M ... f X //V' ' S r//f /,,: THE ~ * /n ; tt : & OF SCOTLAND SUBSEQUENT TO BURKS THE AULD HOUSE GASK. EB INB URGH WILLiXAM P . KIM M0 THE SCOTTISH MINSTREL THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND SUBSEQUENT TO BURNS tmoirji of i\t KEY. CHARLES ROGERS, LLD., F.S.A. SCOT, flSTOKIOQRAPHKR TO THE HISTORICAL SOCIETY EDINBURGH: WILLIAM P. NIMMO. 1872. EDINBURGH : PRINTED BY M'FARLANE AND ERSKINE, (late Schenck &> M'l-'arlaneJ ST JAMES' SQUARE. PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. As if pointing to a condition of primeval happiness, Poetry has been the first language of nations. The Lyric Muse has especially chosen the land of the mountain and the flood ; and such scenes she has only abandoned when the inhabitants have sacri- ficed their liberties. Edward I., who massacred the Minstrels of "Wales, might have spared the butchery, as their strains were likely to fall unheeded on the ears of their subjugated countrymen. The martial music of Ireland is a matter of tradition ; on the first step of the invader the genius of chivalric song departed from Erin. Scotland retains her independence, and those strains which are known in northern Europe as the most inspiriting and delightful, are recognised as the native minstrels} of Caledonia. The origin of Scottish song and melody is as difficult of settlement as is the era of Ossian. There probably were songs and music in Scotland in ages long prior to the period of written history. Preserved and transmitted through many generations of men, stern and defiant as the mountains amidst which it was produced, the Minstrelsy of the North has, in the course of centuries, continued steadily to increase alike in aspiration of sentiment and harmony of numbers. The spirit of the Scottish lyre seems to have been aroused during the war of independence, and the ardour of the strain has not since diminished. The metrical chronicler, "Wyntoun, has preserved a stanza, lamenting the calamitous death of Alexander III., an event which proved the commencement of the national struggle : "Quhen Alysandyr oure kyng wes dede, That Scotland led in luve and le, Away wes sons of ale and brede, Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle : Oure gold wes changyd into lede. Cryst, borne in-to virgynyte Succour Scotland and remede, That stad is in perpiexyte'. " The antiquity of these lines has been questioned, and the strain does seem a Little too iv PREFACE. dolorous for the times. Stung as they were by the perfidious dealings of their own nobility, and the ruthless oppression of a neighbouring monarch, the Minstrels sought every opportunity of arousing the patriotic feelings of their countrymen, while they despised the efforts of the enemy, and anticipated their defeat. At the siege of Ber- wick in 1296, when Edward I. began his first expedition against Scotland, the Scottish Minstrels ridiculed the attempt of the English monarch to capture the place in some lines which have been preserved. The ballad of " Gude Wallace " has been ascribed to this age ; and if scarcely bearing the impress of such antiquity, it may have had its prototype in another of similar strain. Many songs were sung by the common people in celebration of Wallace and Bruce. The battle of Bannockburn was an event peculiarly adapted for the native lyre. The following lines commemorating the victory have been preserved by the chronicler Fabyan : " Maydens of Englande, Sore may ye morne, For your lemmans, ye Haue lost at Bannockysburne. With heue-a-lowe, What weneth the king of England, So soon to have won Scotland ? With rumbylowe." Rhymes in similar pasquinade against the south were composed on the occasion of the nuptials of the young Prince, David Bruce, with the daughter of Edward II. After the oblivion of a century, the Scottish Muse experienced a revival on the return, in 1424, ol James I. from his English captivity. Of strong native genius, and possessed of all the learning which could be obtained at the period, this chivalric sovereign was especially distinguished for his skill in music and poetry. By Tassoni the Italian writer, he has been described as a composer of sacred music, and the in- ventor of a kind of music of a plaintive character. His poetical works " The King's Q*air," and " Peblis to the Play" abound not only in traits of lively humour, but