immmmmmmmmmmmmimmim mi)i9m ^ mm»mmm ^!%5^,i. ■%, ■.^ y'.-^ff^^yyf&'y^''-fyii sswT^aj^iesisjfffijesws^-sssa's^?^ THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES 6 ^/LaA^/^-/%^ ONE HUNDRED ^jVloDERN ^COTTIgH ]pOET^. ONE HUNDRED MODEM SCOTTISH POETS BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, B B E C H I N : D. II. EDWARDS, 1880. PR TO THE KIGIIT HONOURABLE JAMES, EARL OF SOUTHESK, K.T., AUTHOR OF "JONAS FISHER " AMO OTHER WORKS IN POETRY AND PROSE, THIS BOOK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 70()53;i CONTENTS. James Hogg Gall, ... 9 What Mak's _ the Ingle blink sae bricht. The Wee Folks. Mks Jessie Russell, . . 12 Keepers at Hame. Betty's Trust. John Fullerton, .... 15 By the Gate. Love. Unforgotten. J. K. Christie, .... IS Mother's Darling. A Little Coffin. Singing as They Go. G. W. Donald, 21 The Scottish Lyre. Ye're Blythe ray Bonnie Bairnies. Thos. Campbell, .... 25 Oor Ain Mither Tongue. David Taylor, .... 26 Fire. Peter Whytock, ... 28 The Skein o' 'Oo'. My Mither's Flowers. Wm. M 'Queen, 31 The Bield on the Moan- tain. Gloamin' Time. The Lark. Nursery Song. John Macfarlane, ... 34 The Martyr's Grave. The Wee Spri- o' Heather. The Last o' the Hillmen. PAGR. James M. Neilson, ... 36 The Biggin' on the Brae. Little Words. Wm. Penman, 39 Singin' to the Weans. My Grannie an' Me. John Watson, 42 The Guidwife o' Glenley. The Dying Mother. Whistliu' Tarn. Dorothea Ogilvy, ... 45 Scotland. The Clink o' the Chink. Marion Bernstein, ... 51 Soaring Upwards to the Ligl-.t. Thoughts. Lady Charlotte Elliot, . 55 A Farewell. Captives. The Pythoness. Wm. E. Moir, 61 The Fairest Things are Far Awa'. The Song of Songs. E'enin' Brings a' Hame. Robert Sanderson, ... 67 The Lassie that's Awa'. Is the Auld Guidman aye Leeviii' ? My Little Son. Gae Bring the Stranger in. n. C. Wilson, 70 The WorM is Ours. The Pibroch is Sounding. Pretty Wee Katie. James E. Watt, . . Tlie Waukrife E'e. 'I'ibbie Tamson. John Taylor, . . . Hi^'hland Music. Bonnie Teenie Broon. Thos. p. Nicoll, . . Nell. Thought. J. C. Hutchison, . . The King may Come Cadger's Way. An Old Man's Lament the l-AOE. . 73 77 81 84 88 Colin Sievwright, . Annie was my Dearie, 0. Archie and Eppie. Bannie Hairnies. James Davidson, .... 91 An Orphan's Dirge. Wilt thou Come ? John Bethune, .... 94 Native Scenes. Selfishness. John Macdonald, Time. D. YocNG, 99 The Warden of the Bay. Alex. M. Soutar, .... 101 A Summer Evening So- liloquy. Aye Best at Hame. To a Snowdrop. Come Back, my Dearie. The Earl of Southesk, K.T., 105 Faded Glory. The Wanderer of Clova. Bonnie Bird. The Meda Maiden. The Mountain Fir. November's Cadence. Hidden not Stolen. Mary Grant, 121 The Summer's Sun. Babj' Alie. Seven Years Old To-Day. To Heaven wi' Me. Robert Ford, 125 Grannie's AVa'-Gaun. Hurrah, for Auld Scot- land, Hurrah. Oor Auld Wife. PAoe. A. B. Todd, . . . . . . nO The Circling Year. Monody on the Death of William Wordsworth. Elizabeth Campbell, . . 135 Willie Mill's Burn. Threescore and Ten. Wm. Shelley, 139 The Burn. Shortsyne I Had a Bonnie Bird. Pretty Patter on the Floor. Edward Catto, .... 144 My Childhood. The Cripple Orphan Loon. Oor Wag-at-the-Wa'. James Ferguson, .... 146 My Besting Place. Oor Ain Wee Land. Hurrah for Scotland's Nameless Dead. Auld Daddy Darkness. Alex. Brown, 151 An April Mood. An Autumn Leaf. Unknown. The Chequered Way. Thos. M'Lauchlan, . . . 156 Bonnie Jean o' Auchinha'. Alex. Anderson 157 In Rome. Oor First AVee Graves. Blood on the Wheel. A' His Lane. Robert Tennant, . . . , 168 Wee Davy Daylicht. A Clean Fireside. Winter. James Kelly, 172 By Crystal Streams. Peter Still, Jun., . . . 173 Bird in the Garden. The Wee, Wee Flower. Alex. G. Murdoch, . . .177 The Battle of Drumclog. The Midnight Forge. The Wa'-Gaun o' Wee Nell. Wm. Cowper, 185 Midnight with the Book and the Stars. CONTENTS. PACE. PAGE. William Sievwright, . . 187 Jas. Hewitt 242 The Hymns She Loved. My Poem. David Carnegie, .... 189 Jas. Young Geddes, . . ,244 Youth's Dreams. Carlyle. To a Withered Flower. Died on the Street. James Smith 191 Dugald M'Fadyen, . . .246 My Doggie. Aichteen. William Knight, .... 193 Janet Hamilton 248 Via Vitse. Tlie Lowly Song of a Alex. Logan, 196 Lowly Bard. Kiss my Native Soil for Aukl Mither Scotlan', Me. Effie. Hoo Can I P^eel Dowie ? Summer Voices. The Mither's Sang. October. William Reid, 199 "^^l; ^T"'^- • • , at " * ' ^^^ The Poet ^"*' "^^^ '^^''* o Shoon. Love, Music, Poesy, and S^® Lintwhite._ Flowers Helpless Phemie. James Kelly 204 mpyxH™-, ., ^ Robin Affleck. 1^9^ ^/^s* o' the Lave. Elsewhere Wee Joukydaidles. John Kelly] 208 ^^^""' ^y Bairnie. With the Dead. David Cuthbertson, . . 267 Song. The Auld Folks. Jaj[es Stewart, .... 211 Willij^m Shearer- Aitken, 269 The Herd Lassie. Hurrah for Scotland's James Cargill Guthrie, . 214 . Heroes Brave. My Bonnie Wee Wifie. ^\^^: ^}^^^''^^^' .... 271 The Days o' Langsyne. Mtiril Filosify. George Bruce, . . . . 217 ^ [lock ^"^^^ - Day I Will Trust in God. j^^^^ I hillooks 275 Robert W. Thom, .... 221 My Mammy's Awa'. §""H?*-,. ,„ J.Young, 276 Ihe Partin' Hour. c;„v.„ „f 4-u^ tt„ IsHemyFather'sBrother? pfrents ^^^ Robert Adamson, . . . 226 The Match-Seller ; or, the Wee Davie. Manly Bairn. To tlie Lark. William Allan 281 Peter Livingstone, . . . 229 Etemitie. Creep Before You Gae. Boehm'.s Statue of Thomas Andrew Sim, 230 Carlyle. Scotland's Bonnie Broom. ^^ i^ong for Men. ^Alex. M. Hart, .... 231 ^""^ ^T *!"? ^f ^'^•• / Solace Speak Kmd to the Bairns. James Nicholson, . . .233 ^"'' ^^^' "^^^^ '^e^"- Baby Marion (by Miss John Watson, 291 Nicholson). My Maggie. Wee Jeanie. Angus Ross, 292 Im-hm. The Voice of Nature. The Burnie. Margaret Wallace, . . 293 Sing me a Bairnie's Hymn. Butterfly Treasures. William Leighton, . . . Baby Died To-Day. Green Leaves. The Birdies, (lod ia Everywhere. Beauty. KOBKRT (.KIGHTON, . . . The Wee Herd Loon. The Neglected Canary. John and Tibbie's Dispute. William Roisektson, . . Moonlight Scenery in the Highlands. J. A. DUTHIE, Winter. Tlie Bonnie Braes o' Dun. Stocking Lore. Thomas Rcssell, .... Spirit Stirrings. Maby Cross, Bring Flowers. Memories. 'Tis Spring Again. David Maclabln, . . . Liz. I Know. The W^anderers Return. J. S. Mills, Fox Maule — Karl of Dal- housie. Schiehallion. Robert Reiu, Gloaming. Come and Woo. Little Thing.s. A Sprig o' Heather. William Thomson, . . . Scottish Scenes. Alex. Mitchelson, . . . Smiles and Tears. J. Cbawford, My Auld Wifie Jean. W. H. L. Tester, . . . . The Orange. My Wee Cripple Wean. Vv'ee Jamie. William F.indsay, . . . Jean o' Inchmill. Peter M'ABTHtii Lay bye this Staff fur me. CONTENTS. AflK. PAP.K. 2!t4 An[)Re>v Young 331 The Highlands of Scot- land. A Summer Sabb.ath Even- ing. Jas. Mackay, 334 300 Rory and Donald. L. J. NicoLSON, .... 335 It was the Time of lioses. Sorrow. 30(3 A. C. Barker, . . . . .338 On Leaving America. Alex. Shand, . . , . . 339 307 A Blighted Life. The Veteran's Tale. J. J. Brown, 3'A The Hours of Prime. '^^•' W. Donaldson, .... 3-42 Mither, Dinua Greet for "'^- me. David Blyth, 344 Adversity. "II ^' f'-^I^ENHKAD, .... 347 Hope. The Laverock's Sang. J. M. Bell, 3.")0 •J,,- The Brave and Fair. A. Dalglish, 351 Come, We'll to the Holms o' Clyde. 318 J. Bell, 352 Poets. Mrs Jessie Morton, . . . 353 Yer Nearer God, my Bairnie. 321 The Wee Spuuk Laddie. J. Gerbie, 35G 322 Poppin' the (.Question. Come Home. 321 W. Forsyth 357 Oh, Lady, Touch that 32.5 Chord Again. Horatius Bonae, .... 359 Live. J. Ogg, 3(;0 328 Auld Lewie Law. Nobval Clyne, '*.... 362 32'J The Union Song. The Old man's Melodies. PAGE. Kenneth M'Lachlane, . . 36i The Scottish EioiLTant. I'll be Thine the Morn, WiUie. M. U. Watt, 3G9 When will She Awaken ? Oh, Life ! Oh, Love ! Hans Breitmann, the Uhlan. J. P. Crawford, .... 372 The Keaper. Come Doon the Howm. J. S. Blackie, 377 The Song of Mrs Jenny Geddes. The Emigrant Lassie. PAGE. R, Wood, 381 Tammy's old Spring Well. J. Wynd, . ^ 381 Bonnie Lassie tell me. Mrs M. a. Smith, . . .382 Our Little Ones. Do Stay ! J. CowiE, 386 The Ploughman. G. Murray, 387 Song of the Lark. Old Winter is gone. J. Thomson, 389 The Term Time. NoRjiAN MACi-Eon, . . . 391 A Mother's Funeral. -^^ PREFACE. MH O are the Poets ? Coleridge, when he tells us what poetry is, will furnish the best answer : " I wish," he says, "young poets woukl remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry ; that is, prose equals words in their best order — poetry equals the best words in their best order." Poetry peeps out, as the reader will find, in unlooked-for corners. Dry lawyers, prosaic conveyancers, bankers, who may be suspected of no tenderer feelings than serve for arranging cheques and columns of figures, die, and in their desks are found copies of impassioned verse. Not only the scholar in his study, but the tradesman by the counter, the weaver at the loom, the ploughman in the field, and the fisherman in his storm-tossed boat utter their thoughts in song. It will be found, in the case of many of the poets referred to in this volume, that poetry has been in them, as song sleeps in the egg of the nightingale ; all that was required was expression and cultivation. It is true, however, only within certain limits, that the poet is born, and not made. Like the three sister arts — Music, Painting, and Sculpture — poetry is developed by opportunity and culture. On rare occasions a bard springs up "to the manner born," who "lisps in numbers," and who "cannot choose but sing ; " but this is the exception, and if circumstance may foster, they may also repress the poet's ardour. In former times we had singers at the plough, ortlieloom; and we find that even the din of steam-driven machinery cannot dry up the poet's heart. We have here brilliant examples of genuine singers bred amidst the unceas- ing clank of wheels— of inspiring lays breathed from huge factories and workshops. It is pleasant to think that in the least likely places there have been spirits and minds that have carried the light of poetic sentiment into scenes of labour, and elicited evidence of the lieart of humanity still vigorous amidst the hard i)ractices of commerce — a thing of which no merchandise can be made, which may be given but not purchased, which can be exchanged with nothing but itself. Men thus inspired, in however humble a sense, are still entitled to the name of poets — their office is creative in the sphere to which they are confined. In the career of n number of writers spoken of in this vohirae— in- deed, in the life of most itien^we find there are elevations and depres- sions, fitH of enerp^j'and times of indiiTerence ; high aims and humble aims, alternations *of triumph and despair. Sometimes we are inclined to smile at the eagerness disp'pyed in the pursuit of a phantom ; sometimes we are moved to teais by the cry of agony arising from a disappointed spirit. Sunshine and shadow, calm and tempest — these follow each other in the serious struggle of life as certainly as in external nature ; and sometimes, even when the clouds are at the darkest, a gleam comes athwart the mass to light up the glories of the rainbow. As it has been well said : "the Harp of Apollo has many strings, and the field of jjoetry is as varied and boundless as universal nature." There are those who cannot tolerate or recognise poetry in any strain but that of the highest order ; yet surely the wide world of humanity, the hopes, the fears, the thoughts and affections of the industrious, who form the great bulk of the human family, may be sung in strains of natural simplicity, and find an echo in any feeling breast. While neither soaring into sublimity, nor sinking into dullness, they may in their true e.xposition of life and character be exponents of that best element of song — the poetry of the human heart. The Scottish language — so simple, and so touching — enabled Burns, at the plough, to sing his lyrics to the ear of refine- ment, and was sweet and powerful in the hands of Ferguson, Ramsay, Tannahill, Hogg, Cunningham, Motherwell, Nicol, and many of lesser note, who have sung in simple tenderness. The " land of the mountain and the flood" may truly be characterised as the land of poetry. The dialect of Scotland lends itself so naturally and so easily to song, that the feelings of the illiterate, as well as of the educated, seem to flow more copiously into the lyrical expression than i^ the case in other countries. No nation under the sun has produced so many bards as Caledonia. They sing of the natural beauties that surround her people — her burns and heathery hills, the occupations that make up the routine of their daily life, and the joys and sorrows that chequer their experiences — till almost every town and hamlet, glen and stream are celebrated in song, and her scenery made familiar to the inhabitants of the remotest corners of civilization. During several years we have employed our spare moments in pro- curing materials ; and having enjc.j'ed special advantages of becom- ing acquainted with the life and character, as well as the effusions of several of the poets, tliis work has been brought out in deference to those who were anxious to possess in a collected form the musings of many of the present-day poets. Of late years a fresh interest in ^etry has been shown by all classes, and, we think, no previous period in the history of our country has produced so large a company of really gifted singers. The poets whose verses appear in the fol- lowing pages represent many ranks in the social scale, but the majority of them are the sons of toil ; and whether they have made use of the Scottish dialect or of the English language, they have beauti- fied the rough bye-ways of labour, and cheered the hours of toil in the office, the shop, the factory, and the field by their music. Onr magazines, literary journals, and weekly papers have done much to promote the advance of literary talents among the humble classes, which might otherwise have remained buried, and many a " gem of purest ray" has thus been discovered, which only required to be shown forth to benefit the possessor, as well as the world. The diffusion of a taste for poetry amongst the masses of the people is worthy of encouragement, and it is with joy that we recog- nise many indications in the artisans of our country not merely of cultivated intellect, but of moral delicacy and elegant taste. It has been our endeavour to avoid the mistake of taking fustian for inspiration, or the crude fancies of a whimsical brain- for the products of genius. In these brief sketches ov.r desire has ever been to note the efforts of true genius in working to its aim, and those proofs of self-denial and energy without which even the choicest gifts are vouchsafed in vain. As a reader must be anxious to know something of the history of the author in whom he is interested, one of the objects of the present work has been to present biographical notices of the writers in connection with their comjiositions, thus making the reader acquainted with the condition of the poet, and with the circum- stances in which his minstrelsy found utterance. In the arrange- ment of these much labour and correspondence has been in- curred, but no efi^ort has been spared to secure accuracy. Possibly some names will be missed, which orght to have been honourably noticed. Several of these came to hand when our space was ex- hausted — indeed, we already have material for a second volume ; and, copious as are our selections, only a small part of the available material has been employed. Few have the means of procuring every work of any department of literature as it comes from the press, and still fewer would have the leisure to study the whole collection, were it their own. Th© next best thing to reading a complete work on a subject, is to read carefully-selected specimens of it. Works ther e are, no doubt, which no abridgment can do justice to, but the writings of our poets can scarcely l.e said to belong to this category, "The PoetsVand Poetry of Scotland," by James Grant Wilson, and "The.Scottish Minstrel,"' bj' I)r Charles Piogers, with many other collections of the present century have been received with much approbation. From these works we have derived benefit, and it has been our aim to take up the ground where they left it. Should our effort .serve no other purpose, we would humbly hope that the present volume will in its turn be of some service to future collectors. We should be ungrateful did we not cordially acknowledge the assistance from friends, in all quarters, who have communicated information, and in various ways have given us facilities in the preparation of the volume. Our thanks are also due to many authors and publishers of copyright pieces. These, with a frankness we are most glad to acknowledge, gave us permission to reprint a number of fine compositions, which will doubtless form not the least attractive portion of this book. Advertise)' Office, Bbechin, December, ISSO. D. H. EDWARDS. ONE HUNDRED MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. JAMES HOGG GALL T^IED in November, 1878, at tlie early ago of 37. ^^ He -was a native of Aberdeen, learned tlie craft of a tailor, and when a lad of twenty enlisted into the 42nd regiment. The next ten years of his life were spent soldiering, mostly in India, first in the regi- ment into which he enlisted, and then in the 92nd into which he had exchanged. Amongst his military companions — by whom his poetical tastes and capa- bilities were fully appreciated, and to whose recreation he frequently contributed — he was much respected. On obtaining his discharge in 1870 he returned to his native city, and endeavoured to establish a small business us a tailor and clotlder, but failing of success he had for several years bygone worked at his craft as journeyman in the employment of others. Li a note we had from the poet, in 1877, ho writes: — "I was born in Aberdeen in August, 1812, and was the seventh and youngest son of William Gall, late senior partner of the firm of Gall & ]5ird. A calamity befel the firm, and the family wore re- duced to poverty. Tlie change entailed upon us by this sudden ruin nmy bo easier imagined 10 MODERN SCOTTISH