear 
 
 The poor auld beggar's blessing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hark to those sounds from yonder tent, 
 I'm sure there's some ane discontent
 
 100 
 
 Although I wadna wish't, 
 "Alas my friend, what can it be V 
 The lads wi' scarlet coats, you see, 
 
 Are wanting Will to 'list. 
 '• Man, Will, how can you gang awa' 
 
 Frae hame and friends sae far V 
 Said Roger — " Can you leave us a' 
 
 To face the ways o' war 1 
 Man, Willy, be nae silly, 
 
 Dinna plunge to sic a fate — 
 I'll no deceive, but me believe. 
 
 You'll rue't when far ower late." 
 
 V. 
 
 Says Will — " My friend, I ken ye weel, 
 I ken that much for me ye feel ; 
 
 But here, believe me, Roger, 
 I'm gaun to do't — yes, here I'm willing, 
 The minute that I get the shilling, 
 
 To gae and be a sodger. 
 And as for her, that saucy fair — 
 
 My mind is on the rack — 
 She slighted me, but here I swear 
 
 To pay the false ane back. 
 So, Roger, here I vow and swear 
 
 To leave ilk social chiel', 
 To ilka brae and ilka burn — 
 
 To ane and a' fareweel." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Poor senseless Will the shilling got, 
 The Sergeant called the tither pot,
 
 101 
 
 And cried, "Our friend will pay't." 
 The beer was brought, round went the drink, 
 Will's spirits soon begun to sink, 
 
 They wi' his shilling gaed. 
 " Come, do not let your spirits down," 
 
 The winning soldier said ; 
 " Cheer up my lad, and do not fear, 
 
 A man you'll soon be made." 
 He cried then and dried then 
 
 The tears that down did fa' —   
 The daft ane, the saft ane, 
 
 Was easily won awa. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And list again to that loud noise 
 
 Of drums, and fifes, and men, and boys : 
 
 Observe ye, these are players — 
 They surely lead an awfu' life 
 Of toil and trouble, strut and strife, 
 
 Of crosses and of cares. 
 They're pinched, I wat, by poverty, 
 
 And naked maist for claes; 
 Thus strolling through the world they gae 
 
 And spend their weary days. 
 Nae hame can they claim, 
 
 And nae comfort can they have ; 
 They're hurled through the world, 
 
 Till they sink into their grave. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And mony a kittle case was seen, 
 Wi' hearty Jock and rosy Jean —
 
 102 
 
 I wat he gat her reel ; 
 And kindness came at ilka hand, 
 He treated her at tent and stand, 
 
 And pleased the lassie weel. 
 And mony a chapman chield was there, 
 
 Wi' rantin', roarin' voice, 
 Some selling saft, and some hard ware, 
 
 A penny for your choice. 
 And a' that I saw, 
 
 As I here and there was driven, 
 Just proved that ilka ane loved 
 
 To be lightsome as w eel's livin'.
 
 103 
 
 Ube Miseries of Mar* 
 
 tMONG the many visitants since first the world 
 began, 
 That have come on earth to murder and 
 destroy the peace of man, 
 I stand alone, and go beyond all other ills as far 
 As the brilliant sun of summer goes beyond the 
 
 morning-star. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have fatted all the fields of earth with the bodies of 
 
 the dead ; 
 I have made your crystal streamlets and your rivers 
 
 all run red ; 
 And the bravest and the best of men I've buried in 
 
 the deep, 
 Whose dying groans were heard in heaven, and made 
 
 the angels weep.
 
 104 
 III. 
 
 I've brought destruction on the world, where gorgeous 
 
 cities stood, 
 Their temples, towers, and palaces I've mingled with 
 
 the blood 
 Of fallen men ; I've marred earth's joys, and with my 
 
 fiery rod 
 I've made this world a charnel-house for the erring 
 
 sons of God. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I've dragged from many a happy home the parent's 
 
 joy and pride, 
 And I've torn the loving husband from the new-made 
 
 mother's side. 
 With fiendish joy I led them to the bloody battle 
 
 plain, 
 Where the music of my madness was the wailing o'er 
 
 the slain. 
 
 My food hath been the flesh of men, my drink hath 
 been their blood — 
 
 Give me murdered men or murderers, whether by field 
 or flood ; 
 
 The thundering cannon, glancing steel, and carnage- 
 covered field, 
 
 Murder and death to me a joy unspeakable did yield.
 
 105 
 VI. 
 
 I come from hell ! the deepest hell ! — this world that 
 
 would be fair 
 Were it not for me, I've filled with dismal howlings of 
 
 despair. 
 If one had been " the hero of an hundred fights" or 
 
 more, 
 I'm the hero of ten million miseries counted o'er and 
 
 o'er. 
 
 VII. 
 
 I've had friends on earth, and my most favoured son 
 
 of modern times, 
 Whose deeds heroic erring poets have sung in lofty 
 
 rhymes, 
 He was banished on a lonely rock in solitude to 
 
 dwell, 
 And the men who wanted peace on earth in doing this 
 
 did well. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ye nations of the earth give ear, think on the deeds 
 
 I've done, 
 Think on the rendings of the heart, the woes by 
 
 battle won, 
 Think on the pangs of dying men, whose sufferings 
 
 now are o'er ; 
 Ye may think of this, but ye who suffer not can do no 
 
 more.
 