in singular gracefulness. To his pen "Christ's Kirk on the Green" may also be ascribed. The native minstrelsy was fostered and promoted by many of his royal successors. James III. was patron of Sir William Eogers, an accomplished musician, and the founder of a new school of Scottish music ; James IV. bestowed largesses on Henry the Minstrel, cherished the poet Dunbar, and himself wrote verses ; James V. com- posed " The Gaberlunzie Man" and "The Jollie Beggar," ballads which are still sung. Queen Mary loved music, and wrote verses in French; and James VI., the last occupant of the Scottish throne, sought reputation as a writer both of Latin and Eng- lish poetry. Under the patronage of the Royal House of Stewart, epic and lyric poetry flourished in Scotland. The poetical chroniclers Barbour, Henry the Minstrel, and Wyntoun, are familiar names, as are likewise the poets Henryson, Dunbar, Gavin Douglas, and Sir David Lyndsay. But the authors of the songs of the people have been forgotten. In a droll poem entitled " Cockelby's Sow," ascribed to the reign of James I., is enumerated a considerable catalogue of contemporary lyrics. In the pro- PREFACE. . x logue to Gavin Douglas' translation of the ^Eneid of Virgil, written not later than 1513, and in the "Complaynt of Scotland," published in 1549, further catalogues of the popular songs have been preserved. The poetic gift had an influence upon the Reformation both of a favourable and an unfavourable character. By exposing the vices of the Romish clergy, Sir David Lyndsay and the Earl of Glencairn promoted the interests of the new faith ; while, on the event of the Reformation being accomplished, the degraded condition of the Muse was calculated to undo the beneficial results of the ecclesiastical change. The Church early attempted to remedy the evil by sanctioning the replacement of profane ditties with words of religious import. Of this nature the most conspicuous effort was Wedderburne's " Book of Godly and Spiritual Ballads," a work more calculated to provoke merriment than to excite any other feeling. On the union of the Crowns a new era arose in the history of tile Scottish Muse. The national spirit abated, and the poets rejoiced to write in the language of their southern neighbours. In the time of Barbour, the Scottish and English languages were almost identical ; they were now widely dissimilar, and the Scottish poets, by writing English verse, required to translate their sentiments into a new tongue. Their poetry thus became more the expression of the head than the utterance of the heart. The national bards of this period, the Earl of Stirling, Sir Robert Aytoun, and Drum- niond of Hawthornden, have, amidst much elegant versification, left no impression on the popular mind. Other poets of that and the succeeding age imitated Buchanan, by writing in Latin verse. Though a considerable portion of our elder popular songs may be fairly ascribed to the seventeenth century, the names of few of the writers have been preserved. The more conspicuous song writers of this century are Francis Semple, Lord Yester, Lady Grizzel Baillie, and Lady Wardlaw. The taste for national song was much on the wane, when it was restored by the successful efforts of Allan Ramsay. He revived the elder ballads in his " Evergreen," and introdiiced contemporary poets in his " Tea Table Miscellany." The latter obtained a place on the tea table of every lady of quality, and soon became eminently popular. Among the more conspicuous promoters of Scottish song, about the middle of last century, were Mrs Alison Cockburn, Miss Jane Elliot of Minto, Sir Gilbert Elliot, Sir John Clerk of Pennycuick, Dr Austin, Dr Alexander Gedcles, Alexander Ross, James Tytler, and the Rev. Dr Blacklock. The poet Robert Fergusson, though peculiarly fond of music, did not write songs. Scottish song reached its climax on the appearance of Robert Burns. He so struck the chord of the Scottish lyre, that its vibrations were felt in every bosom. The songs of Caledonia, under the influence of his matchless power, became celebrated throughout the world. He purified the elder minstrelsy, and by a few gentle, but effective touches, renovated its fading aspects. " He could glide like dew," writes Allan Cunningham, " into the fading bloom of departing song, and refresh it into beauty and