rOETS. than described. Being the youngest of the male portion of the family I was often kept at home to help poor mother. At the early age of eleven I was apprenticed to a tailor. Between the age of thirteen and fourteen I had a strong desire to try my hand at the Muses, but it was not until I had joined tlie Black Watcli, in 1860. that I was able to string my ideas into rhj'me : in short, tlie ]\Iuse found me in the sentry-box while serving my Queen and countr}^ in the far East. I was seven years in the Black AVatch, but finished my soldiering career in the " Gordons" — having volunteered in 1867, when the 42nd was about to return home, after undergoing great havoc by the epidemic of 1867 in the ''Valley of Death." Shortly after my return from India poor mother died, and that I have undergone many changes since that time (my health being materially damaged by my long sojourn in the East) need hardly be mentioned, as I am only able to work about eight months in the year, and may often be seen hii-pling about — ' Cripple loon — auld sodger John ! ' " Such is the story of the life of Grail in brief out- line. With iis sensitive shrinking modesty, and keen moral sense, he was not the man to con- tend successfully against adverse circumstances. His songs, "Scotland Adieu!" "Leven's Bonnie Winding Stream," and some others, were set to music, and published. Several of his poems are pathetically sweet, and exjiress the tenderest feelings of his own heart with a painful earnestness that was driven sadly home by the stern facts of life. — E-^fe-a — WHAT MAK'S THE INGLE BLINK SAE BRIGHT? What male's the ingle blink sae bricht, tho' puir that ingle be ? The clean fire-cheeks, the white hearthstane, the bairnies' lauchin' e'e ; The plain guidwife, wha lo'es nae strife, but tries the best she can To keep a' richt, au' sued, an' ticht, an' please her ain guidman. JAMES HOGG GALL. 11 What male's the ingle blink sae bricht when freens wad come atween To dim the low that's blinkin' sweet, an' discord mak', I ween ? Jist bide ye there, an' ye'll win thro', an' Love will lend the licht. While Peace benign will gar it shine, an' mak' the ingle bricht. What mak's the ingle blink sae bricht, when we in poortith be ? The happy bairnies' thochtless din, an' a' their merry glee, Fresh themes inspire, and strike the lyre wi' Love's enchantin' strain, To mak' us lauch, an' gab, an' gait", an' trim Hope's sails again ? What mak's the ingle blink sae bricht ? — why lovin' hearts an' true— Folks join'd in life, for guid or ill— resolv'd to wai's'le thro' ! Deil tak the wench wha'd daur to fetch (just for a saintly name) Discord an' strife 'twixt man an' wife, an' dim the ingle's flame ! What mak's the ingle blink sae bricht ? It ne'er was gowd nor gear, Nae a' its sacerdotal pomp, an' a' its rev'rent fear Cud mak' the love (like Heav'n's above) frae native feeling spring, To cheer the heart wi' thrillin' dairt, an' mak' the dowie sing ! What mak's the ingle blink sae bricht ? — Why, Love an' Peace combin'd. While sweetly sheds Hope's gowden beams, to comfort a' man- kind ! 'Tis Love, not creed — so, man, tak' heed — Ay, Love that lends the licht, 'Tis Peace benign that gars it shine, an' mak's the ingle bricht ! THE WEE FOLKS. / Be kind to the wee folks. Their hearties are sma' ; Nur ken we the ills that Their lives may befa'. And, tho' they be noisy Wi' frolic and play. Oh ! check not their dafRn' So blythesome an' gay. Be kind to the wee folks, Their hearties are licht ; And canna sit dowie Frae mornin' till nicht. So lat tliem I)e merry Wliile I lope's gowden beams Play roon' their wee heids And ilanci! in their dreams ! 12 MODERN .SCOTTISH I'OETS. Be kind to the wee folks, Their liearties so s//.v de jy/wwe of " Wild Eose" — his first literary cognomen — and "Eobin Goodfollow." Ho has besides been more than once a prizeman in the Pcople'H Journal competitions, and in 1877 lie was successfid enough to carr}- off the second prize b}^ the poem entitled " By the Shore." We feel convinced Mr Fullerton has power within him even to excel any of his published productions. His leading quality is good sense, lucidly expressed, and his diction is chaste, rather than vigorous. Neither is he strong in senti- mental fancy, although this occasionally sparkles fresh and sweet in his shorter efi'usions, many of which are trid}- tender, modest, and graceful, while they are entirely free from all "mawkishness." BY THE* GATE. I wait, bowed down and weary, with locks all white as snow, Around me falls the shadow of the quiet evening hours ; Oh, angels, let me enter, I cannot fartlier go — The birds have ceased their singing, a dew lies on the flowers. The way Pve come is rugged, crossed with thorns that pierce the feet — A dreary way and darksome now my sun is in the West ; Oh, fling ^vide the massive gate, I would hear the voices sweet Of the loved ones gone before me — let me in, I long to rest. Baby prattlers, mine for ever, though we parted long ago. Wait my coming in those mansions beside the silvery streams. Among those thousand angels my little ones I'd know — They are with me, playing round me, in all my pleasant dreams. And she who wandered with me for many a happy year, Whose voice and smile could gladden amid my darkened hours, Loved fonder now than ever, missed now with sigh and tear, W"aits and longs to greet my coming within those blossomed bowers. Back the massive gate is flung, but the angels bar my way. And I may not enter in, though night's shadows round me lie; Let me pass ! I see the loved ones I and I hear their voices gay — While I spake a fair bride, entering, bade her weeping love good bye. JOHN FULLERTON. 17 Again the portals open, and a child of beauty rare — A mothei's only treasure, passes through the guarded gate ; Wildly weeps the widowed mother o'er her babe of many a prayer — Ah, the young are often taken while the aged stand and wait. Fair child and youth and maiden, pass on to bowers of bliss, For whom lone hearts are breakiiig. bitter tears shed day and night ; While I, unloved for ever, without or smile or kiss Long to see the Golden City, and the land all bathed in light. Life is sweet ; but when all sunshine has died within the heart And loved voices, sweet and tender, are hushed for evermore, Faint and worn-out and weary, the spirit woidd depart. And see the sinless Teacher, and sorrow nevermore. 1 wait — the winds are wailing through the tall trees on the hill, And deeper, darker shadows gather round my dreary way, I hear the sea's loud moanings and the prattle of the rill — Let me entei-, guardian angels, now has closed my loveless day. If I may not enter yet, then I'll calmly stand and wait, My dim eyes gazing ever tow'rds the mansions of the blest — Cheered and gladdened with this hope, when I pass within the gate, I shall see my loved and lost ones, and find eternal rest. LOVE. O, love, love, love, Tell me if ever the angels above Feel what we mortals feel under the shade Of bowers by the brookside, kissing the maid We love with a love Pure as the blossoms that herald the spring. Or the song the larks over their nested mates sing ? 0, love, love, love, Thou dwell'st in the heart of the peasant and peer, The sleeping babe cradled thou hover'st above. All through life thou art with us, in sorrow to cheer, And at death when we lie at full length on our bier Thou foldest our hands on our breast, and our eyes Thou closest, till somewhere, 'mid far away skies They glow in the light of a love that is heaven. U N F R G T T E N . The loved ones sleeping far away In the old churchyard by the sea, Witli whom the long, long sunnner day I sang, with merry heart and free. 18 MODERN SCOTTISH POKTS. Songs learnt around a mother's knee — Are with me unforgotten. The woodhind haunts, where blossoms sweet Flung_ fragrance to the South's soft breeze, The birds that warbled "mid the trees Love lays that lured our wayward feet — The bowers where fairies loved to meet— I see them imforgotten. The happy nights around- the fire, When trees were bare and blossoms doad. The rhymings of the poet's lyre, The stories told by grey-haired sire, The old songs sang till tears were shed — Can never be forgotten. blessed dead ! though far apart, My lips will yet be prest to thine. And eyes, that ever glowed with love Will sweetly smile again in mine And fond heart fondly throb to heart, When in the glorious land above 1 see thee, unforgotten. J. K. CHEISTIE BELONGS to the poetic field of Paisley, and com- menced the serioas business of life "n'hen a mere callant of eight or nine years of age in a lithographer's workshop. After being engaged at various employ- ments, we find him in Her Majesty's service as a postman, bookseller, and assistant postmaster at Dunoon, and at present he acts as a letter- stamper in the Post Office, Glasgow. In 1877 he published a volimie of poems, entitled "Many Moods in Many Measures ; " and the now well-known initials, "J. K. C," are frequently to be met with in the ''Poet's Corner" of the Glasgow and other papers. J. K. CHKISTIE. 19 As a poet, he is capable of sustaining many varieties of verse ; and although in humour — that quality so largely developed in the Scottish character, and especially in the genuine Scottish minstrel — he is at times somewhat constrained, he forcibly expresses the homely pathos of lowly domestic life with touching tenderness and grace. This is par- ticularly shown in his well-known little pieces, ' ' Wee Maggie," "Mother's Darling," and " God Help the Poor." These are full of sweet .simplicity, truth, and nature, and are pervaded by a mellow but deep- toned feeling. — ^©S'^- ♦ MOTHER'S DARLING. A little babe with mild blue eyes. Full of light and sweetness, Glancing up with glad surprise From the arms wherein it lies. Seen in its completeness. Lily cheeks and dimpled chin. Lips a little parted, Pearly teeth are seen within, Lips like rosebuds, velvet skin, Bright-eyed and pure-hearted. Shining ringlets round its brow Like a halo cluster. Fondly doth its mother now With a full heart o'er it bow, Scarcely can she trust her Voice to speak, but kisses sweet On its lips she presses, While the tiny hands and feet Like dear friends strive hard to meet. And share her caresses. Helpless, yet how trustful found, Trusts its mother dearly, See how little arms are wound Lovingly her neck around, Till 'tis hidden nearly. Happy lady, happy child, Bound one to the other ! Happy mother loving mild, Happy infant undefiled, Happy babe and mother ! 20 MODKRN SCOTTISH TOKTS. A T. I T T T. E C O F F 1 N. A little coffin three feet lonj,' ; Eyelids red with weeping ; Another darlings joined the throng, Who sweetly Hsp an anger^* song, In Jehovah's keeping. The little feet are quiet now — Eyes are closed forever : A drooping head may o"er it bow, A mother kiss the suowy brow- More she'll press it never. Tlie tiny shoes are hid away, With the little dresses, And wept in secret o'er each day, But kissed and prized much more than they Are two golden tresses. Oft in the silent midnight hour, When the world is sleeping, A lonely heart thinks of the flower Transplanted now to Eden"s bower. And can smile while weeping. It is a tale nor strange nor new, Lov'd ones torn asunder ; A mother's tears a grave bedew. Over it grows sweet violets blue, Baby's sleeping under. SINGING AS THEY GO. See yon tiny streamlets wander Down the mountain's breast ; Onwards gaily they meander. Never seen at rest — Rippling, dancing down together With unceasing flow, 'Mongst the grass and purple heather, Singing as they go. O'er the meadow bees are coming. Glancing in the light ; List, how well we hear them humming Though now lost to sight. Hid amongst the fragrant clover, Or where wild flowersgrow. Off as soon's their feast is over, Singing as they go. G. W. DONALD. 21 Upwards lightly larks are winging To the azure sky ; Still their joyous notes are ringing As they rise on high, They have left the modest daisies, Near their nests so low. While to heav'n they mount with praises, Singing as they go. Blythe and merry children's voices Now salute the ear ; In the sunshine youth rejoices, Knowing nought of fear ; All are full of life and beauty, Teaching us to know We may love and lighten duty, Singing as we go. »DiK3« G. W. DONALD *fp\AS long been favourably known as a poet of II •/ more than ordinary merit. He was born at Westfield, near Forfar, in 1820. Through an acci- dent in childhood he was permanently deprived of the use of his right limb, and being debarred from romping about like other children, he was the close companion of his mother, who delighted to comfort him by singing snatches of ballads and songs. Dr Rogers teUs us that in his eleventh year his father took in lease a small farm in the parish of Dun- nichen ; and while tending tlie cattle, the youthful poet continued to foster his taste for music and song. His verses were sung by his brothers and sisters at social gatherings; and expressions of praise prompted him to more ambitious efforts. In his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the loom. In 1843 he was appointed to the charge of a non-parocliial school near the village of Dunnichen, from wliich he was preferred to the more lucrative office of schoolmaster 22 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. at Kingsmuir. Having acquired a systematic ac- quaintance with the art of teaching at one of the Normal Seminaries, Mr Donald was, in 1847, elected teacher of a school at Tarfside, Lochlee. In 1852 he removed to a school at Luthermuir. This situation he resigned in 1858, and he afterwards taught an adventure school at Forfar, and subsequently at Dunnichen and St Yigeans. In September 1866 he was appointed to the keepership of Arbroath Abbey, a post well suited to his antiquarian tastes. Mr Donald published a small volume of poems in 1854, and in 1867 a work entitled " Poems, Ballads, and Songs." A complete and fifth edition of his effusions was published in 1879 in the Arhroath Guide office — a handsome and beautifully-printed quarto volume. To this work, as well as to the "People's Edition" (1872), is prefixed an interesting article on the Abbey of Ai-broath. The popularity of these editions is sufficient proof that our poet has been appreciated as his talents deserve. He shows deep tenderness and feeling. His serious poems speak to the heart ; but, in the words of the Athejiceum, "he is happiest in his humourous efi'orts, or in those which blend humour with pathos." "My Mither's Cruzie," and " The Muckle Skeel," are powerfiiljdescriptive poems, almost unequalled in the language. THE SCOTTISH LYRE. Let Fortune's minions strain or strive to catch her gowden ba', Let tyrants howl their horrid glee while towers or temples fa', They heed not in their guilefu' path, where bleeding thousands Ue, The waefu' widow's burning tears or hameless orphan's cry ; Far frae such sickening scenes of strife or carnage let me stray, Where peace or freedom smile fu' bland by holm or sunny brae, Where birds and flowers and fluttering leaves my hamely Muse inspire To sing the sang that melts the heart or woo the Scottish lyre. The Scottish lyre has wafted balm to hearts in ilka land. And binds them like a link o' gowd to Scotia's rugged strand ; Though milder climes and brighter skies may bless thewand'rer's e'e, The hamely lays o' early days can ne'er forgotten be. «. W. DONALD. 23 In them her glens and birken bowers shall aye be fjreen an' fair, Her birds shall sing an' burnies row till time shall be nae mair ; Her sangs can soothe the deepest wae or fan the lover's fire, Or bring fond mem'ries o' the past — the pawky Scottish lyre. Yon wee herd loon has felt its power, his heart comes till his mou', 0' ballads aiild an' bonnie sangs he's got his bannet fu'. He sighs ower Lucy's flittin' time, for sae may be his ain, While 'neath Lord Baron's bluidy spear his bosom heaves wi' pain ; He scans Ben Lomond's lofty brow when gloamin' gathers roun'. An' pu's the rose but spares the thorn on braes o' bonnie Boon ; He cons them ower by ilka bush an' crunes them i' the byre, An' when his pow is like the snaw he'll bless the Scottish lyre. A warm loof lichtly locks in mine, a fond embrace is given — 'Tis she, the maid I loved on earth, a lover yet in heaven ; I hear the sang she wont to sing— the sang o' plighted love, Ance mair I hear that mellow voice my inmost soul could move ; The lily pure and blushing rose exhale their sweet perfume — Again I bind them round that brow to match her virgin bloom ; Let daikSiome Winter rave at will, I'll doubly dare his ire, We live, we love, in summer's glow, through thee, the Scottish lyre. The weary wand'rer comes at last far frae a distant shore, He lingers 'neath the ivy'd porch, the lowly cottage door. And lists for some sweet sound or song ; his eyes are filled with tears. He lists, and hears the soothing strain that charmed his infant years ; It is the sang his mother sung to cheer the lanely hour ; And, garnered in his bosom core like nectar in the flower, It speaks in tones of tenderness to raptured son or sire. An' welcomes back the lang awa — the lowly Scottish lyre. Oh, may the balm o' love an' song ne'er leave auld Scotia's isle ! Lang may it bless the poor man's heai'th and soothe the poor man's toil ; May Peace her dove-like wings unfauld ower a' her hills an' dales, Sae lang's the thistle wags its head, or wave the heather bells ; Lang may her sons an' daughters fair maintain their auld renown. Nor slight a friend, nor fear a foe, nor dread a tyrant's frown ; Lang may they chant the lilts they lo'e, the sangs we maisfc admire. And frae her flowers fresh garlands twine to deck the Scottish lyre ! 24 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. YE'RE BLYTHE MY BONNIE BAIRNIES. Ye're blythe, my bonnie bairnies, dear ! Ye're happy ane an' a', An' kenna that ilk changefu' year Will steal your bliss awa. Ye pu' the gow'nie's siller bloom, The lily's gowden bell, Unmindfii' that an hour o' gloom .shall break the fairy spell. The mornin' sun aft brings the day Sweet, smilin' ower the plain, Yet dark'nin' clouds may dim his ray Aboon the western main. Like birdies frae their downie nest Ye gather round my knee ; Their chirpin' glads a mither's breast : Your joys are dear to me. But snai'es are hid deep i' the den Whaur bonnie birdies dwell ; And ither snares are hid for men, Which lead to ruin fell. Ye'll soon be ta'en awa fra» me To join a warld o' care ; An' some may gang awa frae me, Perchance to meet nae mair. Ye'll a' be men an' women yet. When I am deid an' gane ; But may ye never want a bit, Nor dree the scorn frae ane. 