 106 
 IX. 
 
 Ho, England, France, America ! shake hands and live 
 
 in peace ; 
 Put up your swords, ye sons of men, let strife and 
 
 discord cease ; 
 Thou boasted Briton, sun-burnt Moor, ye great on 
 
 earth and small, 
 Love while ye live, be brethren, as God meant and 
 
 made you all. 
 
 X. 
 
 I'm getting old and wrinkled now, my hair is turning 
 
 grey, 
 The world begins to like me less ; there dawns a 
 
 brighter day. 
 I've done my work — I'm wishing that my reign on 
 
 earth was o'er — 
 For I'm wearied with the deeds I've done, and wish 
 
 to do no more.
 
 107 
 
 Xines written on visiting tbe Graves of 
 Hlejanoer ano 3obn UBetbune. 
 
 Alexander and John Betliune were broth ere. They were born 
 at Upper Rankeillour, in the parish of Lethain, and county of 
 Fife. Being the sons of poor parents, they were trained from 
 their earliest days to win their bread by labour. Through life 
 they had to struggle with poverty ; during the day they 
 laboured, and at night and other limited leisure hours they wrote 
 poems and stories, whicli attracted the attention of very eminent 
 literary characters — Mr. Murray and Mr. R. Chambers being 
 among their patrons. From "Woodmill, in the parish of Abdie, 
 they ultimately removed to Mount Pleasant, where Alexander 
 and John had built a house which will long remain a monument 
 of their industry and perseverance. It stands on a lofty hill, 
 and is the highest house at the back of the beautiful town of 
 Newburgh. Here the family lived for some time, but death 
 came upon them, and his shafts flew quick. The father died 
 first, then John, then the mother, and Alexander, who was left 
 alone in this, to him, bleak world, soon followed them to the 
 grave, and now they all rest in the Abdie Churchyard, where a 
 chaste and beautiful monument tells who lie below. 
 
 In the spring of 1845 I spent a few days at Newburgh. 
 During my stay I was favoured by a friend with Mr. Crombie's 
 deeply interesting memoirs of Alexander. I had heard much of 
 the Bethunes before this, but being in the locality where they 
 had lived and died, and reading this ably compiled work, my 
 interest in them was excited, and I had an earnest desire to see 
 the burial-place of the brothers. Accordingly I set out on 
 Sabbath evening to Abdie Churchyard, and it was to me a 
 delightful evening. I was enchanted by all I heard and saw. 
 The scenery agreeably surprised me. It was unlooked for. I 
 did not think there was so much beauty in the locality so little 
 talked of. Around me lay the hills, reposing in quiet gaandeur,
 
 ] 
 
 108 
 
 and before me lay the Loch of Lindores, bounded on the north 
 by the beautiful seat of Captain (afterwards Admiral) Maitland, 
 to whom Napoleon Bonaparte surrendered, off Rochefort, after 
 the Battle of Waterloo, " which, in the calm twilight of a 
 summer's evening, appears like the eye of nature looking up to 
 its Maker in the spirit of meek and quiet devotion." I arrived 
 at Alxlie Churchyard, and standing over the grave of departed 
 genius, the following verses were written : — 
 
 (f[p") EST in peace, beloved brothers — 
 ilry\_ Rest in peace, oppressed no more ; 
 
 Fame is yours which was no others, 
 Now that all life's toils are o'er. 
 
 II. 
 
 Bred 'mid hardship — shame upon her — 
 Tho' she strove to keep you down, 
 
 You have gained a name of honour 
 Brighter far than monarch's crown. 
 
 III. 
 
 Toiled from morning's sun till setting — 
 Students pale o'er glimmering lamp; 
 
 Still harassed by fortune fretting — 
 Murdered in a cottage damp. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Told in your affecting stories, 
 
 What was risrht and what was wrono; ;
 
 109 
 
 When inspired by Nature's glories, 
 Then your souls burst forth in song. 
 
 V 
 
 Both were peasants — proud, yet humble- 
 To their lowly lot resigned ; 
 
 Neither at their fate did grumble — 
 Gifted each with noble mind. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Both were one in fond affection — 
 One in feeling — one in faith — 
 
 One, too, in their name's erection — 
 One in life and one in death. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Standing here, I am not weeping 
 
 O'er their graves, now free from ills ; 
 
 Buried here serenely sleeping 
 'Mid auld Scotia's quiet hills. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Standing here, I do not mourn 
 O'er this lowly bed of thine — - 
 
 Oh, till death's eternal morn, 
 May such bed of rest be mine.
 
 110 
 IX. 
 
 Here all lie — the father, mother, 
 Silently are sleeping here ; 
 
 Here the younger, elder brother, 
 Both lie stretched upon the bier. 
 
 X. 
 
 Be it so — they all resided 
 In one cot on earth in love ; 
 
 And they were not long divided 
 From the better land above. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Pilgrims here, with bosoms swelling, 
 Yet may come, and tears may fall 
 
 O'er the dark and narrow dwelling 
 Of two brothers — one in all. 
 