fragrance." Contemporary with Burns, being only seven years his junior, though upwards of half-a-century later in becoming known, Carolina Oliphant, Baroness Kairne, proved a noble coadjutor and successor to the rustic bard in renovating the national minstrelsv. Possessing a fine musical ear, d PREFACE, she adapted her lyrics with singular success to the sentiments of the older airs, and was thus enabled to supersede many ribald and vulgar ditties, which associated with inspiring'music, had long maintained a noxious popularity. Of Burns' immediate contemporaries, the more conspicuous were, John Skinner, Hector Macneill, John Mayne, and Richard Gall. Grave as a pastor, Skinner revelled in drollery as a ver- sifier: Macneill loved sweetness and simplicity; Mayne, with a perception of the ludicrous, was plaintive and sentimental ; Gall was patriotic and graceful. Sir Walter Scott, the great poet of the past half-century, if his literary qualifica- tions had not been so varied, would have possessed renown as a writer of Scottish songs ; he was thoroughly imbued with the martial spirit of the old times, and keenly alive to those touches of nature which give point and force to the productions of the national lyre. Joanna Baillie sung effectively the joys of rustic social life, and gained admission to the cottage hearth. Lady Anne Barnard won national admiration by one plaintive lay. Allan Cunningham wrote the Scottish ballad in the peculiar rhythm and with the power of the older minstrels. Alike in mirth and tenderness, Sir Alexander Boswell was exquisitely happy. Tannahill gave forth strains of be- witching sweetness ; Hogg, whose ballads abound with supernatural imagery, evinced in song the utmost pastoral simplicity ; Motherwell was a master of the plaintive ; Robert Nicoll rejoiced in rural loves. Among living song- writers, Charles Mackay holds a first place his songs glow with patriotic sentiment, and are redolent in beauties ; in pastoral scenes, Henry Scott Riddell is without a competitor ; James Ballantine has wedded to heart-stirring strains those maxims which conduce to virtue. The Scottish Harp vibrates to sentiments of chivalric nationality in the hands of Hugh Ainslie, Alexander Maclagan, and Robert White. Eminent lyrical simplicity is depicted in the strains of Archibald Mackay, John Crawford, Thomas C. Latto, James Smith, George W. D&nald, Matthias Barr, and George Mac Donald. The best ballad writers introduced in the present work are Robert Chambers, John S. Blackie, Mrs Ogilvy, and the late Professor Aytoun. Amply sustained is the national reputation in female lyric poets, by the compositions of Mrs Simpson, Isabella Craig Knox, and Margaret Crawford Roseburgh. The national sports are celebrated with stirring effect by Thomas T. Stoddart, and the late William A. Foster. Sacred poetry is admirably represented by such lyrical writers as Horatius Bonar, D.D., and the late James D. Burns. Many thrilling verses, suitable for music, though not strictly claiming the character of lyrics, have been produced by Thomas Aird, Henry Glassford Bell, James Hedderwick, Andrew J. Symington, and the late James Macfarlan. Of the collections of the elder Scottish Minstrelsy, the best catalogue is supplied by Dr David Laing in the latest edition of Johnson's Musical Museum. Of the modern collections we would honourably mention, " The Harp of Caledonia, " edited by John Struthers (3 vols. 12mo) ; " The Songs of Scotland, Ancient and Modern" (4 vols. 8vo), edited by Allan Cunningham ; "The Scottish Songs" (2 vols. 12rao), edited by Robert Chambers ; and, " The Book of Scottish Song," edited by Alexander Whitelaw. Most of these works contain original songs, but the amplest collections of these are M'Leod's " Original National Melodies," and the several small PREFACE. vi volumes of " Whistle Binkie."