'Twad sairly grieve this heart o' mine To see you gang astray ; But Heaven will gie ye grace divine To keep ye i' the way. My blessing's a' the warld's wealth May aiblins be your fa'. But gin ye hae y'r hands an' health Ye'll warsel thro' it a'. An' gin ye've bairnies o' y'r ain, Tho' nane o' them I'll see, Ye'll ken how mithers' hearts are fain, An' then ye'll think on me. THOMAS CAMPBELL. 26 THOMAS CAMPBELL, H NATIVE of Alton, parish of Loudon, Ayrshire, was born, he tells us, "on a 'new year's morn,' in the same year that Queen Victoria ascended the throne." The youngest of twelve, he started life as a herd-loon — his stock consisting of ' ' nine queys, five score of sheep, and three ' grumphies.' " He was afterwards employed as a weaver in G-alston for fifteen years, during which period he attained some reputation as a musician, vocalist, and poet. During the last twelve years he has acted as traveller for Mr Alex. Burns, Motherwell (of the firm of Burns & Lauchland), who, although af&icted with blindness, is a shrewd, yet kindly and honourable man of busi- ness. Campbell possesses a rich, warm fancy, is singularly correct in expression, but is most at home in his native Doric. OOR AIN MITHER TONGUE. Some say we're gaun to lose it yet — Oor ain inither tongue, And to oblivion toss it yet — Oor ain mither tongue. What wad oor forefathers say, Gin they had lived to see the day When foreign " gab" wad sweep away Oor ain mither tongue. A "wee thocht vulgar" some may ca' Oor ain mither tongue ; The// dinna ken its worth ava — Oor ain mither tongue. Wi' fashious words tliey don't come speed, As dowie, doited, dreigh. Indeed There's rowth can speak but canna read Oor ain mither tongue. It serv'd oor "forbears," "auld langsyne" — Oor ain mither tougue. Wi' siccar grup we're laith to tyne Oor ain mither tongue. When bardies sang wi' blythsome glee, When mither croon'd us on her knee, When warriors cried " Let's dae or dee," Jist in their mither tongue. 26 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. Auld Scotia dinna let it gang — Oor ain mither tongue ; Lose the bardie ? lose the sang ? In oor ain mither tongue. Talk as we may, hame's aye hame, Be't heigh or laigh, it's a' the same, There's something cosie in the name ; Oor ain mither tongue. DAVID TAYLOE, HUTHOR of many stirring poems, was born in Dundee, in 1831 His father was a handloom weaver, but being in receipt of a small pension for military service, he was able to give his family a fair education. From the age of thirteen until he was twenty-four, David followed the occupation of his father, and afterwards got work in a powerloom factory, where he is still emploj' ed as an overseer. "When the agitation for a Nine Hour's Factory Bill commenced he was appointed secretary of the move- ment in Dundee, which was the headquarters in Scotland, and he continued until the passing of the Fifty-six Hour's Factory Act. On the expiry of the agitation, the factory-workers of Dundee held a meeting to celebrate the event, which was presided over by Edward Jenkins, Esq., the then junior M.P. for the burgh, and to mark their appreciation of Mr Taylor's services in the movement presented him with a purse and twenty sovereigns. FIRE. Fire ! Fire ! — what a fearful cry : How the young and the old in terror fly, How madly they jostle and rush along To the scene where gathers a surging throng, All anxious to see the terrible sight Of the fire fiend raging in all his might; For each has a marvellous, strange desire To gaze on the work of the demon Fire. DAVID TAYLOR. 27 Fire ! Fire ! — what a fearful sight In the dark and gloom of the peaceful night, To see the arch monster's luminous blaze Burst forth on the startled traveller's gaze From roofs or windows of mansion or mill, Where all had before been dark and still. The havoc he makes is dreadful and dire — A destructive fiend is the demon Fire. Fire ! Fire !— what a fearful sound The demon creates when leaping around The beams and rafters to which he clings And enfolds with greed in his blazing wings ; He rushes and roars like an angry flood, A hideous vampire thirsting for blood ; He works with a will, is ne'er like to tire, And seems in his glory, that demon Fire. Fire ! Fire ! — what a fearful scene When awhile at his task the fiend has been. W^hat before was a proud and stately pile Is a seething mass with his frenzied toil ; And when he has grasped all at his command His work then appears terrific'ly grand ; For be it a mansion, or be it a spire. He does his task well, does the demon of Fire. Fire ! Fire !— what a fearful glare He sheds with his gleams on the midnight air, With gorgeous lustre and brilliant hue Each turret and spire he unfolds to view ; And the sparks that fly from his lurid blaze Fall like showers of gold on the awe-struck gaze. Oh ! awfully grand, but terribly dire Is the work that's done by this demon Fire. Fire 1 Fire ! — what a fearful wreck When he ends his toil, and has got no check To his furious, madd'ning, fierce career ; Then all is black as a funeral bier, And the shapeless mass and the roofless wall Proclaim his triumph and power o'er all. His work then is done to his heart's desire, And he laughs at us all, this demon Fire. 28 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. PETEE WHTTOCK MAS born in Dundee, in 1848. where the most of his life has been spent. He is an officer of the Board of Trade branch of the Civil Service, from the monotonous routine of which he has sought relief in the pleasures of literature. He has been a valued member of literary societies, and has contributed for a number of years, in prose and verse, to various journals — chiefly to the People's Friend and People's Journal. In the Christmas Poetical Competition of the last-named paper he was a prizeman on three occasions — viz., the years 1873-75. In the year 1875 he revised and edited the poems of Mrs Camp- bell, of Lochee. Many of his Scotch pieces have been copied into American papers ; and he on one occasion saw his verses in an Ayrshire newspaper, taken from an American journal ! His effusions show a kindly and reverent heart. His versification is smooth, and his homely pictures of rural life are full of charm and vivid reality. THE SKEIN 0' '00. My ain wife Jean, I'll baud the skein Till ye mak' up your clew, As I was wont to do langsyne. When I cam' coortin' you ; 0, row awa' the worsit ba', To deed the bairnies' feet "Wi' saf t an' cozie 'coin hose, The winter's cauld to meet. Chorus — O, row awa', etc. 0, dae ye mind yon gloamin' oor, Wi' a' its hallowed grace, When in your daddie's garden-bower We twa sat face to face ? Wi' love's sweet tyranny you made Me baud your cut o' 'oo. While ye wi' speed rowed up the thread. Entranced I gazed at you. Chorus — 0, row awa', etc. I'ETEK WHYTOOK. 29 Till then I ne'er had daured reveal My heart in words ava, Although for lang we kenned fu" weel The love atween us twa : I cried, "Dear Jean, this double skeiu Is oor twa lives entwined — I'll haud the 'oo, you'll row the clew, And blissfu' years unwind ! " Chorus— 0, row awa', etc. A deeper red your cheek ower-spread, You loot the clew fa' doon, J kissed yon aft as in my ainns I clasped you fondly roun' ! A sacretl troth we plichted then, To be to ither true, Syne I took up the "oo again, And ye made up your clew. (/horns — 0, row awa", etc. .And aye the skein o' life we haud, An' row't as best we can ; It's whiles oor lot to meet a knot, Or ravel noo an' than. But when the worsit winna rin. We dinna rug an' rive, We slacken not, or baith lat in — And sae richt weel we thrive. L'horus — 0, row awa', etc. The skein grows thin, it's wearin' dune, A' rowed up in the ba' ; The thicad that joins us baith will sunc Feeze oot and snap in twa ! But cannie will we guide it still, As we hae dune sae lang ; And mirth to bring we'll ance mair sing This hamely heartsome sang ! (-'horns — 0, row awa', etc. MY M I T H E 11 ' S F A V ' R I T E FLOWERS. They i^ing o' thi- roses, the lilies an" punsics, An' flowers that arc showy an' braw ; An' weel they deserve it, but naebody fancies My mither's auld fav'rites ava. Sae it ic grand treasure got, Wi' its rivals the roses con ten tit at flingin' Sweet kisses intil oor bit cot : An' I maiuia forget the belov'd meeuonette, The wee modest gem o' oor plot 1 An' what fragi'ant odours around us cam' waftin' Frae that bus' o' the bonny sweet breir I For after the saft summer -showers it was aften Owrepoorin' To a' that gaed near. An' what could you bring me to match appleringie, Wi' its sweet breath, sae kindly ao' dear 'i O I dearly thae floweries were io'ed by my mither ; In her breist aft a posie she'd wear ; Their perfumes to cheer her urdtit thegither, As slie toiled on the lan^- day sae sair ! When strangers came tae her, a tiower they got frae her. An' aye her auld fav'rites were there ! How saftly the scent owre the senses aye creepit O' her Sabbath-day's buuchie sae green ; At the kirk like a bim'le o incense 'twas keepit, The leaves o' her psalm- oook at ween ; An' though seldom 'twas needit, the sleep she sae dreedit, It fleggit awa' frae her een 1 To the worth o' his mither, this sang frae her laddie Is gi'en 'bout her auld fav'rite flooers. Through life she preferred aye the guid to the gaudy ; May a choice as weel focndit be oors ! An' what's best we'U regaird, as we gang through earth's yaird. Till we rest amang Eden's sweet bowers ! WILLIAM M 'queen. 31 WILLIAM M' QUEEN, HTJTHOR of several pleasing- jDoetical pieces, and a graphic and rising story- writer, was born at Pollockshaws in 1841. His parents removed to' Glasgow in 1843, Avhen j'oiing M'Queen was put to work in a nianufactiu'er's warehouse. On his father's death a year afterwards, he ^ras put to learn warping, at which lie was soon able to make a man's wage, and to be his mother's sole support. Trade get- ting dull, he went to sea as a steward, and also made a voyage before the mast to Mexico, where he got ague and fever. Some years after we find him in a power-loom factor}-, where he soon became manager. Failing health and long hours caused him to give up this employment, and he opened a small drapery shop, and began to Avrite stories and verses. He now devotes all his time to literature, and is busily em- ployed in the way of story, review, and leader- writing. M'Queen has only published a small collection of " Songs and Ehymes " (1878) ; yet tliis volume, like the widow's mite, must be regarded with peculiar interest. His measures are simple, yet effective. Some of his effusions are tender in their pathos : full of a sweet touching beauty, and more of a descrip- tive and reflective character than imaginative. In this respect he is a painter rather than a poet. In some of the pieces we can detect a little of what may be styled commonplace fancy ; but this is to be forgiven when we see traces of its being meant for modest, or rather graceful and tender sentiment. We have been pecu- liarly pleased with "Tlie Hoose in the Hallow," "The Bield on the Mountain," and "The Stui-dy Beggar." As a prose writer, his graphic pictures of curious Scottish characters of the olden time, and delineations of the lights and shadows of rural life, are highly eutei-taining. 32 xMODERN SCOXTISH POETS. THE B I E L D ON T H E M U N T A T N. I ha'e a bonnie wee bielcl, Fir cosy, fu' trit,', and fii' clean, Enench a" my treasures to sliielrl, Whaur my wife 'maiig the bairnies sits cjueen ; High up on the dark mountain's side, Entangled "midst heather and whin — There it listens a' day and a" nicht To the roar o' the louping linn. The kelpies that dance ower the burn, Tlie spunkies that flee through the sky, Canna lead a happier life Than Maggie, the bairnies, and I. Cauld Care may chap at the door. But I'se warrant he'll never get ben : There's nae room for the soor auld carl At oor warm and cosy tire-en'. When the sun and I finish oor wark. And we baith dauner hame to oor rest, Hdo kindly the half-conscious door Opens biythe to my weel-theekit nest ! The ingle sae cheerfu' and bricht — The wife and the bairnies sae fain — Od I the bield is a heaven ootricht, And the best o't is — it's my ain. G LOAM IN' TIME. I set me doon and think When the fire burns bricht, i'or the rhymes they kind o' clink In the gloamin' licht ; When the darkness creeps abune, And the shadows gather roon, As the day resigns the croon To the starry nicht. It's trying to the maist Is the gloamin" licht : For a' folks hae a ghaist That's no buried richt. That will come withoot a ca' And refuse to Lcang awa While the shadow's on the wa' — Though the tire bums bricht. Yet the gloamin's but a blink — It v/as meant to be sae — And we mauna sit and think A' the li\ clang day. WILLIAM M 'queen. 33 We maun up and strive oor best, Dae oor work wi' cheerfu' zest, '^ And oor future will be blest Whaure'er lies oor way. THE LARK. Hark I "tis the lark that from his dew-deck'd couch Mounts, with a song to greet the advancing morn ; Soaring on blythsome wing, with trUl on trill, Piping " I pluck the rose and leave the thorn." One star alone, the brightest in night's train, Pauses, a-tremble, on the brink of day ; Lingering to catch the music of thy notes, Chained by the magic of tliy wondrous lay. Mount still, oh lark ! still higher climb the skies, Till thou hast reached that sphere where angels' song Falls on thine ear ; and with thy matchless skill Earthward the echoes of their notes prolong. Oft comes the wish that I might soar like thee : Shake, as thou dost, earth's dust from off my feet ; Mount, with a song, above this world's dark clouds ; Live in the sunshine at the angels' feet. NURSERY SONG. Johnny's got a bawbee — How will he ware't ? Will he buy a powny. Or a muckle cairt ? Buy a whup for horsey, Or a roon drum ; Buy a French peerie 'ITiat can dance or hum. Buy a tin whistle, Or a cat or dog ; Something that can skirl In a bodies' lug. Buy a wee brither Frae a kail stock, J3rocht by the doctor In a black pock. Ne'er mind what you buy, Only buy it sune, Gin it be but something 'lliatll uiak a din. 34 MODERN SCOTTISH POKTS. JOHN MACFARLANE MAS born at Abington, a small village in the south of Lanarksliii'C, in May, 1856. After receiving the rudiments of a good p]nglish education at the village school, he removed to Glasgow in 1871. His poetical elfusions have been principally confined to the columns of the People's Friend, and the poet's comer of the Hamilton Advertiser and other news- papers, where they appeared under the nora de plume of " John Arbory." Many of Macfarlane's poems evince grave and elevated sentiment, expressed generally in correct poetical language. Patriotism and the beauties of external natui-e seem to be the favourite subjects of his Muse. Pure and earnest in thought, his utter- ances are such as readil}" sink into the heart. THE MARTYR'S GRAVE. Hid in the depths o' the rauii-lan" mists. Unmatched on the slope o' the mountain green, The martyi''s gi-ave that we kent langsyne. Pleads wi' the heart in the wilds unseen ; An' the glen where forfouchen an' hunted sair. He soucht for a den by the roe-buck's lair. Alane, on the hilltap stem an' grey. Alane, in the fa' o' heaven's ain dew. He thocht o' the Lord an' his promise gude, For the faith o' the covenant Ufe was true ; An' a sweet dream cam' ower his wearit sicht, Like a gleam straucht doon frae the stams o' licht. Chased frae his hame an' the baims he loe'd, Far frae the love o' hi^ kith an' kin. He still was leal to the gi-and auld league, For he couldna bide in the tents o' sin ; An' the croon was his that maun fade nae mair, For it glintit aft on his brow o' care. Abune was the treasure he lang had hained, Abune wi' the host o' the pure an' just, Sae he didna flee frae the hour o' doom, JOHN MACFARLANE. 35 His faitherV God was his only trust ; An' his saul ta'eii flicht to the realms sae blest, Tho' his shi'uud was a shroud o' mornin' mist. THE WEE SPRIG 0' HEATHER. O ! wae on the gowd wi' its glamoui' beguilin' The bravest ft-ae Scotia acros-s the saut sea, An' wae on dame fortune sae fause wi' her smilin', For cauld, cauld the pleasiu'e at best she can gie; But aye to heart that is leal mair endearin', A message o' love frae the lard far awa', When aften it comes like a sun-blink sae cheerin', A wee sprig o' heather sae withered an' sma'. The emigrant dreams o' his ha me in the gloamin', An' wanders in fancy some wild glen sae green. His thochts are tho purest wi' mem'ry when roamin', The land where the bluebell an' thistle are seen ; An' aften the gloom that enshrouds hini brings beainin', Affection's sweet token dispellin' it a', As brichtly in darkness the staniie is gleamin'. A sprig o' his ain native heather sae sma'. The burnie, that's glidin' sae sweetly an' singiii', Awa frae its hame in the mountain sae high, Ne'er kens in its mirth that the future is bringin', Tlie tempest an' roar o' the dark tossin' sea ; An' sae wi' the lad owre the ocean careerin', Like strains frae the harp are the winds when they blaw, Till wearit the bricht sun o' hope disappearin'. He iangs for a tuft o' the heather sae sma'. THE LAST O' THE HILLMEN. The last o' the hillmen, doited an' auld, An' as wearit as wenrit could be. In a far-awa land wi' a wistfu' look, Socht a blink o' his ain countrie ; An' his wearifu' heart wad fain hae been, Whaur the gowden sun glints doon, On the bonnie lown glens o' Clydesdale fair, An' the covenant hills sae broon. For mem'ries sweet cam' owre liis min', 0' the times sac pure an' true, When his hanuj was ;iwa frae tlic haunts o' men, The airt tliat the wild birds flew, 36 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. Mair quatc wi' the soun's that floatod abuiie — Abune to the cahn, blue sky ; The e'enin' psalm on the midnicht air, An' the lanely whaup's lane cry. An' lang^yne thochts encircled him roun', Like a dream o' mist an' blude, When he prayed on Tinto, sae stem an' gi'ey, That his country micht still do gude, An' crap wi' the martyrs sae buirdly an' bauld — Aye monj' a leal heart there, To Scotland's kirk that he loe'd f u' wcel, Forgathered on some green gair. Tho' they hunted him oot like a liirplin' hare, An' he fled frae his hame awa Across the sea to anither clime, Where freedom was free to a', The Ucht o' his life had aften been, "When the gloamin' was gather in' roon, That his body micht rest whaur the burnies sing, 'Mang the Covenant hills sae broon. S>fi%!u3 JAMES M. NEILSON MAS born in the parish of Campsie, Stirling- shire, in 1844. After a plain education, he, at the age of twelve, went to work, and was afterwards apprenticed to engraving in a calico printwork in his native parish. "While in his " teens " he was engaged in wi-iting local notes for a county newspaper, which possibly encouraged him to court the Muses. About 1861 he first appeared with verses in print in a Glasgow weekly. In 1875 he removed to Thornlie- bank, Renfrewshire : and in the beginning of 1877 published his volume of "Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Language." The speedy sale of the large edition (1000 copies) must have been gratifying to the author. JAMES M. NEILSON. 