 XII 
 
 Rest in peace, beloved brothers — 
 Rest in peace, oppressed no more ; 
 
 Fame is yours which was no other's, 
 Now that all life's toils are o'er.
 
 Ill 
 
 XTbe Wdtto. 
 
 JDINNA like that dreary wind, 
 It makes me dull and wae ; 
 It gars me think upon the grave 
 To which we a' maun gae. 
 It brings me to the gates of death, 
 
 Whaur a' is dark and drear — 
 There's something in the howling wind 
 I dinna like to hear. 
 
 II. 
 
 It brings to mind the tales I've read 
 
 0' mountain, moor, and glen, 
 Where solitary wanderer found 
 
 Remains of murdered men. 
 I think upon the houseless poor 
 
 Wha wander wet and cauld, 
 And sigh for a' the sufferings 
 
 O' the helpless young and auld. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark ! how that gust is howling ! 
 O, it makes my blood run chill ; 
 
 What a dreary sound gangs through the trees- 
 It's moaning o'er the hill.
 
 112 
 
 Grim sprites arise, and lo, methink3 
 
 Right merrily behind 
 The charnel-house they're dancing 
 
 To the music of the wind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye howling winds, oh, spare the bark 
 
 On restless billows tossed ; 
 And spare the worthy father, 
 
 Deemed by friends for ever lost ; 
 And spare me a' the gloomy thoughts 
 
 That make me shake wi' fear — 
 There's something in the howling wind 
 
 I dinna like to hear.
 
 113 
 
 prolooue. 
 
 Written on the occasion of an Amateur Performance 
 at Dr. Beard's Academy. 
 
 T^7ELC0ME to Stony Knolls ! a hearty greeting 
 
 ^l)f We give to one and all at this our joyful 
 
 meeting, 
 
 Not, it is true, the first, for there have been 
 
 Such bright assemblies here before, I ween, 
 
 And, judging from the glories of the past, 
 
 I know not, friends, that this should be our last. 
 
 Shakespeare has said that "All the world's a stage;"' 
 
 'Tis said this is the saying of a sage — 
 
 Full well we know 'tis true, but in this mart 
 
 Of learning we have mostly played one part. 
 
 " The schoolboy with his shining morning face " 
 
 Plays here his part — to him a serious case. 
 
 Here day by day, and week by week, 
 
 Are dull brains cudgelled over puzzling Greek ; 
 
 Eutopius teases here, and Virgil vexes, 
 
 Horace is horrible — Euclid perplexes ; 
 
 Here British commerce, textile manufactures, 
 
 Are themes on which we show ourselves the actors P 
 
 While sums and numbers added to the sum 
 
 Are themes on which our actors oft prove dumb ; 
 
 And this truth is told in many a serious look, 
 
 That " Latin made easy " is no easy book. 
 
 8
 
 114 
 
 Change is the law of nature ; change has been 
 
 Since first Creation's dawn beheld the queen 
 
 Of earth and women — pardon, ladies all, 
 
 I speak of Eve anterior to her fall. 
 
 Since then the great and everlasting sea 
 
 Has sung its wild and endless melody ; 
 
 The beauteous flowers of summer yearly blow, 
 
 Anon comes surly winter with its snow ; 
 
 Change ruled the varied year — the life of man, 
 
 And women too — though bounded by a span. 
 
 So from the ills with which we have to fight, 
 
 We wished to have a change, and so " quit right," 
 
 Exclaimed our actors all, and thus the ending 
 
 Of this shrewd thought is what just now is pending. 
 
 Thus have we left the gods of Greek and Roman, 
 
 And for one night at least become the showman. 
 
 Well, for our own amusement and yours, we 
 
 Have chosen "The Critic," which we soon shall see; 
 
 "The Spoiled Child" — by-the-way, offence to none, 
 
 We hope that in our temple there's but one ; 
 
 And Monsieur Tonson, with his tricks and fun, 
 
 With which the night's amusement will be done. 
 
 Here great Macready will not tread the stage, 
 
 Nor Vandenhoff the grand your time engage ; 
 
 Here G. V. Brooke, 'tis true, will not be seen, 
 
 Nor Helen Faucit, tragedy's fair queen ; 
 
 But here's Miss Beard, of whom the Greeks would say, 
 
 Her the gods love to honour and obey. 
 
 Here's Kriens to treat us to a German song, 
 
 He cannot chant too often or too long. 
 
 Moses, with all his learning too, is here, 
 
 To show his talent in another sphere ;
 
 115 
 
 Here's David Slater, playing the greatest part, 
 Because most like to steal a lady's heart. 
 Here's Edwin Smith, alias Socrates, 
 Having at once the will and power to please. 
 Here's Blacket, too, with all his fun and trickf 
 To act, as he himself would say, " like bricks." 
 These will be seen, and many more besides ; 
 So, laughter, now prepare to hold your sides. 
 We'll try our best — if high we cannot soar — 
 Macready or Vandenhoff could do no more. 
 
 /Ifcp Grannie's Clocfe. 
 
 i. 
 
 ~^K'A ^ S rannie ' s clock's a queer auld clock, 
 zjg^L It's frichted a' the kintra folk ; 
 
 It's been the cause of mony a joke, 
 An' awfu' story ; 
 It tauld the death of Andrew Gloasr, 
 
 An' daft Meg Norrie. 
 