* The more esteemed modern collections with music are " The Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith f (6 vols. 8vo) ; " The Songs of Scotland, adapted to their appropriate Melodies, arranged with Pianoforte Accompani- ments," edited by G. F. Graham, Edinburgh : 1848 (3 vols. royal 8vo) ; " The Select Songs of Scotland, with Melodies, etc." Glasgow : "W. Hamilton, 1855 (1 vol. 4to) ; " The Lyric Gems of Scotland, a Collection of Scottish Songs, Original and Selected, with Music," Glasgow, 1856 (12mo). Of district collections of Minstrelsy, "The Harp of Renfrewshire," published in 1820, under the editorship of Motherwell, and "The Contemporaries of Burns," containing interesting biographical sketches and specimens of the Ayrshire bards, claim special commendation. The present Collection proceeds on the plan of presenting memoirs of the song writers in connection with their compositions, thus making the reader acquainted with the condition of every writer, and with the circumstances in which his minstrelsy was given forth. In this manner, too, many popular songs, of which the origin was mi- known, have been permanently connected with the names of their authors. In the preparation of the first edition, especially in procuring materials for the memoirs and biographical notices, the editor was occupied during a period of four years. He has, in preparing the present edition, made every effort to render the work still more worthy of public acceptance. Every article has undergone a strict revision, errors and omissions have been rectified, and in relation to not a few of the memoirs, new and important particulars have been added. Many recent poets, not included in the former edition, have been introduced. In presenting this reprint to his fellow- countrymen, the Editor rejoices in having found a Publisher, who, imbued with the national spirit, has undertaken to produce the work at a price which will render it generally accessible. SNOWDOUN VILLA, LEWISHAM, KENT, April 18, 1870. * The publisher of this meritorious little work, Mr David Robertson of Glasgow, was a native of Port of Menteith, Perthshire ; he died at Glasgow on the 6th of October 185^.. Mr Robertson maintained an extensive correspondence with the humbler bards, and succeeded in recovering many interesting lyrics, which would otherwise have perished. i Robert Archibald Smith, so justly celebrated in connection with the modern history of Scottish Music, was born at Reading, Berkshire, on the i6th November 1780. In his twentieth year he settled in Paisley, where he formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, whose best songs he subsequently set to music. In 1823, he became precentor in St George's Church, Edinburgh, on the recommendation of its celebrated pastor, the late Dr Andrew Thomson. His musical works are held in high estimation. His death took place at Edinburgh on the 3d January 1829. CONTENTS. JOHN SKINNER, ... Tullochgorum, . John o' Badenyon, .... The ewie wi' the crookit horn, . ! why should old age so much wound us? Lizzy Liberty, The stipendless parson, The man of Ross, .... A song on the times, WILLIAM CAMERON, . As o'er the Highland hills I hied, MRS JOHN HUNTER, The Indian death-song, . . . My mother bids me bind my hair, The flowers of the forest, . The season comes when first we met, . Oh, tuneful voice ! I still deplore, Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, The lot of thousands, . ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON, Cauld kail in Aberdeen, . MRS GRANT OF CARRON, . Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, . ROBERT COUPER, M.D., Kinrara, The sheeling, The e\ve-buglits, Marion, . . PAGE 1 5 5 LADY ANNE BARNARD, Auld Robin Gray, Part II., . "WTiy tarries my love ? 10 11 11 12 12 13 13 13 13 13 13 14 14 15 15 15 16 16 16 17 19 20 21 PAGE JOHN TAIT, 21 The banks of the Dee, ... 22 HECTOR MACNEILL, ... 22 Mary of Castlecary, .... 26 My boy Tammy, . , . .26 Oh, tell me how for to woo, . . 27 Lassie wi' the gowden hair, . . 27 Come under my plaidie, ... 28 I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, . . 28 Donald and Flora, .... 29 My luve's in Germany, ... 29 Dinna think, bonnie lassie, . . SO MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN, . . 31 Oh, where, tell me where? . . 32 Oh, my love, leave me not, . . 33 JOHN MAYNE 33 Logan braes, 34 Helen of Kirkconnel, ... 35 The winter sat lang, .... 35 My Johnnie, ..... 35 The troops were embarked, . . 36 JOHN HAMILTON 36 The rantin' Highlandman, . . 36 Up in the mornin' early, ... 37 Go to Berwick, Johnnie, . . .37 Miss Forbes' farewell to Banff, . . 37 Tell me, Jessie, tell me why? . . 37 The hawthorn 38 Oh, blaw, ye westlin' winds ! . .38 JOANNA BAILLIE, .... 38 The Maid of Llanwellyn, ... 41 Good night, good night ! . . .41 Though richer swains thy love pursue, 42 Poverty parts good companie, . . 