37 Although only a young man, and a member of an exhausting trade, Mr Neilson must have been very diligent. His poems and songs are full of homely imagery and pleasant fancies. His thoughts are neat rather than vigorous ; graceful rather than lofty, and he has the modesty which is one of the marks of real merit. His treatment of grave themes shows that he possesses not only a deep insight into Nature, but also an intimate acquaintance with the workings of the heart. In his humorous moods, too, he can be funnj- without being silly. This is especially seen in his graphic little pieces on nursery scenes and incidents. Listen to the following from the " Candy- man's Stan' " — At the schule he's in coontin, an' writin', an' a', Fills a copy a-v.-eek, an' whiles three in the twa ; But I doot its no dune for improvin' his haun — For auld copies are taen at the candyman's stan'. But there's somntlung guid in him, too, worthy o' heed : There's wee Sandy MacMurray, wha's father's short deid, Wha gets ne'er iioo a bawbee on pay-days to spen', And wha ither schiile-bairns seem despisin' sin' then ; Od, oor Will has stuck to him, while they've turn't their back, Sae a noble Freemason, I think, Will may mak'. Puir wee Sandy shares a' whilk wi' Will may be gaun, Frae the treacle mak-up on the candyman s stan'. THE BIGGIN' ON THE BRAE. Whan winter's on fa's frichtfu', an' its blasts blaw snell an' croose, By-or'ner looks o' comfort's 'bout the uplan' theekit hoose ; Whan simmer comes sae mei-ry wi' its trappin's bricht an' gay, The brichest, ga3rest hame o' a's the biggin' on the brae. There's freedom in the muir-cock's cry an' in the burnie's din ; There's beauty in the purple heath an' in the gowden whin ; There'.s grandeur in the rocky steep wi' lichens siller't grey, An' pleasure in their midst within the biggin' on the brae. There's aye the lade o' guid aitmeal, the heap o' aiten cakes. The coggie fu' o' crummie's milk sae rich wi' 'reamy flakes ; There's aye a bienness an' content in cozie hodden-grey — There's airs o' independence 'bout tli« biggin' on the brae. 38 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. LITTLE WORDS. Some little artless;, simple words, From lips that mean no harm, Like sparks, may kindle passions wild To fill us with alarm : But little words have also power To quench the wicked flame — Yes, little words are strong to make The furious passion tame. Why, then, since little simple words In good and ill are stronr,', Let's try to speak the little words That do no neighbour wrong. Some little words may touch a chord. And bring forth bitter tears From eyes that have forgot to weep Perhaps for many years : But little words can also cheer, And soothe the stricken heart, And kindly wipe the biggest tear, And saddest, that may start. Why, then, since little, simple words In good and ill are strong. Let's try to speak the little words That do no neighbour wrong. While little words perchance offend The friends we must revere. Some little words can also make Who speaks them doubly dear ; If little words the sweet content Of home betimes annoy. Still, little words there are can till The world of homes with joy. Why, then, since little, simple words In good and ill are strong, Lefs try to speak the little words That do no neighbour wrong. WILLIAftr PENMAN. 39 WILLIAM PENMAN. '^'HIS true poet and genuine humorist was a ^ir' native of Glasgow, and his promising career was very suddenly terminated in January, 1877, at the early age of twentj^- eight. Though he spent his hrief life in the humble capacity of a blacksmith in u Grlasgow founchy, he managed to snatch sufficient time between meals and otherwise to study tlie art of composition, and at a very early period of his career lie began to pour out his thoughts in rhyme. A friend says : — " He was a living rebuke to discontent and selfishness, and in the manifestation of his gene- rous joyous nature did more to lighten life to his fellows, and to reconcile them to their lot, than all the efforts of abler men." Not many weeks before his death, we spent a day with him, and the kindly smile and ready joke of " Rhyming Willie," as lie was popularly called, were greatly enjoyed by us. Even then he seemed to have some premonition of his approaching end, and lie remarked to a friend — ''It would lie a pity, Aloe, if I had not better prospects for the next world than I have for this, and if I liave not made many friends in my life, I do not think I have made many enemies." Four generations were represented at his funeral, by his son, his father, and his grand- father. He never could tolerate cruelty in any form, and one night when sitting on the bank of the Paisley Canal some urcliins liad caugiit u frog, and were using it roughly. One said to anotlier, " What shall we do with it next? " M'hen Penman stepped up to them and proposed tliat they should drntr// it in the Canal. The bait took, the puddock was thrown in, and he chuckled to himself when lie saw it gracefully swim away from its tormentors. On one occasion at tlie Cxleuloch, our poet, who had up till this time iilwnys fished Avith the worm, thought he would try 40 MODERN SCOTTISH POETS. the fly. He did so, and had not h)ng to wait till he landed a splendid trout. After he had secured it, he looked strangely down upon it and exclaimed, " Weel, fishie, ye're no a bit mair siu'prised at being catched than Will Penm;iu was to catch ye." Although he has written very little on the beauties of Nature, as displayed in her visible works, we know that he could appreciate " Nature's wild bye-paths." Possessed of a lively and warm temperament, his conversation literallj- sparkled with wit and anecdote. He claimed no merit as a poet, but only professed to be a writer of "incidental rhymes." His power of hxunour was unbounded. He had a joke for every occasion, a hon-mot for every adventure. Although much esteemed by ^ wide circle, and kind, affable, and unostentatious, hi- had a keen power of satire when he chose to wield it ; but he generally blended the complimentary with the pungent, and lessened the keeness of censure by the good humour of its utterance. In 1875 appeared his little volume, "Echoes from the Ingleside," which was warmly welcomed, and soon bought up. At the time of his death he was j)repnring a second edition (enlarged) of his poems, and this volume was afterwards pub- lished by Porteous Brothers, Glasgow, for the benefit of his widow and young family, for whom also a handsome sum of money was raised by his friends and admirers. SIN GIN' TO THE WEANS. When sax o'clock comes an' my day's work is done, My cares are a" bye, an' my pleasures begin, For I claw oot my coggie, an' licht my auld gun. Syne join wi' the weans in theii- dattin an' fun. Oor A lick lays bye his skule book for a wee. An' wee Bessie tells a' her sorrows to me, The youngest I hae gies ray big chair a bang, An' says, she wants daddie to sing her a sang. I never need priggin," but start wi' guidwill, Home sweet lay o' Burns or blytlie Tannahill ; WIl.[JA>r PEX-MAX. 41 While the rafters yet ring wi' tlie simple refrain, I start up a canty bit lilt o' my ain. Tho" oor Matties voice is juist ' timmer" a wee, Yet gaily she sings in the chorus wi' me, _ I forget a' life's sorrow, its trouble an' ).)ains, As I sat by the ingle .in' sang to the weans. Auld bautlrons sits carefully cleaning her paws. An towser is grinding a bane 'tween his jaws ; The Untie is chirriping too in her nest : The kettle is singing as blythe as the rest. You may brag "' the music you hear in the ha,' Compared wi' my concert its naething ava. An' foi-bye I'm aye getting rest to my banes. As I sit by the ingle an' sing to the weans. -MY G K A. N N I E A X' 'S.l E. Some poets may sing aboot lovelorn swains : While itliers lament a' their sorrows an" pains ; On a different subject a lilt I will gie — A canty bit sang on my grannie an' me. When my puir niither deed. 1 was only a wean, But my auld grannie made me like ane <>' her ain, Wi" her cakes an' her scones 1 aye made mysel free, An' we ne'er had a quarrel, my grannie an' me. When the snell winter win' gart the auld bingin" shake, I ran a' the errands for auld grannie's sake. When blythe rosy simmer spread flowers on the le.a. Big posies \\'ere pu'd by my grannie an me. When 1 cuttit mj' finger or bluided my moii,' It was aye tf) my grannie for pity 1 Hew, Whate'er my disease or ilisaster inicht be. My grannie was aye a guid doctor to me. When my heart was first warmed wi' love's tender lowe, An' thochts o' a wif+ie craj) into my pow, -My auld grannie sighed wi' a tear in her e'e, () wha is't that's takin' my laddie frae me. An' when I was married at grannie's fireside. ' Twas she was the first to mak' welcome my bride, She bade us be couthie an' always agree, An' fondly she blessed baith my vvitfie an' me. When I gaed wi' my cronies to tryst or to fair, My grannie's guid counsel aye followed me there. I aye loot the drink an' the gambling a-lje, l''or tliat was the bargain wi' grannie an' me. An' whiMi 1 got wee bits o' weans o' my ain. An' they were a' gaun aboot todlin' their lane, My grannie aye joined in their daHin an' glee, .■^n' said they were a' juist the pictur o' me. 42 AlODEKN SCOTTISH I'OETS. When aulil Hansel Monday's blytlie season cam' roun' My j,'raniiie's aye drest in her silk wedding proun, An' slie gaed my aidd grandfather siccan a spree That he danced an he sany to my grannie an' me. Of a' the sweet i)laces that there is on earth, T lo"i- iiane sae weel as my anld grannie's hearth, I ne'er will forget till the day that I dee, 'I'he happy oors spent by my grannie an' me. JOHN WATSON AS a native of Fearn, iieai- Brechin, his fotlier being farmer of Balquhadlie, and he ]ield two leases of nineteen years each of the farm of Ledmore, parisii of Menmuir. He died in August, 1878, at the ripe age of 85. He was well known as an intelligent farmer. For nearly half a century he wrote agricultural reports for se^•eral magazines and newspapers ; while as a poet he was kno-wn as the author of several pithy pieces of a pawky and humorous nature. Two of these were honoured with a place in the original autograph edition of "Whistle Binkie "— viz., "The Marled Mittens" and " Whistlin' Tarn." He was a firm and attached friend of the late Alexander Laing, author of " Way- side Flowers," and was of great service to Alexander Eodgers while getting u]i his popular collection of the Scottish Muse. In 1875 he published a volume of his poems, bearing the title of " Samples of Com- mon Sense in Verse, by a Forfarshire Farmer." As far as we can learn he was nearly the last of the original " Whistle-binkieites." He was quiet in his demeanour, full of good sense, and possessed a rich fund of dr}' but kindly humour ; could tell a good stor}' with enjoyable pawkiness, and was looked up to as an authority in agricultural matters. JOHN WATSON. 43 Most of Lis pieces are born of a kind of life once universal in Scotland, and treat of rural manners md customs of the past — the guidman farmer in Kodden grey, hairst rigs and kailyards, the moss- ihatched cottage, wi' raip capped lums and their hnt.^ md hens, harvest-homes, and burnside trysts. Here s a model farmer's wife of the olden time : — THE C4UIDWIFE 0' GLEN LEY. She's nane o' your braw-buskit Borrowtown ladies, Wha loll on a saft-cushioned seat a' their days, An' haud up cheekwind to their mammies and daddies, Wi' gnapin' fine English an' quotin' French plays : She's crisp, clean, an' genty, without bein' gay — She's hearty an' kind, the Guidwife o' Glenley. She's handy an' quick wi' her weirs an' her needles, She'll make ye a sark or a cravat fu' braw : But caresna a rash about fike fiddle-diddles, Fall-lalls o' silk-nettin', an' croshy an' a' : (-'astin' cantrips wi' loops, as 'twere witches to fley. She mak's usefu' things, the Guidwife o' Glenley. Her husband may safely the house till her lippin ; She'll help wi' the washin' or makin' the kail ; Or gin there be need, she'll attend the sheep-clippin', Or milkin' the kye, for she's guid at the pail : She locks up the aumry, an' carries the key, But the servants a' like the Guidwife o' Glenley. The little herd callants, when suppin' their parritch, She treated wi' milk newly drawn frae the cow ; Wad kindly encourge them gettin' their carritch. An' mak' them saj' grace, whether hungry or fou : Devotional habits she teaches them aye, An' holy things too, the Guidwife o' Gleidey. Forbye, she has tales about brownies and fairies. To pass winter nichts when the storm mak's a raid ; Or, clearin' her pipe, she can lilt the " Blaeberries," '"I'he Flowers o' the Forest," or " Johnny's Grey Plaid ; " Or gi'e them a reel, or a Highland strathspey, To cheer \x\> their hearts, the Guidwife o' Glenley. THE DYING MOT HE I!. Oh I bring me my infant, and let me caress him Once more, ere this bosom's pulsaticm shall cease ; My husband and son, that my arms may embrace them. Then my eyes shall be closed and my heart be at i)eace. 44 MODKHN SCOITISTI rOI'.TS. These ties stll enchain me to life and in sorrow, r.iit soon siiall my soul from its fetters be free ; My motherless infant may wail on the morrow - ^ly husband may weep— but, oh '■ weej) not for me. My Saviour the winf,"^ of an an^;el will give nie, Ti) soar fioui tliis world to the mansions above ; The arms of His mercy are stretched to receive me — His mercy is y;reat, and enduring his love. Farewell, dearest friend.s 1 this life is fast fleeting, But Jesus, my L:rd, is my strength and my might ; He only can save me who died to redeem me- • The blood has atoned, and my robes shall be white. Though parted, we'll meet in the man.sions of glory, Where angels to anthems celestial aspire ; Thy motlur will go, my dear infant before thee, Tojoin in the hymns of the heavenly choir. No more, my sweet babe, shall thy mother embrace thee, For soon this fond bosom's jjulsatiou shall cease ; My husliaud and son, God of liighteousness bless ye-' — Thus said, anil her spirit departed in peace. W H 1 S T I. 1 X • T A M . Kend yp little Tammy wha lived on the laiowe, 'Mang the woods o' Drumcuthlie, where blaeberries grow ' His bonnet was aye cockit heigh on his brow, A queer-lookin' carlie was Tammy, 1 trow. He was ca'd Whistlin' Tam, "cause he had sic a gait o't, An' nae muckle ferlie, his mou' had the set o't ; An' gang whare he likit he ne'er missed a bit o't, Aye whoo-ye, wlioo. whoo-je, sowth'd NVliistlin" Tam. An' Meg, his guidwife, wi' her twa-handit wheel, Span mony braw wabs o' baith plainen an' tweel ; Baith bodies toiled sair to mak' gowed in a lump, But Maggie was countit the stang o' the trump. A sma' shop they keepit, twa kye and a mare, For the lic.ats were to lead an' the land was to ear : An' hame frae the Bruch, wi' the gudes an' the gear, Hipp, Mally ■ whoo, whoo-ye, cam Whistlin' 'I'am. Their ae dautit laddie, their hope an' their care, I' the Bruch at the schoolin' was drill'd lang an' sair : While three .sonsie cummers at hame had, I ween, Mony trysts wi' their lads i' the plantin' at ejen. Young Meg an' the miller were buckled wi' ither. Soon after the cobbler an' Kate gaed thegither ; _ But NeLl miss'd that luck, to the grief o' her mjther. While whoo-ye, whoo, whoo-ye, sowth'd Whistlin' Tam. DUltOi'HEA UUILVY. 45 Some neibours wail threaii^but 'twas maybe no true — That Tarn i' tlie kirk gied a whoo-j'e, whoo, whoo ! When the lettergae, tryin' new times, wad j,'ae wrang, Or the parson was prosy an' keepit them lani,'. YounK Jamie took on wi" the redcoated train, An' fell ill the front of the tulzie in Spain ; His poor dowie inither made iiae little mane, But whoo-ye, wlioo, whoo-ye, sowth'd Whistlin" Tain. DOROTHEA OGILYY. yilVOiST of our readers are familiar with the A ll»^ sweet pastorak aud idylls bearing the name of '' Dorothea." They are loved for their trauspar- eut truthfulness, so cdose to life aud nature — giving the facts as truly us a photograpli, yet idealising them as though they were the very words that fell from the lips of actual men and women. In them we find nothing artilicial and unreal: it is all natural, unaffected, tnie ; for though she was not born of the humble class of peasantry, she has lived familiarly among them — felt as they felt, and spoken their language. She has turned the simslune of her genius on lowly wa^'s and simple men ; and whether describing some quiet rural scene or picture of rugged grandeur she is e(pially at home, and has an amjile flow of melodious language — such scenes as are jiresented by the wide-.spreading valley of Strathiimre. and the lofty Grampians ri.