 II. 
 
 0, mony a weary winter nicht, 
 When round the ingle, burning bricht, 
 Wi' it I ha'e got mony a fricht, 
 
 I'll gie my aith ; 
 I cou'dna look, nor left nor richt, 
 
 But sat like death.
 
 116 
 
 III. 
 
 I winna say the clock hersel' 
 
 Can speak, or fearsome stories tell, 
 
 And strange it is, she'll gang as well 
 
 As clock can gae — 
 Should man be killed, or kill himsel', 
 
 She'll warning gie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My grannie tells me — vows 'tis true — 
 Whene'er death comes, be't man or cow, 
 O' dreams her head is always fu' 
 
 Until the morning, 
 And a' about the auld cuckoo, 
 
 The wa' adorning. 
 
 V. 
 
 Ae morning early, when they rose, 
 And a' were busy at their brose, 
 My grannie to them did disclose 
 
 An awfu' tale, 
 At which they leugh, and did suppose 
 
 That it wad fail. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But what a sight soon met their e'e, 
 When once they a' went out to see — 
 A dead man hanging frae a tree ! 
 
 Which stopt their scorning. 
 My grannie said the clock did gie 
 
 Her ample warning.
 
 117 
 
 VII. 
 
 This story seems raaist strange o' a' : 
 Ae winter nicht, the cauld winds blaw, 
 A corpse was found among the snaw ; 
 
 And strange to tell, 
 The clock rang 'bout the hour o' twa, 
 
 His funeral knell ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 My grannie dreamed the clock was mending, 
 And said somebody's days were ending ; 
 A miser loon, on days depending, 
 
 Was seized wi' fever, 
 While o'er his glistening Geordies bending, 
 
 He crossed the river. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And mony mair sic tales, I trow, 
 Which gart the hair stand on my pow, 
 When them I heard — though truly now 
 
 I scarce believe them ; 
 I've seen the sweat break on their brow 
 
 Wha did receive them.
 
 118 
 
 /il>S /Ifeaster. 
 
 THT^THElSr first I to the school did gae, 
 yryf Whiles greeting sair, whiles unco wae, 
 He learned me the A, B, C — 
 
 My Master. 
 II. 
 He put me through the spelling-book, 
 Till I on it could scarcely look ; 
 Me to a higher class he took — 
 
 My Master. 
 III. 
 He made me read the Holy Word, 
 In which we learn of Christ our Lord ; 
 Wi' him I've knelt and Heaven adored — 
 
 My Master. 
 IV. 
 And ilka year I got a prize, 
 Some bonny book me to entice ; 
 He smiled, and said that I would rise — 
 
 My Master. 
 V. 
 0, weej I mind he let me see 
 How I a learned man might be, 
 Saying, "Take the counsel that I gie " — 
 
 My Master. 
 VI. 
 Thanks to my Master ; but I'm wae 
 To see his head now turning grey. 
 I'll mind him till my dying day — 
 
 My Master.
 
 119 
 
 Sonos- 
 
 lllbar are a' tbe ffden&s ? 
 
 Am— Oh, why left I my hame ? 
 
 #H ! whar are a' the friends 
 I had in early days 1 
 Wha used to sport about 
 The burnies and the braes ; 
 Wha used to rin about 
 
 Wi' raeikle mirth and glee — 
 I ween they a' bae fled 
 Frae their ain countrie. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sangs they used to sing 
 
 Are never heard ava; 
 The village ne'er does ring 
 
 Wi' the fife or bugle's blaw. 
 It's true that some are laid 
 
 Beneath yon auld yew tree ; 
 But niaist o' them are fled 
 
 Frae their ain countrie.
 
 120 
 
 HI. 
 
 At kirk or market noo, 
 
 We never meet them there — 
 It makes me wae to think 
 
 I ne'er may see them mair. 
 We ne'er assemble noo 
 
 Our village sports to see — 
 A's dull and lonely now 
 
 In our ain countrie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My friends are far awa' — - 
 
 They're scattered here and there \ 
 But, O, for ane and a' 
 
 I breathe this earnest prayer — - 
 May God still be their guide, 
 
 Wherever they may be, 
 May peace and rest be theirs 
 
 In anither countrie. 
 
 1bere lies low tfoe Bonnie Xass, 
 
 Atk— O Where, and Where. 
 
 c-^r 
 
 H, here lies low the bnnnie lass, 
 <£j The maiden that I lo'e : 
 
 She lies within this narrow bed, 
 Where I maun soon lie too.
 
 121 
 
 Death's clay-cauld hand has stilled the heart 
 
 That aye was kind and true ; 
 The form o'er which I fondly hung 
 
 Is sheltered by the yew. 
 
 II. 
 
 The flowers bloom bonnie ower the bed 
 
 O' her that I held dear, 
 And dark, dark is the envious grave 
 
 That keep's me mourning here. 
 I've naebody to live for noo, 
 
 And the warld's nought to me ; 
 Oh, life's a weary pilgrimage, 
 
 My Mary, wanting thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Pale, pale for ever are those lips 
 
 That I hae aften kissed ; 
 And cauld for ever are those cheeks 
 
 That I hae aften pressed ; 
 And still for ever is that voice, 
 
 Once music to my ear ; 
 Those beaming eyes that shone so blight, 
 
 Are closed for ever here. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, may I know the blissful home 
 In which my love doth dwell,
 
 122 
 
 In yon bright land, where happy ones 
 Their holy anthems swell — 
 
 Where saints for ever sin" their songs 
 To God who reigns on high, 
 
 Where sorrow nevermore is known, 
 Nor tears bedim the eye. 
 
 V. 
 
 But I am left alone on earth, 
 
 My grief I cannot hide, 
 And I will ne'er find peace or rest 
 
 Till slumbering by her side. 
 Till then, my beating heart, be still, 
 
 Which now in sorrow lies — 
 Oh, I maun soon be blest wi' her 
 
 Beyond yon sunny skies. 
 
 TRUben tbfnfefna upon my sao fate. 
 
 Air— My Lass's Black E'e. 
 
 HEN thinking upon my sad fate wi' my Annie, 
 
 This bosom o' mine it is burdened wi' care ; 
 There's something within tells me plain that 
 I mauna 
 Think I can get peace to my soul ony mair.
 
 123 
 
 II. 
 
 I think that there's nane o' her kind half sae bonnie, 
 There's nane o' her kind half sae bonnie can be ; 
 
 Her face it is fairer, far fairer than ony, 
 Her form it seems like an angel's to me. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sometimes in my fondness, when on her I'm thinking, 
 I stand and look down wi' the tear in my e'e j 
 
 I find my wae heart in my bosom aye sinking, 
 Then start quite regardless wherever I gae. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I start, but the wound in my bosom is biding— 
 Ah ! meikle I fear it will ne'er gang awa' ; 
 
 And though a' my grief frae my friends I am hiding, 
 The cauld hand o' death will devour and tell a'. 
 
 UMU anD Bell are fcecfcefc in (Sreen. 
 
 Air — Gloomy Winter. 
 
 rj]> TILL and dell are decked in green — 
 (ilL. -L Nature's a' in beauty seen ; 
 
 Ilk thing delights my gazing een, 
 And sae does lovely Annie, O.
 
 124 
 
 II. 
 
 By yon burn the daisies spring, 
 On yon bower the birdies sing, 
 They joy to every bosom bring, 
 And sae does lovely Annie, 0. 
 
 III. 
 
 Wha could now be sad or wae, 
 When nature a' is blythe and gay 1 
 'Tis I, because I dinna hae 
 The heart o' lovely Annie, 0. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I maun wander here and mourn —   
 She has slighted me wi' scorn, 
 And left me here alane — forlorn —   
 My ain, my lovely Annie, O. 
 
 "What are nature's joys to me 1 
 What are pleasures — wanting thee ? 
 Happy I can never be, 
 
 Unless wi' lovely Annie, O. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Will ye, bonnie lass, be true 1 
 Will ye listen to my vow 1 
 And I will ne'er be false to you, 
 My ain, my lovely Annie, O.
 
 125 
 
 3 now maun leave mp Xaos fait. 
 
 i. 
 
 fKOW maun leave my lady fair, 
 The wind blows high, the boat is ready 
 The boat that fills my heart wi' care, 
 And bears me frae my winsome lady. 
 
 sair, sair, is this waefu' heart, 
 
 And fain, fain, would I longer tarry , 
 But fate has said that we maun part, 
 And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 
 
 II. 
 
 1 needna say her heart is true, 
 
 I needna say she's fair and bonnie, 
 For maist folk think her matched by few — • 
 
 To me she's fairer far than ony. 
 I needna say our love will last 
 
 Till baith our een are closed for ever ; 
 But, ah ! I fear the joys now past 
 
 Will never come again — oh, never. 
 
 III. 
 
 It's no her een sae bonnie blue, 
 It's no her cheek sae red and rosy, 
 
 That gars me greet to say adieu — 
 It's no her fond embrace sae cosy ;
 
 126 
 
 It's no that I regret to leave 
 
 The humble cot in which she's dwelling ; 
 It's no for fear that she'll deceive — 
 
 It's no for this my bosom's swelling ; 
 
 IV. 
 
 But it's to leave her all alone, 
 
 A lonely maiden unprotected. 
 Oh, who will guard her when I'm gone 1 
 
 By me she ne'er wad be neglected. 
 The Power aboon keeps watch and care 
 
 O' worth and merit — He'll reward her ; 
 This aye will be my earnest prayer — 
 
 May a' that's guid for ever guard her. 
 
 Come to Jj)onoer Bower* 
 
 i. 
 
 OME to yonder bower, my lassie, 
 Come to yonder bower wi' me, 
 
 Come to yonder bower my lassie, 
 There I'll tell my love to thee. 
 
 II. 
 
 Down by yonder wood, my lassie, 
 Blithely a' the birdies sing, 
 
 And upon the burnie's banks 
 Roses fair and lilies spring.
 
 127 
 
 III. 
 
 O'er the eastern hill, my lassie, 
 Blithely blinks the setting sun ; 
 
 Hark ! the birds aboon our heads- 
 Morning joys are just begun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What are a' the joys, my lassie, 
 That the smiling morn can gie 1 
 
 What are a' the joys, my lassie ? 
 Nought, believe me, wanting thee. 
 