^ing peak omt }»cal< till their summits arc uuvelojietl in a misty canopy. She was Ixiru in tlie year 18215. iler fatiier avus tilt; Ilououralilc ])niiul(l ( )gilvy of Clova, Colonel of t]ic Forfarsliii'c Militia; and her mother, Maria, fourtli (laughter of James Morley, Kscp Ifer paternal grandfatlicr a\ as sevcutli Earl of Aivlie. 4(» \Hl|»l',ltN SCDTTISII I'OKTS. ^liss Oirilvv. ulone: witli her brother, l>onalJ Oji^ilvv, published at Aberdeen, in 186o,^a duodctimo vuhinie (if thinr joint compositions in verse, entitled '•l>oroii : Poems by Dorothea and Donald Ogilvy." This was followed by a handsome volnme — " My Thou^lits." Ajjain, ''Poems," publishfKl by Ed- monston & Doufjchis, Edinburgli. appiiared in 1S73, and during tlu> same year a most entertaining and humorous poetical sketch entitled "Willie Wabster's "Wtxting and Wedding on the Braes of Angus." To this volume is appended a most complete, valuable, and ])ainstaking glossary bj' J. 0. Robertson, a neice of Miss Ogilvy. "Willie Wabster's Wedding on the Braes of Angus" is a literary curiosity. It abounds with strik- ing instances of those angularities and shrewdness of expression which all who are in the least degree ac- quainted with Scottish character and literature are prepared to enjo}'. The verses betray an occasional ^^■ant of rhythmical ease, which may be accounted for by the shortness of the measure, and the diffi- culty of clivkinf/ together such thrawn auld words as whittret and meggy-mony-feet, daivert and taivert, scriddan and midden, cushle-mushle and social, haversack and cleik-in-the-back, yeldrick and kittie- wake, jabbit and curnabit. SCOTLAND. I)e;ir land of stratlis and ^'lens, of corrie.s, crags, and Bens, 'I'hrnugh fairy glades of firs thy rivers run ; 'I'he cuckoo couies to see thy flowerets on the lea, Thy fresh young leaflets opening to the sun. Tliere once with joy I strayed by every wild cascade, And the glory of the mountaineer was mine ; 'I'lic music of the grove attuned iny soul to love 'Mid the fragrance of the birch tree and the pine. Lone glens of sunny gleams, of sparkling rushing streams, Where mountains rise in purple, green, and gold ; In your dusky woods at dawn I have roused the sleeping fawn. Where the fountains glimmered pure, and clear, and cold. bOKOTHEA OGILVY. 47 'Mid the scattered rocks of grey, where the raven seeks his prey, And the wind sweeps evermore ardund the cairn, Thy lakes lie deep and still, in the shadow of the hill, In a wilderness of heather, moss, and fern. Among the purple bells the heather lintie dwells, And the wailing curlew wanders wild and free ; In each bosky birchen grove softly croons the cushat-dove, And the blackbird sweetly whistles on his tree. The ripple of the rills makes music on thy hills. Where the niuircock rises crowing from the heath ; The swallow flieth low when the warm wet breezes lilow, When the hawthorn wears its pearly blossomed wreath. Bright shine the drops of dew on thy trembling bells of blue, And the wild bee gathers honey from thy thyme. The grey hen rears her brood by the lilies in the wood, Where thy primroses bloom bonny in their prime. They may say the northern gale early brings thee sleet and hail, That thy chilling fogs come creeping from the sea, That thy rivers rise in s))ate, that thy snow lies long and late — Old Scotland I I can find no fault in thee. Tliere's a freshness in thy clime, there's a briskness in thy rime. There's a blessing in each airt thy winds can blow. There's a life-spring on each brae, that can hold grim death at bay. Which no otlier land can boast of that I know. There many a crumbling keejj crowns manj' a rugged steep, And many a moss-grown wreck of hut and hold. Memorial tomb and stone of generations gone, .\nd of bloody fields in warlike days of old. Thy moorlands spreading wide in all their pur))le pride. Linns that foaming fall, and rise in silver spray ; Each burnie's brattling song, thy hazel haughs among. Thy grand old mountains stretching far away. Though changeful be thy mood, fair land of fell and Hood, Though winter chill thee long with icy arm, Tlie clouds that veil thy face add but a loftier grace, 'I'he tears that dim thine eyes, a purer charm. I've a rapture all my own, in the torrents' distant moan, In the bees' low drowsy hum amid tlie Howers, In the berries ripe and red, in the heather's fragant bed. In the birch trees lending sweetness to the showers. Dear land of cakes and cairns, of broth and brosy bairns. Of kebbucks, narritch, sowens, and king kail— Here's a healtn to every class. Highland lad and Lowland lass, May thy bannocks, peats, and whi.sky never fail. 48 MijKKIlN SfinTISU I'OETS. Viiiiii licr ]i(A\oi'l'ul (li^siriptions of mountain and pastoral st'iMirry. wo liavo thus seen that slio is a passionalo a boauties of Nature. The • [uiot solitude, and the siniide sounds -which are heard aniidst such retirements, are made by our poetess tlie medium for conveying' nuiuy a useful lesson. In several of her pieces slie lovingly con- n<>cts them and intersperses them -with fine pictures of rural life, the condition and liabits of the people, and with tlie nmral IV^dings, not forgetting the often- sung pathos of rustic courtship. "From Dawn to Sunset" is a rollicking, happy poem, showing that she has the power of occasionally surrendei'ing lun* pen to the most obvious pleasantry around her, and dallying with the most casual thoughts of the moment. She makes a single W(jrd pictorial, and suc(^essive words become succes- sive picturi^s ; thus making a fV'W lines, in the manner she treats country folk and country manners, more suggestive than a whole page of description. See how neatly, and with what jollity, she manages the foHowing. witliin tlie compass of a few happy phrases — "There".s a brosy bairn wi" a tap o' tow, niere"s a ro.sy wean wi' a curly pow. 'I'here's a croodlin" totimi on's jijiannie's knee, 'lliere'.s a lanimie. the light o' her dailcHe"^ e"e. 'riiere"s a lan>,'-legged loon a-supping his kail. There's a lassie fu' snod wi" her luilkin' pail. There's a cankered cuif, wha's weel waured o" his paik."!. There's a snieerless cutty wha scouthers the cakes. There's a hobbledehoy wha spiels up the trues. There's a giggling' gawkie wha thrimmles the cheese : 'I'here's a wild gilpie harrying nests on the braes, 'J'here's a sonsy huz/.y wha's tramping the claes ; Tliere's a dare-deevil buckie wha rides and rins. There's a pensie wee wifie wha weaves and spins ; There's a sunburnt chap that's following the plew, There's a braw bruckit tillok sits kaimin' the woo' ; DOKOTliEA OGILVY. 49 I'liere's a liaverel wha gapes and glow'rs at the folk, Tliere's a taupie wha ca's liim baith gonieril and gowk ; There's a carl coorts a ijuean at market and fair, Wi" sweeties and snaps, and snouds for her hair ; There's a birkie wha skellochs and thuds wi's heel, There's a hallachin" kitty that bobs thn)ugh the reel ; Tliere's a sturdy, stieve plewman wha's heart's unco saft. There's a witch wi' her cantrips that dings him clean daft ; There's a douce couple readin' ae book i' the kirk, And a' tlie time settin' a tryst for the mirk.'' The best s}iecimon of Dorotlioa's pawky narrative style is " Tlie Old Scottisli Gardener, " avIio, by-tlie- Ijye, is a bit of a philosoplier — " a thinker, ye see, sir" — cogitating deeph' -while tirring the ground, and digging, and sifting, and draining. He " canna -weel guess" what the earth is made of. He knows it is a substance " o' whilk we are made," but wluit makes it productive is a problem ' ' owre hard for ]iis brain " : — Whate'er be the cause, it's a singular stuff. Queer, like parritch of water and stanes, Chalk, iron, and charcoal, I ken weel enough, That it forms baith my body an' banes. Sae I reverence and honour this life-giving source, I behold it rewarding my toil. And I hear my progression in Time's daily course, In the homily preached by the soil. 'Tis my father, my mother, my daughter, my son, From it comes the food that sustains, The water J drink in fleet rivers doth run Through my .system like nourishing veins. He knows tliat vitalit}^ springs from tlie grave ; that in life arf' the germs of decay, and that in eating an apple lie may perhaps be chewing an antidiluviau. Thus he meditates solemnly, until he discovers the dust of liis forefathers furnishes him bread and home- In-ewed sma' beer ; and farther, that Milk needs maun be n" earth, sin' o' eai'th 13 the koo — Tlieii the laird, vaunty and grand, and tlie lady, buskit and gay, will in time form a part of the land on whicli they walk so proudl}', and iiO MOIiKKN SCUTlISll IH>KT.S. Tliae l)i>miy bit hussucks, as I ea' my Hoors, Sae Kunty, sue loV'soiue, sac braw, Rejoicinir in suiislilne. unfaiilding in .--Iioor!*, Here the day ; an" the morn they're awa ! 'Iho minister often calls on him, "his Avclfaro to speir,"' aud •when his reverence makes himself ut liome, his gudfwife — wlia's no sae young as slie was, and is " frail in the rheumatics" — She masks for his reverence a drappie o' tea, While I'm suppin' my caup-fu' o' kale. A gentleman calls — Step ben tl»e hoose, Sir ; pree oor kebbuck and cake ; Hoot awa I are ye nae for a dram ? Will ye hae some preserves on a weel buttered bake ? Oor berries are famous for jam. A deep and thoughtful conversation takes place, and when leaving tlie friend is asked to " liae a pinch o' sueeshin'." Taddy's mixture is aye what f tak' : The twa hours ye"ve been here seem but twa minutes lang, And I doot ye"ve been deaved wi' my clack. I am noo saxty-tive, gif to the three score aud ten I sail hirple, Ood only doth know : To the earth whilk I delve I sail crumble, what then ? He is good that hath ordered it so. We maun fa' like the leaves, like the stanes we maun wear — Maun be ^'atheved like fruit in a creel ; Fare ye weel — gif on eartli we forgather nae mair, May we meet in "tiie Laud o' the Leal. '" THE CLINK 0' THE CHINK. I lo'ed my Eppie weel, I lo"ed mj' Hppie lang : She's pit mc in a creel, She's gien my heart a stang ; She's taen the cuif ayont the hill, The cadgie carl o' ('lashie Mill, A cocklaird wi" a ))ickle gowd, Auld, hangit-faoed, jxtck-marked, and bowed A skrunket, shammel-shatikit loon, (Hamj), clanipin" in his elatterin' shoon ; Kenspeckle, chandler-chafted. blear "d. With ne"er a tooth aboon his beard. MARION BERNSTKIN. 51 Auld "Wattie winna lang craw crouse, Aince she's the mistress o' his house ; She'll mak' a bunny rinthereont, And turn his cuffers inside out ; The daft auld gowk may glunsh and girn. She'll hae frae him what sairs her turn ; Like ony lintie white she'll sing, Like ony soupple naig she'll fling ; Like ony sleekit puss she'll purr, Like ony tinker tyke she'll gurr ; She'll win him roond wi' muckle ease. And guide him ony gate she'll please. He met the wily wife shortly after her marriage at a feeing market — What think ye said the jaud to nie ? " Haud yer wheest and wait a wee ; The gowdspring fang'd in Eppie's net, Will bring a blythsome bridal yet. And be na ye bumbazed wi' care, For C'lashie Mill is failing sair. Ye hae nae gear, and, by my troth. We cuuldna live on nettle broth ! Auld Watt'll no see mony Yules, He'll sune be yirded i' the mouls. I lo'e ye weel — I've lo'ed ye lang, I'll be yer weel-dowered Widow Strang." '^F"""- MAEION BEENSTEIN, XIKE Tom Hood, has literally "enjoyed bad health." Her volume of "Musings," pub- lished in 1876 by M'Geachy, Glasgow, was composed during a period of physical affliction, and when her mind was chiefly occupied in niimtig over what she had read or heard of the world from which she was shut out, or what she remembered of her own past experiences. Her effusions, liowever, apart from those adverse conditions connected with their com- position, Avhich might plead for tenderness in the critic, are praiseworthy. Always neat, and occa- oJ MoiiKKN scorrisii roKTs. sioiuiUy Iiumorciu^. Iht pircns nw oxcct'tliugly iMijoyablc. (Ti-ucL'tul simplicity is Iut chavacteristiu. Sill' oxpressi's liersolf as being dei'ply tlumkf'iil li»r those calm and thoui^htCul years of pain, ami «an aiUl — 'It is jrood tor me to bu afflicted." 81ie still sings oecasiomdly in tlie (rlasg-ow papers; and by way of a personal sketch \\i' give the tollo\vin<^. \Vi' can see. slie is vague on the subject of lier birth. Although .•^till young slie apiiarontly believes that •• women and music should nev(n" be dated." M I i; i; H N • s A u TO B I u (.1 1; a p ii v. I wiis biini the (sixteenth afternoon of September, In a year that's tot) long past for me to remember ; And what does it si:j:nify ir/tfn 1 was born? It miLfht liave been under some wild hedgerow thorn. ih- perhaps in a palace, perhaps in a cot, Or ainoni,' the small fairies, in some unknown grot, 111 J'higlaud, Wales. Ireland, or land of the Scot, France, Germany, Kussia, or Turkey ; but what Does it matter about the particular spot? I w;u< born in some one f)f tliese places, if not tn anotht r ; and tliat's about all I have got To say of that hiujhly blest part of the eartli I'istinguished by little Mi.s.s Marion's birth. f look back to the days that rolled o'er my young brow, Whtn the sun brighter shone tlian it ever shines now ; When my strength and activity won me the name ■■ Little Sturdyboots," long ere my first trouble came. Oft the north wind in >ummer-time piercinglj' blows. And it blights ere it's bl'Miniing some half-oi>eiied rose. So tlie cold breath of sickness prevented my prime, And caused me to fade ere my lilossomini; time. The weakness too surely increaseil day by d.iy. Till no more I could juiii my companions at play, And I'd wistfully watch them while sitting alone, And build for my solacp a world of my own, J'illed with liright aiiy castles, while Huiie whispered lony Of the grand things I'd do when I grew wi.1) and strong. ikit alas ! though long hoped for, that time never came. And I grew up to woinanliood feeble and lamu. Oh ! womanhood, sweet is thy blossoming time. Of a whole life the summer, the joy. and the prime. But thou earnest to me w itliout sunshine or bloom, Tliou earnest like winter with coldness and gloom, No more from the threshold of home I could stray To feel the warm sun on a bright summer day ; Thou didVt bring to my frail limb- ;i heavier chuin. MARION BEKXSTETX. 53 And for years on my couch I was doomed to remain. Oh ! 'twas sad through the first years of youth thus to languisli And how bitter and sore was my physical anguish 1 And helpless and drear loomed the future before me, While darker and darker the cloud lowered o'er me ; Hut though gloom reigned around, iuntr lifilif rose to clieer me, I'ur the Presence of (iod ne'er had seemed half so near me. And to feel that ble.^t Presence was sweeter than healtli, It was brighter than sunshine, and better than wealth ; Tt was j(iy amid soriow, and peace amid pain Perfected ; and never before or again Have I felt thus tlie power of our Father to cheer The soul 'mid the worst that can trouble it here. For still as pain lessened, and health would improve. That gladdening Presence would farther remove. "Twill return, I doubt not. if 1 need it again, But 'twould make earth too bright were it now to remain. Xow no more I'm bedridden, or pain-raclced, or ill, Yet, too feeble to wallc. Fm a prisoner still. As the wounded in battle are borne from the plain Inactive to languish, while comrades are slain, So am I laid aside from the battle of life. While stronger ones struggle and fall in tlie strife. But my life now is jjeaceful, and little of pain (-'omes to ruffle it^ calmness, or make me complain ; And the worst glooms that darken its sunshine I find When the sorrows of others o'ershadow my mind. Like a Hower conHned to its stem, T have staj't-d Long confined to my home : like a flower 1 fade : And as withered flowers crumble to dust where they lay, And the wind passes over and sweeps f'em away. So I wither, and so, soon, my memory must Pass away, when my form shall lie mould'ring in (iiist. SOARING I'PWAPDS TO THE LIGHT. Hark I the skylark gaily sings. Waking in the morning bright : With tlie dew upon his wings, Soaring upwards to the light. Ui)wards to tlie glorious sun, Upwaids through the radiant sky : Singing witli triumphant tone As he wills liis way on high. Hail, sweet lark I each morning wingi)ig 'I'hrough the air thy joyous flight. Greeting to the bj'iglit sun singing- Soaring upwards to the light. There's a flower below the cMi-th Blossoming in pallid wliite : In the mine it h.ad its birtli, And it never saw the light. 54 M(»1)I;KN SCOTTISH 1>UKTS. Still its face is upward turned From tlie dull cartli where it K't^w, ■'u.tt as if the flower had learned To seek the light it never knew. BirdH, and flowers, and all thini^s purt All things lovely, all things bright, Taught by instinct, strive to soar — Struggling ui)wards to the light. There's an instinct few deny, Striving in each human soul : Though not winged^ we long to fly, Spurning this dull earth's control. In our childhood, in our youth, And when youth has taken flight, Still our souls are seeking truth- Soaring upwards to the light, Tliough the way be long and high, We will take no downward flight ; But a long Excelsior cry — Soaring upwards to the light. TH OUGHTS. Day by day Life's scroll unfoldeth — Slowly is our fate revealed ; Every eye the Past beholdeth, But the future is concealed. Moments mournful, moments pleasant, t oiue and go, and none can last. What was Future now is Present, What was present now is Past. It, i^erhaps, may soothe our sorrow Thus to think 'twill pa.ss away : Life must change. Perhaps to-morrow May be brighter than to-day. And sweet scenes of bygone gladness Are not altogether fled ; Mem'ry, lighting up our sadness, Half restores the lost and dead. When Life's joys seem lost for ever. We can dream them o'er again ; All Time's changes cannot sever One bright link in Mem'ry's chain. And the Future — none can know it I 'ntil Time the truth res eal. Fancy maj' pretend to show it ; Time still proves her scenes unreal. LAT>V CHARLOTTE ELLIOT. 