 Winter IRiobts are Gaulfc, Xassfe, 
 
 Ti^T INTER nights are cauld, lassie, 
 V"^r Winter nights are cauld, lassie, 
 Come, my love, O come wi' me ; 
 While Boreas' blast is bauld, lassie. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've a couthie hame, laddie, 
 I've a couthie hame, laddie — 
 
 I've my father's humble roof, 
 Except me he has nane, laddie.
 
 128 
 III. 
 
 I'll keep him trig an' bravv, lassie, 
 I'll keep him trig an' braw, lassie, 
 
 About your parents dinna fear, 
 But wi' me come awa,' lassie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Gin summer time was here, laddie, 
 Gin summer time was here, laddie, 
 
 Then, O then, I'll come wi' thee— 
 Just gie me time to spier, laddie. 
 
 I canna bide my lane, lassie, 
 I canna bide my lane, lassie, 
 
 I'll spier, if ye'll but come wi' me, 
 And ease my heart o' pain, lassie. 
 
 VI. 
 
 My pleadings a' in vain, laddie, 
 My pleadings a' in vain, laddie, 
 
 Gae get the guid auld folks' consent, 
 And then ca' me your ain, laddie.
 
 129 
 
 B <Buifc IRevv H>ear, 
 
 Air. — When Silent Time. 
 
 GUID new year to ane an' a', 
 mony may you see, 
 And during a' the years that com?, 
 
 happy may you be ! 
 
 And may you ne'er hae cause to mourn, 
 
 To sigh or shed a tear — 
 To ane an' a', baith great an' sma', 
 
 A hearty guid New Year. 
 
 II. 
 
 time flies fast, he winna wait, 
 
 My friend, for you or me, 
 He works his wonders day by day, 
 
 And onward still doth flee. 
 ! wha can tell gin ilka ane 
 
 1 see sae happy here 
 
 Will meet again and happy be 
 Anither guid New Year 1 
 
 III. 
 
 We twa hae baith been happy lang, 
 
 We ran about the braes — 
 
 In ae wee cot, beneath a tree, 
 
 We spent our early days ; 
 9
 
 130 
 
 We ran about the burnie's side, 
 The spot will aye be dear — 
 
 And those wha used to meet us there 
 We'll think on mony a year. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now let us hope our years may be 
 
 As guid as they hae been ; 
 And let us hope we ne'er may see 
 
 The sorrows we hae seen ; 
 And let us hope that ane an' a' — 
 
 Our friends baith far and near — 
 May aye enjoy, for time to come, 
 
 A hearty guid New Year 1 
 
 Bonnie, Bonnie, was tbe /IDorn. 
 
 Air— Blithe, blithe and merry was she. 
 
 i ONNIE, bonnie, was the morn, 
 Lgji) When we rose to run awa' ; 
 Phoebus did the hills adorn, 
 Scarce a breeze o' wind did blaw. 
 Annie rose and slippit near me — 
 
 " Johnny, Johnny, come ! " she cried. 
 " 0, I'm fear'd the auld folk hear me ; 
 If they do, they'll gar us bide."
 
 131 
 
 II. 
 
 I gat ready, kissed my dearie, 
 
 We each ither's fears did feel, 
 Bundled up our claes, and eerie 
 
 Bade the guid auld folk fareweel. 
 I had wrought and kept them canny, 
 
 Wrought, I ween, for mony a year ; 
 For my hire I wanted Annie, 
 
 But o' this they wadna hear. 
 
 III. 
 
 Soon we left them — reached the hallan 
 
 I a week before had ta'en. 
 God sin'syne has blessed our toilin' — 
 
 We sin'syne hae baith been ane. 
 Soon the auld folk ceased to scorn, 
 
 When our well-doin' ways they saw ; 
 Aye sin'syne we blessed the morn 
 
 When we rose to rin awa'. 
 
 Ube Blooming Ibeatber, 
 
 I^ONNIE is the blooming heather, 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather ; 
 But it's bonnier still, I ween, 
 When 'mang't twa lovers meet thegither.
 
 132 
 
 O then it blooms sae fresh and fair, 
 Then ilka thing around is bonnie, 
 
 When the lovely lass is there 
 That we lo'e raair dear than ony. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then the bleating lambs that cry 
 
 Mak' ilka thing seem blithe and cheery, 
 When upon the breast we lie 
 
 O' her that we can ca' our dearie. 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather, 
 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather, 
 But dearest to the youthfu' heart 
 
 When 'mang't twa lovers meet thegither. 
 
 Gfte Cares o' Xife* 
 
 WHY should mankind not be merry 
 As lang as he's todlin' here 1 
 Life is at best a terrible worry, 
 But yet there's nae reason to fear. 
 
 II. 
 
 Man meets wi' mony a hardship, 
 
 As life's weary vale he gangs through ; 
 
 But I've aye found a gate to get out at, 
 And I hope that I ever will do.
 
 133 
 
 III. 
 
 It's true that we a' hae our sorrows, 
 At least for mysel' I've my share ; 
 
 But the truth is, to look round about me, 
 There's mony a mortal has mair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sad poverty presses the poor man, 
 The rich winna look to their state ; 
 
 But there's happiness whiles in the cottage 
 TJnken'd to the wealthy and great. 
 
 When this life's done there's a prospect, 
 A hope which all honest men have, 
 
 A glorious land we may live in 
 
 When laid lowly down in the grave. 
 
 liltnter is Gome. 
 
 Air — Auld Rob Morris. 
 
 H, winter is come, and the cauld blasts noo blaw, 
 The hills o' auld Scotland are covered wi' snaw; 
 My ain fate resembles ilk bush and ilk tree, 
 For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me.
 
 134 
 
 II. 
 
 The spring may return, and deck a' in green, 
 The hills and the vales may in beauty be seen ; 
 But pleasure or peace they to me canna gie, 
 For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh weel may my head aye be stoundin' and sair, 
 An' weel may my heart aye be beating wi' care, 
 An' weel may the tear trickle down frae my e'e —   
 For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But 0, when I think that she yet may be mine — 
 When a ray of this hope in my bosom doth shine; 
 I ask not on earth mair pleasure to hae, 
 Than Anna, fair Anna, to smile upon me. 
 
 /Iftarcb of /IDesmerism. 
 
 Air — The Spinning o't. 
 
 I. 
 
 WOULD the wide world beware o' the loons 
 Wha practice sae often the gulling o't ! 
 
 Wha come frae Auld Reekie and ither big 
 toons, 
 Their pockets they look to the filling o't.
 
 135 
 
 Those mountebank callants, who hastily flee 
 Frae city to city — frae Perth and Dundee — 
 And swear that you'll something astonishing see, 
 If ye'll only put faith in the telling o't ! 
 
 II. 
 
 There's constantly something to take up our time, 
 Though a body has ever so little o't ; 
 
 Some blundering scribblers pest us wi' rhyme, 
 But o' sense they seldom show meikle o't. 
 
 The flying machine late engaged a' our care, 
 
 Which promised to bear us awa' through the air ; 
 
 But now the concern has blown up — I fear 
 High pressure has bursted the metal o't ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Mesmeric Phrenology now is the go ! 
 
 A' body's begun to be trying o't. 
 If the science progresses in the same ratio, 
 
 We'll no daur e'en think for the spying o't 
 Its advocates tell us their patients can see 
 The folk in the moon at their toddy and tea, 
 Or what's to tak' place next year in Dundee- 
 
 There's ferlies, I wat, in the doing o't. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If ony poor wight frae his harae gangs au a 
 And offers to show them the folly o't,
 
 136 
 
 The place that's no yucky he'll get it to claw, 
 As payment and thanks for the telling o't ! 
 
 They'll stand up and swear they'll hear him no more, 
 
 They'll howl and they'll hiss, and they'll rant and 
 they'll roar, 
 
 Till the poor silly fellow is dragged to the door — 
 Right glad to escape frae the melling o't.* 
 
 V. 
 
 I wonder in nature what we will hae next — 
 
 Now folk can be done by the willing o't ! 
 Teeth and legs can be drawn by the mesmeric touch, 
 
 E'en a heart may be had for the stealing o't ! 
 For the mesmerists tell us their patients can see 
 The man o' the moon at his toddy and tea, 
 Or what will take place next year in Dundee — 
 There's ferlies, I wat, in the doing o't. 
 
 * About this time considerable excitement was occasioned by 
 the visits of itinerant lecturers on Mesmerism. The poet was 
 then rather sceptical on the subject ; but the fact of stiff arms 
 and stiffer legs made him appear unsuccessful in the debates. 
 Nothing daunted, he resolved to try a lecture in an adjoining 
 town, situated on the braes of Angus ; and for this purpose a 
 meeting was called, and the novelty of the lecture drew together 
 a large assemblage. The lecture was begun, and a goodly number 
 of the disciples of Mesmer were present. When they saw that 
 the orator was on the negative, a noisy warfare ensued ; which 
 resulted in the lecturer having to beat a speedy retreat. It may 
 here be remarked that a relative of the author is preaching and 
 lecturing in the same place, with greater success, on higher 
 subjects, to an intelligent Christian congregation.
 
 137 
 
 Creep before yon (3ae» 
 
 ^AK' time, my bonnie bairnie, dinna flee awa' sae 
 fast, 
 Never mind though 'rnong your playmates you 
 sometimes are the last ; 
 Its not the hardest rinner that always gains the day — 
 Tak' time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before yougae. 
 The wee bairn todlin' round about its mither's knee, 
 Frisking aye sae fondly wi' its heart sae fu' o' glee, 
 When it runs ower far and fast, look, it stumbles in 
 
 the way — 
 Tak' time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before yougae. 
 
 II. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, when fechtin' wi' 
 
 the strife. 
 And struggling hard for happiness and comfort in this 
 
 life, 
 You'll find it aye the best way, when pulling up the brae, 
 Tak' time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before you gae. 
 The world's woes and sorrows are brought on us by 
 
 oursel', 
 Because we'll no tak' tent to what the aulderfolk will tell ; 
 We've had muckle grief and sorrow, the heart has aft 
 
 been wae, 
 Because we'll no tak' time, my bairn, and creep before 
 
 we gae.
 
 138 
 
 III. 
 