55 Radiant Hope, for ever smiling, Speaks of happier days in Htore, Many simple hearts beguiling. Though they've found her false before. Hope and Fancy oft deceive us. But they make our days more bright : May they never, never leave us, Or withdraw their cheering light. LADY CHARLOTTE ELLIOT, T^IED on the 1.5tli of Janixary, 1880. She was ^i/ perhaps the latest addition to that bright roll of noticeable female poets of which Scotland has a right to be proud, and was also one of the most accomplished and one of the most charming women of our time. Her ladyship, who was born in 1839, was the eldest and only surviving daughter of Sir James Carnegie, Bart., and sister of James, 9th Earl of Southesk. She was twice married ; first, in 1860, to Thomas F. S. Fotheringham, Esq. of Pourie and Fotheringham (died 1864), and had a son and a daughter; second, in 1868, to Frederick B. Elliot, Esq., son of the late Hon. Sir Greorge Elliot, K.C.B. "Medusa and Other Poems," was only published in 1878, although she early began to write, and had always shown remarkable intellect, a great love of literature, and a passion for poetry. In 1867 she published a volume, "Stella, and other Poems, by Florenz." The volume was unequal, and she was always inclined to disparage it; yet it contained a poem of remarkable beauty, "The Pythoness," w]ii(!h .she never surpassed. This poem appeared again in lier volume of 1878 ("Medusa, and other I'oems ") — a volume which attracted mucli attention, and deserved it, for it took a i^lace between the ;)() MOUKKN scollisil roKTS. liiuiuiiiist ;ni(l llio •'ai'l :iih1 culture" sclioiils. In noliility of tone it ranki'd with IIk^ lui'inei- : in iiiusio and colour it not nulVocjuontly lu'ld its own with tlic latter. Tli8 .MOI>KRN SCOTTISH POETS. I visit now our wonted hiiunts. T seek, but a" in vain, That trentle form that I nae niair on earth will meet a^'ain : For ovrre her lonely, lowly grave the dews o* e'enin' fa'. An" cauld's the heart ance warm to me — the lassie that's awa. This warld is now a dreary an" a weary warld to me, Sin' in the downy sleejj o" death my Mary closed her ee ; iiarth's fleeting joys and vain pursuits nae pleasure yields ava. They a' hae tint their histre wi' the lassie that's awa. Fareweel to braes sae braw an' green, to streams sae bright an' clear, To silent grove an' shady dell, sae sacred an' sae dear ; Nae heart can number owre my woes, my griefs, an' sorrows a", Nor tongue can tell how weel I lo'ed the lassie that's awa. IS THE AULD GUIDMAN AYE LEEVIN'? Is the auld gudeman aye leevin' ? has he warsled out fourscore ? Is be able still to daunder out, and stap aboot the door ? Is there kind and wholesome counsel aften drappin' frae his tongue ? Is he cracky 'mang the auld folks yet, and jokie wi' the young? Is the auld gudeman aye leevin' ? and does joy lit up his e'e, Ah the grandchild streaks his hoary hairs while seated on his knee ? When the bairnies romp about him, does he laugh wi" richt gude wiU? And wi' kindly voice, though falt'ring, does he bless the wee things still ? Is the auld gudeman aye leevin' ? is he able still to gang To the parish kirk, on Sabbath morn, the villagers amang ? In his seat foment the poopit are his silvery locks still seen ? Does the pastor speak him kindly when he meets him on the green? Is the auld gudeman aye leevin' ? does his prayer at e'en ascend To the Source of all his comforts — to his Father and his Friend ? Is that dwelling still a Bethel, by his saintly presence cheered, Where Jehovah's name is hallow'd, where Jehovah's naine is feared ? Is the auld gudeman aye leevin' ? then be Heaven his strength and stay In the languor and the helplessness of life's declining day ; And that household, like the house of Obed-edom, shall be blest When his dust in death is sleeping, and his soul has reach'd its rest! ROBERT SANDERSON. 69 MY LITTLE SON. My little son, now slumbering sae helpless in my arms, As fondly owre thy form I lean, an' feast upon thy charms, While thrilling thoughts my bosom fill, an' tears o' joy my e'e, I wonder what the blessing Is, that I should ask for thee ! My little son, 1 fondly wish that many mercies may Be thine amid life's bustle and while journeying on life's way ; Yet I'll beseech our Father for a greater boon than this. That He may make thee holy, make thee happy, make thee His. My little son, how winning and how innocent art thou ! How soft thy lips, how sweet thy breath, how beautiful thy brow ! Assuredly in thy sweet form, sae angel-like, we have A princely pledge and token of our heavenly Father's love. OAF BRING THE STRANGER IN, Gae bring the stranger in, gudewife, Nor turn him frae the door, But bid him rest his wearied limbs Till that rude blast be o'er ; The carlin's feckless, frail, an' auld, His cleadin's scant and thin, And ill he braves the winter's cauld — Gae bring the stranger in. The wind howls wild an' angrily, Fast fa's the pelting rain. While snugly here we're seated In this hallan o' our ain ; Yet, think, na mair deservin' o't We e'er the least hae been. The sma'est comfort o' our lot — Gae bring the stranger in. Gae bring the stranger in, gudewife — We've lads an' lassies ten ; — How some o" them may fare through life. It's weel we dinna ken ; But as we'd wish that Heaven would watch Their wanderin's ilka ane, And guartl and guide, whate'er betide — Gae bring the stranger in. Gae bring the stranger in, gudewife, Till morn again shall daw' ; There's room aneath llence. However, I am not a little proud to be able to say in the language of Dr Mackay — ' I know I never dip My pen in slime or gall, Or write a sentence that the purest lip Might scruple to recall.' " In his poems we find several very beautiful word- portraits illustrating the habits of the Scottish peasantry — alive and bright with touches of real humanit}'. These had doubtless been drawn in his mind amidst the din and dust of his daily work, and committed to paper at his cozie fireside after the labours of the day. His " Puir Auld Folk," "An Ootlin' at Hamo." "The Waukrife E'e," "The Wee Herd Loon," and many others are perhaps unam- bitious subjects, yet they come home to the hearts of aU. readers, and are the utterances of an honest kindly heart, full of benevolent feelings and pure aspirations. We have felt considerable difficulty in selecting a specimen from so man}' pleasing character-sketches — all being invariably of general interest — and would fain have quoted " Nell Nicolson's Bairn" and " The Queer Man," but these being already well-known, we give THE WAUKRIFE E'E. Ye sonsy-faced wee prattlin' thing, How can ye grieve my heait sae sair ? Nae jot o' wark can I get dune — Ye're i' my arms baith late an' ear'. Ye surely dinna ken the dool Ye gar yer trachled mammy dree, Whan thus, throughout the lee-lang day, Ye winna close yer waukrife e'e. JAMKS E. WATT. (O The washin'-tub sits i' the floor — 1 brocht it oot as mornin' dawned ; There's scarce ;i clean dud i' the hoose, An' yet 1 daurna vveet my hand. There's hose to darn, an' claes to mend : Yer daddie's breeks I'm wae to see ; Yet hoc can 1 to aught attend, Whan ye hae sic a waukrife e'e ? The pat's but newlins on the fire ; Yer daddie hell be hame e'en noo, Benumbed wi' cauld, bedaubed wi' mire, An' naethin^ het to fill his mon'. My clockie fails to tell the hour — Wee Robbie shoved the ban's agee ; To keep things richt's beyond my power, Unless ye close yer waukrife e'e. Frae oot the crue the grumphie granes— Alack, puir beast, fu' weel she may ; Some half-boiled taties, hard as stanes. Are a' that's crossed her craig the day. Had [ my will she"d get her sairin', Nor man nor beast sad scrim pit be ; But naught gaes richo whan ye, my bairn, Sae seldom close yer waukrife e'e. Yet, hairnie, frae a power Divine Thine e'e thou hast, an' I'd be laith That ony witless word o' mine Sud bring a hair o' thine to scaith. Though wark sud .stan' Fll keep thee richt, An strive yer fauties to forgi'e, Lest 1 sud tempt tlie Han" o' iMicht, In blamin' thus yer waukrife e'e. Wee Nelly's e'e, o' bonnie black, Was ance the licht o' oor abode ; An' sair's my heart, for, uoo, alack I It's closed for aye beneath tlie sod. Puir Benny's like a bricht wee gem, Lies hid beneath the surging sea ; O, bairnie, whan I think o' them, I canna grudge yer waukrife e'e. SJU safe within uiy arms ye are, Whar nae mischance may on ye licht ; Yer e'e still bi icht as ony star That si>ark'es i' the broo o' nicht. Though care .sud wring this heart o' mine, Hooe'er sae hard my lot may be. Forbid that 1 sud patience tine. An' blame again yer waukrife e'e. MODKKN .stdTTlsll fOKTS. ■1' I n r. I !•: t a m son. Auld Tibbie Tainson o' the Slia\v Hail Ljat her heid sae j)an,L,'ed \vi' knowledge, That she was naething laith to thraw Wi' high-bred birkies frae the College. She had but little o" beak lair, I' her young daj' "twas seldom needit, ]>ut Natures beuk lay broad an" bare, An" Tibbie kent the gate to read it. She used to say, though it seemed odd In ane o' Tibbies humble station. That Nature cam' direct frae (Jod, An" sacred was as revelation. That never yet by art, forsooth. Did ane attain to heavenly stature — He lived the nearest God an' truth That niaist conformed wi' his ain nature. The flower that .sprang, the bird, the bee That joyed when God's great sun was .sheenin', Were dear unto her heart, an' she Had glimpses o' their deepest meaniu'. She caredna for the Latin names Bestowed on them bj' men o' learnin', "Twas but tlieir habits, haunts, an' hames, That Tibbie reckoned worth discernin'. An' maist she loved the sweet wee flowers, Wi' a" their buds an' blossoms tender ; An" strove to ken, wi' a' her powers, The tribute they to man cud render. For they were precious ane an' a". Ilk yieldin' its peculiar juices ; Though there were mony a Johnie Eaw That neither kent them nor their uses. But Tibbie kent them a' fu' weel, An" aft in sunny summer weather She wandered 'mang them wi" her creel, Intent the usefu' anes to gather. Though man, whatever be his will, Maun gang just when his ISIaker pleases. Yet Tibbie aft had proved her skill To check the coiirse o' maist diseases. JOHN TAVLOH. Puir fouk, atHicted wi' a hoaist, Or sufferin' fiae the jaundice, maybe, AVad doubtless hae been early lost But for tlie timely aid o" Tibbie. Amang the Uouuie inuirs an" vvuds She aften took her lanely rambles, Regardless o' her hamely duds, Whilk aft were torn bj'^ briers an' brambles She lo'ed the yellow tormentil That raised its held aboon the heather, Likewise the sweet wee pimpernel That wai-ned the shepherds o' the weather. An' aft she gar"t oor youngsters quail Describin" some dark child o' Flora, — A wolf's-bane, or a deadly dwale, Or drowsy dreamy mandragora. But time rolled on, an" Tibbie grew Beneatli its blighting touch fu' feeble ; Yet as towards her end she drew She aye was couthie an' agreeable. Death cam' at length, an' closed her e"e When Autumn's waefu' winds were sighinjj An' as she'd wislied, a green hr tree Noo marks the spot whar she is lying. ►^ JOHN TAYLOli SKETCHES, ill u grapliic maimer, the story of liis life ill ]iis volume, " Poems, Chiefly on Themes of Scottisli Interest," published in 187.5. The narrative shows that he is one of tliose who liave had to cultivate literatiire under the disadvantages ai-isiugfrom imperfect early educ^ition, and amid the difficulties and discouragemt^nts of u lahonrer's lot. Born in 1839, at Kiuhhuy, lioss-shire, liis fatlier was a shoemaker, and liad a small croft. iVfter his father's decease, Taylor was luindcd over to the 78 MODERN f^COTTISH POETS. care of his gTiiiidmotJier. who •' alFcctionately and prayorfully instruct eil liini in the Bible and Catechism, and at night put him to bed, snug and warm, and kindl}' tunght liim short prayers and hymns." It was while " herdin' craws" that he composed his iirst verses. From .•^caring birdshe was promoted to the grade of stabhi-boy to the laird. Being in a quiet rural spot, he w;irbled his "native wood-notes wild " amid the bonn}' wood?^ and tiowery dells, and sang of Wallace and tlie heathery hills of Scotland. His next residence was (Jromarty, \\ here he acted as assistant to a "merchant." Here he became ac- quainted with Hugh Miller's mother, and his sister " Jeannie,'' the subject of one of his poems. He loved to roam during the evening hours among the sea-washed rocks and caverns, and the dark, ivy- spread dens where the gifted geologist and poet spent his earl}' years. In course of time he is found labouring as a " navvj- " on the Highland Railway, where he witnessed many rough scenes. After work- ing in various parts of fc^cotland — '■ Wi" dirty stanes biggin' a dyke, Barin' a quarry an" sic like,"' — at oil works, bone mills, &c., he, in 1868, settled down in Edinburgh, where in the Meadows he is still laboui'ing with the spade and the shovel. Amidst these shifting scenes, constant hard labour, and rough companions he has manfully .striven to cultivate his mind ; and, says Dr Lindsay Alexander in an appreciative introductory note to his volume, " he has not unsuccessfully courted the Muse." His taste fi»r reading, his sympathy with nature, his love of poetry, and his earl}-- Christian training have pre- served him from the deteriorating influences to which he has been exposed, and have given a refinement and elevation to his modes of thought and feeling which we hardly exj)ect to find in one who. since he was ten years of age, has had to toil for his daily JOHN TAYLOR. 70 bread. His poeTus have cliio% been inspired b}' sylvan scenes and sights, by the incidents of shore and sea, cottage and hall. In style he is homely, but flowing through his pieces we genei'ally find a tone of purity and content. HIGHLAND M I' S I ( '. Oh, give us music sweet ;iiid clear ■ Oh, give us music deep and strong : The stirrinu strains we love to hear, Blent with the majesty of song. Oh, give us music grand and high. Till every chord reverb'rate o'er With the wild martial minstrelsy Our fearless fathers loved of yore ; The strains that tired the men of old, .\s on they marched to meet their foes I Our valiant clansmen, stout and bold — The Campbells, Camerons, and Munros. With lightsnme bosom, full of mirth. Contented, happy, gay, and warm. We meet around the lalazing hearth. And listen to the lashing storm. When Ossian sang his strains sublime In days; of glory and renown. The Gaelic maids of olden time. With bosom fair and tresses brown, Attuned the harp's wild trembling string To melting songs of love and war, And chiefs and bards, n clustering ring, Rehearsed their deeds in lands afar. Oh, give us music, while the smile Of gentle woman softly glows ! To cheer, to comfort, and begTiile, Like perfume of the budding rose. Oil, give us music '■ — tender tones. Mild as the murinuring of streams ; Or solemn as the wind that moans, Sad as our long-forgotten dreams. It soothes the soul to joyous rest : It bids the warrior's fear depart ; It warms the lover's swelling breast ; It fills the bard's deet) yearnin;; heart. 80 MODEKJJ SCOmsH I'OHTM. BONNY T E E N I E B R N . Hnnny Teonie lUoon, as she trips alang the street, Wi' jinglin' pitchers L,'hincin' clean, air milk sae fresh and sweet, Wi' feet as licht an" nimble as tlie lively mountain roe, That gaily skips an" dances through the forest an' the snow. She rises wi' the robiu, an' merrily she sings. While the dew is on the gowan an' the laverock upward springs ; An" the licht that plays an' lingers like sunshine on her broo, Wi" cheery smiles the dowie heart o' sorrow can renew. Bonnie Teenie Broon, frae the country pure an' free, Whaur loupin' lammies fri.sk an' run, an' hums the wauderin' bee, Whaur wuds an' braes are green an' braw, an' fields are gay an' fair, Whaur sparklin' burnies dash and row, an' clover scents the air. Bonnie Teenie Broon, in the stcjury city's thrang, Her blitliesome heart is saft an' leal the waefu' croods amang, As in the days o' yore, when she, a bairnie young an' sma', Gaed gatherin' chuckie-stanes aside the roarin' waterfa'. Bonnie Teenie Broon, as the yeai"s will slide awa", Thj' shinin' gowden locks may wear the whiteness o" the snaw ; The colour o' the crimson rose may frae thy cheek depart, An' cloods o' wae an' weariness may settle o'er thy heart. Bonnie Teenie Broon, while youth is on thy side, An' while the years an' moments like summer streamlets glide, Oh I prize the priceless Word o' Life sae precious an' divine. An' seek for truth an' wisdom there, like treasures frae the mine. Its licht will guide thy footsteps through a' the snares o' time, An" lead thee on an' ujiward to eternal joys sublime ; Whaur thou shalt rise an' flourish wi' a pure immortal bloom. An" reign an' sing in triumph o'er the darkness o' the tomb. •fHOJlAS P. NTCOLL. 81 THOMAS p. NICOLL, ai^EEDEEN, was born in tliat city in 1841. He was introduced to tlie business world at the very early age of ten, and from first to last his school- days did not extend over two years. AVhen thirteen lie was apprenticed to an ironmonger, and remained at that business for about ten years. Since that time he has been in the bookselling line — a business he has ever loved. From an early age he has been an ardent lover of books. When seventeen years of age he made his first essay in rhyme, but it was not till two years later that he published his first poem. Since then he has made some 700 appearances in the newspapers, and has published two volumes — '•Trities in Verse" in 1874, and "Baby Ballads" in 1878. He has also published several poems in pamphlet form, including -'Ichabod," "Our City's Sorrow," and " Temperance Trash." These have been well received, — being earnest and elegant in tone, and without doubt the wellings of a thoughtful and feeling heart. The Author says: — "I can remember that even w liile a child I was considerably under the sway of Fancy. All boj-s are more or less romantic, but I think I am quite right in saying that I was while a boy uncommonly so. I cannot say that I have gained either money or fame by my poetry, such as it is ; but I am content — feeling that without gaining either, Poetry is still its own ' exceeding great reward.'" His "Ballads" are pleasing, graceful, and tender, while his Sonnets and otlier pieces arc mostly of a rcfiective character —grave and earnest, with a re- ligious tone, not of a mere formal kind, but of a sincere and hopeful nature, ex^jressed with the grace and feeling of a truly poetic mind. The following is selected from " Baby Ballads, " H'2 MODHItX SCOTTISH I'OKTs. while tho last is tho concln(lin<>- |)orti()Ti of n tiiK^ poem. " Uoiupeusatiuii " — Butab,ibe--a tiny thinj?. Frail as fi rstlin^,' of the spriii}; : But a babe, yet who may yiiess, r.ookinfir in its little face, NN'liat in dim futurity By it may acc(nni)lished be But a babe — a thini,' of tears, Endless wants and groundless fears < 'linging to its mother's breast — P'ount divine of food svnd rest I Sacred couch, by heaven spread. Divinely sweet and hallowed. Sweet wee lady, father's pride, Dear to him "bove all beside ; Sweet wee lady, mother's pet, Dainty, darlini^ Margaret, With thy wond'rous winning ways, Thou hast won my stoic praise ; Woke within my heart no hard. All the lover and the bard. Muse o'er the mingled web of mortal life — 0, web of mystery, dark full oft, tho' fringed With silver evermore, by His dear hand Who bled for us on the accursed tree. At thought of this, light shineth in the dark. We start, as when the arrows of the morn Pierce the dusk bosom of some doleful dream : And rising, leave tlie green and purple gloom, To tread with happy heart the glowing heath. And revel freely in the regal sun. Lifting to heaven a shining face, a sou]. Big with the joy which God and nature give N K L L . There's vigour in yer shapely lim s. Health in yer hazel e'e. An' routh o" love in your young hert, An' a' for me : My ain love, my plain love, ^ly ain plump Xell, I ne'er hae .seen, nor wish tae see A fairer than yersel'. THOMAS t. NICOLL. 