 The wisest man hath said — and what he says is never 
 
 wrong — 
 The race is seldom to the swift, the battle to the strong; 
 The willing back has aft to bear the burthen o' the day — 
 Tak' time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before ye gae. 
 We have need to use, whilst here, all the caution that 
 
 we can, 
 In playing at this game o' life wi' wily-hearted man ; 
 The lion's heart — the eagle's eye — the fox's cunning 
 
 way 
 Are wanted here — tak' time, my bairn, creep before you 
 
 gae. 
 
 IV. 
 
 You've known the mighty warrior, rushing fast into 
 
 the fight, 
 Lose baith his crown and kingdom ere the falling of 
 
 the night ; 
 You've seen the darling projects of wise menmelt away; 
 Tak' time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before you gae. 
 You'll ne'er hae cause to rue, from the cradle to the 
 
 grave, 
 But many a pang o' sorrow in the heart it you will save, 
 If before each earthly project you remember what I say, 
 Tak' time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before you 
 
 gae.
 
 139 
 
 Sufee, anfc let tbe Saw oano b& 
 
 ^HE rock may stand the stormy sea, 
 
 The mountain a' the winds that blaw,, 
 And what was late the gowden lea 
 May thole the drift o' winter snaw. 
 The war-horse on the field of blood 
 
 Wi' fury on the foe may fly ; 
 But would it not be just as guid 
 To juke, and let the jaw gang by 1 
 
 II. 
 
 The strong oak bends beneath the blast, 
 
 When Boreas rages through the air, 
 But when the storm is spent and past, 
 
 He lifts his head — defies despair. 
 So man, when pressed with care and woe, 
 
 When sorrows come, should ever try 
 To bend a wee, and let them flee ; 
 
 Just juke, and let the jaw gang by. 
 
 III. 
 
 The gallant barque, when tempest-tossed, 
 Will yield to ocean's mad career ; 
 
 The sailor on the quivering mast, 
 
 Will closer cling when danger's near.
 
 HO 
 
 So man, while on the voyage of life 
 He's struggling here, should ever try 
 
 To bend a wee and let them flee ; 
 Just juke, and let the jaw gang by. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The darkness yields to dawning day 
 
 When bright Aurora climbs the sky, 
 The moon must still the earth obey, 
 
 The branch bends as the stream runs by, 
 The rosebud ope's to morning dew, 
 
 The swallow wi' the wind will fly ; 
 So man in life, while struggling through, 
 
 Should juke, and let the jaw gang by. 
 
 V. 
 
 The friend you trust should ne'er prove false, 
 
 Though fortune change his course wi' thee; 
 There are ups and downs in nature's laws — 
 
 What once you were you yet may be. 
 The powers above will ne'er forsake, 
 
 And women's love should never die, 
 And beating heart should never break ; 
 
 Just juke, and let the jaw gang by.
 
 HI 
 
 Ufme anfc XTiDe will wait on nae flfcam 
 
 . r HE sun that sinks on yonder west 
 
 Sails on across the broad Atlantic, 
 Then rides along in glory dressed 
 O'er forests wild and hills gigantic. 
 The sea that laves the shore at hame 
 
 Has come frae lands right far away, man, 
 When nature stood we canna name — 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 II. 
 
 The spring-time decks the earth with flowers, 
 
 The summer comes in burning glory, 
 Then sober autumn's fruitful bowers 
 
 Must yield to winter aged and hoary. 
 The village bell brings in the dawn, 
 
 Then bids farewell to dying day, man ; 
 The wheels o' nature never stand — 
 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 III. 
 
 Whate'er your hands may find to do, 
 Let it be done, trust not the morrow, 
 
 The present time's the time for you, 
 
 Next day will bring its share of sorrow.
 
 142 
 
 Your house can ne'er be built too soon, 
 The corn must be cut down to-day, man, 
 
 The earth moves, and the sun runs round — - 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We lately ran about the braes, 
 
 And pu'd the flowers sae fresh and bonnie ; 
 Ah, these were then the happy days, 
 
 Too bright to last ower lang wi' ony. 
 We now may boast of manhood's health, 
 
 But time will turn a young head grey, man ; 
 O, days, and months, and years are wealth — 
 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 V. 
 
 The friends we loved in early days 
 
 Are scattered noo, they're a' departed, 
 Pursuing life in various ways, 
 
 And left us here thus lonely hearted ; 
 They're scattered noo, and some are gono, 
 
 E'en to a better world away, man, 
 They're waiting there till we too come — 
 
 But time and tide will wait on nae man.
 
 143 
 
 Xittle Cbflfcren. 
 
 JTTLE children make me srlad 
 
 m 
 
 Though my very soul be sad ; 
 
 Laughing in their sport and glee, 
 Climbing up upon my knee, 
 Running round about my chair, 
 "With their hearts sae free frae care, 
 Playing wi' joy at hide-and-seek — 
 Out and in they merrily keek, 
 And their half-pronounced names 
 Tend to cheer our humble hames. 
 While we soothe them wi' a sang 
 Winter nights are never lang ; 
 While they prattle by our side, 
 Cheerful is our clean fireside. 
 They to bless mankind were given- 
 Home wi' them's a little heaven. 
 
 Printed by Walter Scott, Felling, NewcaMe-onTyne.
 
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