83 T}iere's bi'oad-beam'd sense, there's force, there's fire, My winsome lass in thee, An' routh o" love in your young hert, An" a' for nie ; ^ly ain love, my plain love, My ain plump Nell, 1 ne'er hae seen, nor wish to see A wiser than yoursel'. There's hamely airts an' habits clean, My trigsome lass in thee, An' routh o' love in your young hert, ' An' a' for me ; My ain love, my plain love, My ain plump Nell, I ne'er hae seen, nor wish to see, A .nveetcr than yersel'. There's love o' hame, o' weans an" wark, My couthie wife in thee, An' routh o' love in your young hert, For mine an' me ; My ain wife, my fain wife, My ain dear Nell, T ne'er hae seen nor wish to see A better than yersel'. THOUGHT. Waves of thought, Waves of thought, Go surging through my brain. Now high, now low, they come, they go, But come and go in vain. Waves of thought, Waves of thouglit, — Some would ripples, say — I'hey bound, they sound, they fiasii, they dash, And fade in foam away. Waves of thought. Waves of thought, liroken waves and white, — I'hey moan, they groan, they fret, they foam For ever, day and night. Waves of thought. Waves of tliought. Confound these waves of thouglit ! 'i'hey come, they go, they go, they come, Yet never come to aught '■ 84- .MOHtU.N .'SlOlriSII I'OKl.-s. J . C . H U T ('ill K 8 X . *^ AIM KS (^HUHKSHAXK IluTCIlIEsOiV \Y'd> boi'ii iu ^3^ Abordeon in 1847. lie is a son of tlie late Jolui Hiitcliitisou, wlio, Avlioii a very youug- iiiau, had 1 10(11 pvofoiitor of tlie 17.1'. Ohiirch, (Te(jr<^e Street, and in 1844 was appointed pretientor in tlie Free Trinity (Jlinrch, Aberdeen, and of wlioiii tlie following notice appo'ired in a sketch of '' Precentoi-.s of Former Times": — "Mr Ilutcliieson, who will still be remembered by many, was a young- man who could sing' Scotch songs with much taste and effect, and had he lived would certainty have made a name to himself. He occasionally gave concerts in the city and district, which were very successful ; indeed, people were taken much by surprise alike by his full manly voice, and his talent as a delineator of Scotch character. His singing of ' The Bonnie House o' Airlie,' and some Jacobite songs could scarcely have been surpassed. His deatli took place in the begin- ning of 1852, after he had held the office fen- about eight years." During the school career of the subject of the present sketch, the prize lists showed him to have been a successful scholar. Being a "son of song " his poetic taste showed itself very early, ^^'h^■n sixteen years of age he entered the coimting-house of Messrs Alex. Pirie & Sons, Stoneywood Works. He employed much of his leisure, when residing at Stoneywood, in literary pursuits and the com])ositi(iu of poems, essays, and articles, which saw the light in several newspapers and magazines. Possessed of considerable talent as an elocutionist, he was amongst the first who, in 1864, introduced " Fenuv Readings " in the north of Scotland. He delivertul several lectures in the locality on beluilf of charitable and other laudable objects, and took an active part in any movement to promote the welfare of the communitv. J. 0. HUTCHIESO>f. 85 In 1877 he published a volume of poetry, under the title of " Village Voices, or Warbles from the »S])i'ay8 of Stoneywood," -vrhich was well received nnd very rapidl}' sold out. In 1878 he published, in the Chandos Classics, '' Fugitive Poetry, 1600-1878," n valuable collection of anonymous poetry, and has received great commendations from the press for the f'fivo. research, industry, and literary ability ex- liibited in preparing tlie compilation, by whicli he luis done good service to literature. He is now manager of Messrs Pirie's Envelope Works, Aber- deen, w hich is a proof that he has also been diligent in business. •' Village Scenes " contain many sweet and pathetic ])ieces. These are not equal in point of merit, yet they never fail to show a wholesome moral ; and, although occasionally lacking in vigour of expression, they are the serene and tender lessons of one who has thought mucli and felt deeply. The following selection from " New Brooms Sweep Clean," "The r)ervie Braes." and " Sale of Pledges." will give a specimen of his muse : — As ye begin continue on, if ye wish well to end ; These are the step.s, my boy, by which the ladder you'll ascend. < 'lose aiiplicatioii, earnest work, .and strict sugh And chuckled in his play; Above the distant mountain's brow A golden glory lay. The fir-tree breathed its balsam balm. With heather scents united, The liappy skies were Inished in calm - Ami so the troth was plighted. EARL OF SOUTHESK. 119 N O V E M B E R ' S C! A D E N C E . The bees about the Linden-tree, W}ien blithely summer blof)nis were springing', Wdiilil hum a heartsome melody, 'I'he simjjle baby-soul of singing : And thus my spirit sang to me When youth its wanton way was winging ; " Be glad, be sad — thou hast the choice — But mingle music with thy voice." The linnets on the Linden-tree, Among the leaves in autumn dying, Are making gentle melody, xV«mild, mysterious, mournful sighing : And thus my spirit sings to me While years are flying, flying, flying ; " Be sad, be sad — thou hast no choice— But mourn with music in thy voice." "Resides liis published works, Lord Soutliesk has printed several small volumes for private circulatiou. Willi the author's consent, we have already given a specimen from one of these (Various Verses," printed 1879), and we shall now conclude with another extract fi-omthe same collection, a little poem of which an incomplete version a])peared in " Cxreen- wood's Farewell." HIDDEN NOT ,S T O L lO N. Dearest, Death could have no terror Either for myself or you. Save for this our simple error, That his coming parts us two. Whether you or I be taken, Wherefore should the other sigh ? One ^blind-folded, not for.saken ; One — unseen, but not less nigh. True-loving souls each other close enfold. For aye, 'mid earthly gray or heavenly gold. As the bud that blooms to petal, iilossoni souls in heaven above : Hut, as magnet draws the metal. Love will draw its fellow-Iovo ; Even so when sense is shroudi'd, 'i'ombed in trance or slumljor's night. Soul draws sold in realms unclo'ided. Loving tliete in limpid light. Our faitliful souls no destiny shall sever. For fast they cling, at last to join for ever. 120 MODERN SCOTTISH I'OETS. The Earl of Soiithesk will be remembered as a man of beautiful and gentle spirit, full of tenderness, and singularly imbued both with sweetness and light. Familiar with every aspect of Nature, he sees in her the expression of that love which is infinite as it is divine ; and while reverence, purity, and affection breatlies around the mild and eloquent poet, he gives expression to his feelings in golden utterances. That he has also deeply studied human nature is distinctly shown in ''Jonas Fisher," especially where he so graphieall}' describes the scenes common to the low slums of a great city. In the words of one of his reviewers, he is entitled to be called not only " a poet among lords, but a lord among poets." .\rAKY GKANT. 121 MARY GRANT O S a native of Fraserburgli, but in lier babyliood ^j her parents removed to Aberdeen. On her father's side she is descended from a family of the ohl Scotch nobility ; while her maternal grandfather belonged to an Italian family of respectability and good standing. She received an education fitting her to become a governess, and it was while wait- ing for a situation, after leaving school, that she began to write tales and poems. In her preface to her "Lays of the Affections," she writes: — "With lessons and needle-wort, yet in their schoolroom freshness ; living away in the cold, breezy north, waiting hopefully, _yet wearily, for the teacher's place so often promised me, but never ob- tained for me, I drifted into authorship. At first I had no other aim than merely to while away those melancholy days till that teacher's place should come. P)}' and bye when I wrote a column for a newspaper and got praised and paid for it, and when a little story appeared, (anonymously) here and there, even though there were long intervals between, and the remuneration was slender, thoughts of following the whims of naughty pupils l)ecame very distasteful to me, and I ceased to regret what appeared the care- lessness and heartlessness of interested friends. If I am spared, I intend to issue my tales, essays, and poems, in successive volumes." For the past ten years she has contributed poems, tales, essays, and dramas to the magazines and ne\\sj)upers. Although she has experienced a few of the difficulties common to a young and struggling author, she has always had the comfort and protection of the parental roof, and has never endured tliose extronu^s of poverty peculiar to many of her vocation. In 1871 she published her first literary produc- tion, "Eva, and other Poems" — the leading piece 122 \1(ii)i:i;n scoriisii i-okts. being- ti dramatic [)<)oiu luurktnl \)y iiiuoli clearness of outliue iiiul distinctness of plot — a tale of woman's devotion, which appeals, not in vain, to the gentle and the good. In 1877 slio puldished " Lays of the Affections," a volume which at once stamped the authoress as possessed of gifts far above mediocrity, and which was in a very short time out of print. " This Awful Age," a comedy in three acts, appeared in 1880. It showed so much feeling and power that we should not be surprised soon to hear of Miss Grant's recognition as a popular dramatic author. Miss Grant is a poetess, worthy of unfeigned regard. Her works have the genuine ring of poetry, and show a heart full of truth, candour, and honesty. Slie writes with a finish and strength not very com- mon in our modern poetry. She shows a deep sym- pathy for suffering, while her sweet uttei*ances glide into the heart and memory, and calm the restless and troubled mind. Some of her lyrics are gems of qiiiet beaut}'; frequently pensive and mournful. " To Heaven wi' me," and " Baby AUie," are touch- ing little poems, and it is pleasing to read such carefully-worded and smooth-running verses. They refresh us like cooling breezes in summer. We quote the following, wliich we think tenderly simple and natural: — THE SUMMER'!^ SUN. 1 would the Summer's sun was bright, As Summer'.s sun was wont to be ; I would the flowers were half as fair As those that used to grace the lea ; 1 would the moon would sink to rest As soft behind the pathless sea ; And that the little birds I love Would sing as sweet a song to me. I would that brook that wanders now So sadly down the faded dell. Would charm mine ear with gladsome sound. Like chinungs of a silver bell. I would the stars — Heaven's beauteous eyes — Would look on me with gaze as true ; MAKY GRANT. 123 Or that the veil 'twixt heaven and earth Would beam as softly, sweetly blue. I know not why fair summer time Appears so sadly changed to be ; The snow-clad hills are quite as fair, And Robin's song as sweet to me. Yet, looking back, I can recall One fair and blooming Summer's day. When lying 'mang tlie flowers, I wept To think that earth should pass away. It was so fair, so softly grand, That virgin month of perfumed May, So simple in her girlish bloom. So sweetly, chastely, purely gay. And now methinks Id little care Though time and earth had passed away ; So cheerless beams the Summer's sun, So winter-like the Summer's day. Oh ! foolish heai-t, the Summer s sun, Stars, moon, and flowers, and birds, and sea, Are pure, and fair, and sweet, and grand, As long ago they used to be ; 'Tis thou hast lost thy hope and joy. They faded with thy youth's bright day. When all the year was Summertime, And every month was gentle May. BABY ALTE. LINES ON A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. Baby Alie, sweet and tender. Eyes so blue and form .so slender. Oh ! how dear thou art to me. Whom thy father ne'er did'st see. Thou art like him, little Alie, Thou has many of his ways, .And without thee, Oh ! my darling, Dark indeed would be my days. Alie came when days were darkest, bike a sunbeain straight from heaven, flinging to my bleeding bosom, when my weary heart was riven. Born half-orphaned. Oh ! my Alie All my heart goes out to thee, All unconscious, ever smiling, Thus upon thy mother's knee. 1-4 MOOKUX SCOTTISH I'OETS. Oh • my heart seems breaking, darling, Wlien I think upon the past, Was uiy happiness too perfect, Tliat "twas doomed so sliort to last '! Let nie love thee, Oli l my durling, Never from thy side depart, 'I'wine thy arms about me Alie, Sunshine of my widow'd heart. SKVEX VKARS 1, D TO-DAY. hjeven years old, with curls of gold. Seven years old to-day. With sweet brown eyes, a ruby mouth. And a laugh so light and gay. Seven years old, such a fragile thing, Seven years old to-day ; A sweet little girl whose sole life-dream Is to laugh, to sing, and to play. Seven years old, and she knows no sin. Ah I 'tis there where her beauty lies ; Pure as an angel, mild as a dove. Just as she came from the skies. Seven years old, and she lisps her prayers, Seven years old to-day ; Her path all flowers, her sky all blue, Without one tinge of gray. O ! I almost wish she would never grow old. Because of the cares she must know. For the stream of life which we all m\ist brave Is so seldom smooth in its flow. TO HEAVEN WI' ME. The keen eastern win" howl'd doon the dark alley As it answered the wail o' the dark moanin' sea. It sighed up the stairie an' sobb'd through the roomie, Whar wee Willie Morgan had lain doon to dee. He awoke fae his sleep wi' the smile o' an Angel, An' said, wi' a tear in his dark hazel e'e, "Are ye greetin'? Has daddie been drinkin' an' swearin' ? Oh ! come awa' mamuiie to heaven wi' me." " Ye see yon wee starrie that blinks through my window, The brightest 'mang a' the wee starries I see, Aye through it the angels keep beckonin' an' smilin", I ken they are wishin' an' waitin' for me. But hoo can I lea' ye sae sad an' sae lonely. Without yer wee Willie I ken ye wid dee ; Lea' daddie, his drinkiu', his cursin" an' swearin'. An' come awa' mammie to heaven wi' me." ROBERT i'OKU. 125 " No, no," cried a voice as straicht fae the doorway His fatiier fell down by his bed on his knee, " Ye are pure little Willie, an angel a' read}', Oh lea' yer puir manimie a whilie wi' me, To lead me ayain to the path o' the virtuous, To mak' me ance mair a' that I should be, An' then little darlin', when God sees I'm ready. We'll meet ye in heaven, yer mammie and me." " Weel min","' whispered Willie, as fast the death f,damour Was chasin' tlie licht fae his dark hazel e"e, "I'll watch through yon starrie an' gin ye're nae faithfu', I'll come an' tak' mammie to heaven wi' me.'" Oh ! hard is the path fae black vice to virtue. Be thankfu' ye a' wha hinna't to dee. Gin a moment o' weakness comes ower the puir father. Gin again to the droppie he's tempted to Hee, He looks to yon starrie, an' hears little Willie Say, — "Come awa" manmiie to heaven wi" me."' EOBEET rUKl). ♦WJ( )l}Eirr FORI) was born iu 184(5, in the village ItV of \\'olfliill, C'urgill parish, Perthshire. At the age of seventeen he migrated to Dundee, and found employment in the manufacturing- establish- ment of the Messrs Jjaxter there. Eleven j'ears amidst the unmusical clatter of heddlc^s and treadles more than sutficiontly tired him of manufacturing pursuits, and in 1874 he removed to Glasgow, where he still remains, employed as a clerk in one of the largest warehouses of that city. In a letter we received while arranging this work tin- jioct says : — "Scientists affirm that there is no elfort witliout a cause, and if I have louud life more enjoyable than tlie general crowd have, tlie extra happiness has issued from my rustic harping on the old Dorics l^-re — music sweetens life and toil, iiowever rude the strain." In 1878 he published a volume of liis poetical bicubratious uiidfv flic title of " J lame Spun Jjays 126 MODERN MtilllMl lohl.s. and Lyrics." The book was well received by the Scottish press, and sold out in a few weeks. A careful perusal of these hainely lays shows that there is more to be found within the volume than the modest and brief note to tlie reader would lead one to expect. Altliough the subjects are mostly unambitious, without any attempt at elaboration, the language is occasionally eh-gant and refined, showing that he posses^ses considerable poetic vigour, and the presence of more of the "'divine essence " than he takes the credit of. Robert Ford writes with a keen appreciation'of the humorous and ludicrous, and shows a very extensive knowledge of " auld-farrant '•' Scotch words. Every page of his volume bears unmistakable marks of ability. He displays an originality- and a humovir in his character-sketehes that irresistibly remind us of Burns. This is specially observable in •' Robin Afflfck and the Phrenologist," "The Cadger an' his Cuddy," and " Ne'er-do- Weel Jock," wha Cam' to oor clachau a wee raj^git callan", To herd the auld Doddie o" Kirsty M'Millan. To tell his complexion wid baffle yer power ; His face was ne'er washed excep' wi' a shower ; He ne'er kent the lux'ry o" stockin' or sock, And nae sooter e'er misfittit ne'er-do-weel Jock. An' wow ' .sic a herd surely never was born — Doddie fed a-s she will'd 'mang the neeps or the corn ; While miles ea.-it or wast, on the tap o' an oak, At a nest o' young sjjurdies sat ne'er-do-weel .Jock. Kirsty's eggs gaed amissiii", her cat tint the tail. Strange things were aft fun" i" the pat 'mang the kail : The hens a' gat crippled, an' sae did the cock, An' the cause o' the de'ilry was ne'er-do-weel Jock. Many of his smoothly-running, merry little songs " — several of which have been set to appropriate music b}' Mr A. Stewart of the Peopled Frioid and others — give wholesome advice. The following poem has several fine tender touches, and breathes a beautiful spirit: KUUKKT b'OUU. 12'J G 11 ANNIE'S W A- - G A U N . I'm wearin' awa", bairns, weai-in" awa', Ere the sun's in the lift I'll be far fi-ae ye a" ; Noo the canld han' o' Death grips chill roun' my heart, An' redds me fu' surely, an' sune we maun pairt. I'm wearin' awa', bairns, e'en's ye may see. There's a rime on niy brou, an' a haze on my e'e : There's a grip on my breath, an' a cheenge owre me a" — I'm wearin' awa', bairns, wearin' awa'. I'm wearin' awa', bairns — greetna, for me, I've lived for this oor, and I fearna' to dee ; Naj' ! I weary to gang : frae a' sin to resile. An' bask in the bliss o' a Saviour's sweet smile. In yon braw land abune, bairns, your faither is there, An' wee sister Effie that left us sae ear' ; They ken 1 am comin', and wait near the shore To welcome the craft that sail ferry me o'er. I'm wearin' awa', bairns, leavin' the few. To join wi' the mony — the guid an' the true ; Leavin' a warP o' sorrow an' sin. To dwall aye whaur dule getsna' entrance in. I'm wearin' awa', bairns ; wha may be neist? Aiblins the ane wha's a-thinkin' o't least ; I'or Death comes, we ken, like a thief in the nicht, Nor plucks Itut the ripe — nor wiles but the richt. He's wiled roim' me lang, bairns ; ane here, ane there ; Some ripe an' ready — some scarcely, I feat ; It's braw to be ready, bairns, come whaun may the ca', To ha'e peace in your bosom when wearin' awa'. I'm wearin' awa', bairns, I'll no be lang noo, \n angel o' licht comes cleavin' the blue. To carry my saul to the Maister on hie, Wlia'll greet me, I ken, wi' a smile in his e'e. What bliss 'twill be there, bairns, the Savour to meet, To liask in 'is smile, and to sing at His feet ; 'i'o join in the mj'riad-voiced anthem for aye. An' live wi' Jehovah the braw nichtless day. Saw ye that licht, bairns':' heard ye that cheer? Wha coukl ha' dreamt, bairns, heaven is so near ? There -there's your faither see ; grand, bairns, grand — See whaur wee EfHe comes wavin' her hand ! I'm gaui), b;drns -gaun, bairns- kiss me again. Say yon will follow me every anet That you'll join me abune, whaur IJeath downa' ca', W'haur loves are unsliattcr'd — nae wearin' awa '. 128 MODKKN .SCOTIISH I'OETS. HURRAH. FOR AULD SCOTLAND, HURRAH ! Ilurrali for iuikl Seutlnnd, liurrali ! Her lioatliir-elad inouiitains sae hie ; Her liills and lier dells : 1 ler lochs and her fells ; Her rivei's that i-ow to the soa ; Her buriiies tliat danee in their g'lee. An" laucliin', owor ilka linn t'a : Atf bannet, ilk ane, An' -wave the refrain — HiuTiih for iinld Scotland, Imrrali ! Hun-ah for auld Scotland, hnrrali ! The l)irth-,i;riind o' freedom an' might, Where Wallace of old, And Bi-uce, ever bold, Undauntedly fought for the right ; Where Bruce and the brave Wallace wight Drave tj'ranny thowless awa' ; Aff bannets again, An" wave the refrain — Hiu-rah for auld Scotland, hurrah 1 Hurrah for auld Scotland, hurrah ! Where Knox (ever blest be the name) I Snrote wrong with the Word, Mair fell than with sword, An" lent her a heaven-lo'ed fame ; A}' I lent her a heaven-lo'ed fame, Weel kent ower the warld wide a' ; Alt' bannets ag-ain. An' wave the refrain — HuiTah for auld Scotland, hui-rah ! Hurrah for auld Scotland, hurrah I Dame Nature's ain darlin', I trew ; Her lasses are fair, A' modest an' rare. Her sons are a' buirdly an' time, Her sons arc a' buirdlj' an" true, Her lasses a' bonnie an' braw ; Aff bannets again, An' wave the refrain — Hurrah for auld Scotland, hiuTah ! Hurrah for auld Scotland, hiu'rah ! An' lang may she still bear the gree ; As green be her dells, Her muirs, an' her feUs, ROBERT FORD. 129 Her sous aye as gallant an' free ; An' meet they on land or on sea, On bauld mountain broo or in ha' — Aft' bannets ilk ane, An' wave the refrain — Hurrah for auld Scotland, huiTah ! OOR AULD WIFE. Ill Scotlan" owre an' owre, an' Euglan' a' at-oure, Ye haena heard o' aince an' far less seen, Sic a rare an' dear auld wife as is oor guid auld wife, An' I ferlie if her marrow's ever been. She is dear unto the auld, the young folk an' the yauld, An' she's mair mito us a' than is oor life : We could share wi' a' our wealth, we could barter wi' oor health. But never wi' oor dear auld wife. She's a dear auld wife, she's a fcir auld wife, She's a fine auld wife, she's a kin' auld wife, A lichtsome, lithesome, leesome, blythesome, Freegaun, hearty body, oor auld wife. At dancin's on the green, in the bonnie simmer's e'en, She is there aye, wi' the speerit o' us a' Gaily liukin' thi-ough the reels, an' shakin' o' her heels, Like a lassie on the laich o' twenty-twa ; If ye fain wad hae a joke, just try her wi' a poke. An' she'll cut yer gab as gleg as ony knife ; When there's shots o' wit agaun, there's no ane in a' the Ian' Can hand his ain wi' oor auld wife. She's a slee auld wife, she's a spree auld wife, She's a smart auld wife, she's a tart auld wife, A lichtsome, lithesome, leesome, blythesome, Free-gaun, hearty body, oor auld wife, Whar sickness dulls a ha' she daxu'na be awa'. She's sae lucky ! sae skilly ! an' sae kind ! There's no ane can row a sair wi' ae-half her camiy care ; No, nor speak sic words, o' comfort to the mind ; Doctor Dozem, he declares, she's trick'd him o' his fares ; An' 001- minister is leavin' us for Fife, For he says, " I canna see ony need ye hae for me. While ye hae sic a rare auld wife." She's a rare auld wife she's a fair auld wife. She's a grave auld wife, she's a Imive auld wife, A lichtsome, lithesome, leesome, blythesome, Frce-gaun, hearty body, oor auld wife. 130 MODERN SCOTTISH coKls. At comiii' haiiii' o' hairns, an' at marriji'i'c'M an' kirns. She is head billie-rhiwkus aye, be sure ; For the bairnies wadna live, an' the warlclin's wadna tlirive, If she werena there the drappikie to pour— Na I she winna jjree hersel', binna just the hansel-smell, Nor will gi'e o't whar it micht breed ony strife, An' she kens what a' ean stan', to a di'ibble ilka man — A skilly body's oor auld wife. She's a leal auld wife, she's a hale aidd wife. She's a grand auld wife, she's a bland aidd wife, A lichtsome, lithesome, leesome, blythesorae, Free-gaun, hearty bodj', oor aiild wife. A treasure to the auld, a terror to the bauld. An' the brag an' joy o' a' that wad do weel, For leal o' heart is she, an' fu' o' furthy glee, As the miller's ain big girual's fu' o' meal ; Ye will read o' heroines that flourished in langsynes. But woidd you see their better in the life !' Come atowre some orra day to oor clachan on the Tay, An' get a glisk o' oor a\ild wife. She's a dear auld wife, she's a queer auld Tsdfe, She's a fine auld wife, she's a kin' auld wife. A lichtsome, lithsome, leesome, blythesonu.', Free-gaun, hearty body, oor aidd wife. A. B. TOD]>, HUTHOE of several voliuues of poems, essays, and lectiu-es, tells us tliat he " was boru near tlie close of the first quarter of the century, at the farmhouse of Craighall, parish of Mauchlinu. Ayr- shire." Of a large family of eig-ht sons and seven daughters, he was the fourteenth child and seventli son. His father was never able to see them all before him at one time. He remembers on t'no occasions of fourteen being gathered under the parental roof, but something always prevented one or more from being present. Of this large family six still suivive, A. B. TODD. 131 but nine have now passed away to the silent land. Before he went to school he had learned to read a little, and could repeat several psalms and nearly all the "Mother's Catechism." Having even then an excellent memory, which has always stood him in good stead, these had become fixed in his mind more from hearing his elder brothers and sisters repeat them, tlian from his own reading of them. He was very early engaged in herding his father's cows ; and wlien not much entered into his tee7is he had to go out to service with the neighbouring far- mers. While with one of these, he had the liberty of a collection of standard books, which with bad taste had been placed in a disused and out of the way loft. This, "at stolen hours when labour done," was his abode. In summer he read until a ' ' cat could hardly have seen a mouse;" and in winter, at a dim coal fire, jeered and laughed at by the other servants, he turned over every i^age of Hume and Smollett's " History of England," " Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire," Johnson's " Rambler," and Ralph Erskine's " Gospel Sonnets." His fiitlier removing to another farm near the town of Galston, our youthful poet wont to labour in a tilewoi'k, at which he remained for over twenty years. At this time he had thoughtfully studied the poets — more particularly Pope, Cowper, Young, Gold- smith, Beattie, and others of less note, and had commenced to spin a verse or two. Though still young he had moralised on the flight of time, "the days of other years," and had written a poem entitled "Retrospection." For the next eighteen years he carried on a bi'ick and tile work on his own account, and had also a farm. In 1846 he published a volume of poems containing "The Hermit of Westmore- land," " The ( lovenanter's Revenge," and other lengthy pieces. After writing and publishing several small volumes, he wrote, in 1858, a novel entitled l.".-' MUDEKN SCOTIISH POKTS. "ALuril fur a Eival"— tlw lar^rc- edition of I.i'OO copies going otf in a very sliort timo. MfOtiug with lieavv reverses of fortune, lie gavt^ up his f'ai'in and tik^ work, went to reside in Ohl runiiKnk, and commenced business as an accountant. '"The tickle jade" again smiled, aiul lie now s))ends his declining years in a couifortahle home near the banks of the classic Liigar. In 1876 he published a Aolume uf ''Poems, Lectures, and Misc^'llanies." which called forth the warm praise of the late George (iiltillan. In the same year he edited and wrote an introductory chapter and biogTaphical sketch to a volume contain- ing a lengthy poem on Lord Nelson, by John .Tolin- ston, a Trafalgar hero, who entered on his hundrcilth yeaj' in August. 1880. Mr Todd's latest volume is the " Circling Year and other Poems," which showsmatured thought, and feel- ings controlled by educated taste. Horn, as we have seen, in the country, and reared to agricvdtural and pastoral pursuits, amid scenes of picturescpie beauty, and of stirring and often hallowed historical associa- tions ; and trained by a noble, pious, and poi-tic mother, his heart was cavly captivated by the loveli- ness and the sublimities of Nature, and moved and tired in no ordinary degree by gazing upon the battle scenes of bygone ages, where uur forefathers bravely fought for their civil liberty, and for their religious faith. Though far from being insensible to the charms of music, yet no concert of human voices ever thi'illed him half so much as the morning or the evening piping of the thrush, in some greenwood glen, where the living waters of some gushing stream mingled its voice in the melody, or the lark warbling his song of love and gladness far up on the great glowing arch of the rainbow. In the dedication to this work he sajs : — "The gi'andest picture-gallery has always been the ever-changing clouds of heaven, and especially those around the morning chambers of the sun; and in among tlu- glowiui; curtains A. E. TODD. 13f which he gathers avouiul his Imrning brn-vr, as he rolls down the western skj^ on a calm summer night." Tn the ^-aried and boundless field of Nature, his heart has overHowed in beautiful song, and had space permitted we would have shown, by several extracts, how admirabl_y he has succeeded in thirteen legitimate, though difficult measures, in singing " The Circling Year"— >io\v April liriug.s the glad f^lints of the Spring ; How budding May conies in her garments green, When streams make ransic, and the small birds sing, How June with rose and d.aisy decks the scene, \\'eaving her garlands like a fairy screen ; How •Uily brings the fertilising shower, Lading the leafy trees with silver sheen ; How bounteous August, in the thunder's power, Siieaks to the earth fiom heav'n, and gilds the midnight hour. How Ceres" horn, high fill'd, runs o'er. As rich September swells all hearts with joy : Hea])ing with golden grain the threshing-floor. Brought from the field by brown-faced farmer's hoy. To whom October suns bring small alloy, Though pale they glimmer on the yellow trees ; .-Vntl merrj- larks morn's hours no more employ, To pour their music on the mountain breeze, >.'or heard at gloamin" now, the hum of home-bound liees. . . . . When comes November dun. How storms assail the fast e.\i)iring year. And sullen clouds obscure the wan cold sun : And midnight meteors awe mankind with fear. As blood-red streamers their battalions rear High in the air, where shot-stars madly rush. Flaming through heav"n, and to the earth draw near. As if man and his boasted works to crush, And in chirk chaos' realms, his voice for ever hush. T)ecember, dull and drear, will (^lose the scene- Cheerless these days which see its sun-bliidcs shoi't ; Fast fly the seasons, :md the years. 1 ween. Are shorter now than when, at playful sjjort, I tiii)p'd the ureen in life's gay opening curt. W'liat days of light and shadow pass'd aw;iy Since then, when now, w ith i|uiet sober ])ort, I pace the roail to where light"s every ray bs quench'd iiy deatli, till dawns the everlasting day. 134 MODERN SCOTTISH PORTS. In liis writings he lias sliowu that ho possesses a pure and well-ciiltivated mind, as well as an intimate and thorough acquaintance with poetic and general literature. His sketdies and poems on the genius of Burns, Campbell, and Thomas Aird — (the latter of ■whom was his warm friend) — are graphic and ap- preciative. Several of his pieces on biblical subjects are written in a style of considerable eloqueiice, and they are evidently the production of a mind deeply iBibued with the importance and grandeur of the subject. MOXODY ON THE DEATH OK WILLIAM AV R D i^ W r> T H . Can nought, () Time I i-esist thy steady force, Must dark oblivion follow still thy course ; Must man for ever leave the earth, and go To sleep forgotten in the dnst below ? Hail, genius, hail ! Thou light of heaven appear, Ocme from on high the gloomy earth to cheer ; Thy beams still blaze far back the track which Time Has huiried over in his march sublime ; Thy voice still rises from the shadowy sea Of vanished years, which time has heaped on thee ; Yes, thou canst nobly brave Time's furious shock. And at the sweep of circling ages mock ; Can'st strip oblivion of its sable crown. And to the dust dash its dark sceptre down. Wordsworth I O, if thy spirit leans to hear This plaintive song, and mark the trickling tear ; Well dost thou know sincere the heavy moans. The Muse now utters o'er thy mouldering bones. Last of that band whose genius blazed abroad. Proving mankind the product of a God I As o'er thy tomb the Muse now showers her tears, Our thoughts in grief revert to bygone years, Ere Time's swift river, sweeping still along. Into the grave had swept those sons of song. Whose strains celestial, wondering echoes caught ; Wide earth resounding with these gems of thought. ELIZABETH CAMPBEhL. 135 No more shall Crabbe of poor men's ills comj^lain, Nor Coleridge chant his all-unearthly strain. No more shall Scott, far in some dusky dell, Wake other strains like those we love so well. Southey no more shall strike the world with awe, Tellint;' the wonders that Kchanut saw. Byron no more shall sing "The Isles of Greece ; " And Shelley's burning brain is now at peace. Dull death has stricken tuneless every tongue. And all those bards their farewell songs have sung. And thou, too, Wordsworth, following in the rear. Hast poured thy last song on each listening ear ; No more shalt thou "revisit "' Yarrow bi-aes. And add new beauty by thy living lays ; No more by lone f^t. ]\Iary's lake shalt stray, And mark the swan " float double "' on her way ; No more a wanderer o'er the mountains go, To see the first and latest flowerets blow ; Upon thine ear the babbling brook no more. That song shall pour it learned so long before, Death's pale seal sits securelj' on those eyes, That gazed enraptured on the starry skies. Now, o'er the land. Time's noiseless chariot sweeps, The spring returns, the pure, pale snowdrop peeps Through the cold earth, and smiles unto the day. Which, lengthening, tells that winter hastes away. Sweet Rydal ! soon thy storm-tossed wa\es shall fall. And sink to silence at spring's joyous call ; On all thy banks fair tlow'rets shall appear, .\nd small birds sing to tlie advancing year. Hut now thy Bard marks not thy wild flowers blow. Nor hears his ear thy \\aters' tuneful flow. V. LIZA 15 1^. T H C A M P V> E L L . yil^ES CAMPJ5]-:LL. the Lochee Poetess, was 4. 11^ presented, in 187o, by tlie Rev. Greorge Gil- tillaii to the literary worhl as a " phenomenon." It uas tlius, as T'arlyle sins, that l^urns came on the pultlic. and it was tluis tliat all self-tuuglit men and w<)m(!n of merit liavecnnie. ''Anything more simply I'M MODERN S