42 Fy, let us a' to the wedding, . . 42 CONTENTS. Hooly and fairly, The weary pund o' tow, The wee pickle tow, . The gowan glitters on the sward Saw ye Johnnie comin' ? It fell on a morning, . Woo'd, and married, and a', PAGE 43 43 44 44 45 45 45 WILLIAM DUDGEON, . Up among yon cliffy rocks, . 46 . 46 WILLIAM REID 47 The lea rig, 47 John Anderson, my jo (a continuation), 48 Fair modest flower, .... 48 Kate o' Gowrie, .... 48 Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde, . 49 ALEXANDER CAMPBELL, The hawk whoops on high, Now winter's wind sweeps, MRS DUGALD STEWART, The tears I shed must ever fall, Returning Spring, with gladsome ray, ALEXANDER WILSON, Connel and Flora, Matilda, . Auchtertool, . . 49 51 51 51 61 52 52 55 55 5(5 CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE, . 57 The land o' the leal, . Caller herrin' The laird o' Cockpen, The lass o' Gowrie, . . . Huntingtower, .... Wha'll be king but Charlie, Charlie is my darling, He's owre the hills, . . . The hundred pipers, . There grows a bonnie brier bush, Will ye no come back again ? Jamie the laird, John Tod, .... The Fife laird, .... My ain kind dearie, 0, . . Joy of my earliest days, Oh, weel's me on my ain man, . Kind Robin lo'es me, Saw ye na my Peggie ? Songs of my native land, . The twa doos The mitherless lammie, . . Saw ye ne'er a lanely lassie, . Caultl kail in Aberdeen, . . Castell Gloom, .... 60 61 61 62 62 62 63 63 63 64 64 64 65 65 66 66 66 66 67 67 67 67 68 68 68 The auld house, Fareweel, Edinburgh, The attainted Scottish nobles, . Would you be young again ? Gude nicht, an' joy be wi' ye a', Rest is not here, Here's to them that are gane, ; Fareweel, fareweel, PAGE 69 69 70 70 70 70 71 71 JAMES NICOL, 71 Blaw saftly, ye breezes, ... 72 By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, . 72 My dear little lassie, . . . .72 ANDREW SCOTT, . The muirland farmer, 73 . 74 Symon and Janet, . . . .74 Coquet water, 75 The fiddler's widow, . . . .75 Lament for the death of an Irish chief, 76 SIR WALTER SCOTT, BAKT., . . 76 It was an English ladye bright, . . 82 Jock of Hazeldean, .... 82 Lochinvar, . . . . .82 Where shall the lover rest, . . 83 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, . . 83 Hail to the chief who in triumph advances, 84 Pibroch of Donald Dhu, ... 84 The heath this night must be my bed, 84 The imprisoned huntsman, . . 85 He is gone on the mountain, . . 85 A weary lot is thine, fair maid, . . 85 Allen-a-Dale, 85 The cypress wreath, .... 86 The cavalier song, .... 86 Hunting song, ..... 86 Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air, 87 JAMES HOGG 87 Donald Macdonald, .... 107 Flora Macdonald's farewell, . . 108 Bonnie Prince Charlie, . . .108 Rise, rise, Lowland and Highlaudmen, 108 The skylark, 109 Caledonia 109 Jeanie, there's naething to fear, . 109 When the kye comes hanie, . . 110 Mischievous woman, . . . .110 The women folk, .... 110 M'Lean's welcome, .... Ill The Stuarts of Appin, . , .111 Charlie is my darling, . . .112 Love is like a dizziness, . . . 112 weel befa' the maiden gay, . . 113 The flowers of Scotland, . . .113 Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, . 114 Pull away, jolly boys, . . . 114 Auld Joe Nicholson's Nanny, . . 114 The auld Highlandman, . . .115 CONTENTS. xi When Maggy gangs away, Ah, Peggy, since thou'rt gane away, Gang to the brakens wi' me, Lock the door, Lariston, I ha'e naebody now, . The moon was a-waning, The lass of Deloraine, Good night, and joy, . JAMES MUIEHEAD, D.D., .. Bess the gawkie, .... MRS AGNES LYON, .... Neil Gow's farewell to whisky, Within the towers of ancient Glammis, ROBERT LOCHORE, .... PAGE 115 115 116 116 116 117 117 117 118 118 119 120 120 120 121 121 122 122 122 124 124 124 125 125 126 126 127 127 128 131 131 132 134 134 135 135 135 136 136 136 137 137 PAGE 0! are ye sleeping, Maggie? . .137 When John an' me were married, . 137 Now winter, wi' his cloudy brow, . 137 The dear Highland laddie, 0, . .138 The lament of Wallace, . . .138 The midges dance aboon the burn, . 138 Rab Roryson's bonnet, . . .139 Ah! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, . 139 Barrochan Jean, . . . .139 Green Inismore, . . . .140 0, row thee in my Highland plai'd, . 140 Bonny wood of Craigie lea, . .140 Despairing Mary, . . . .141 Peggy O'Rafferty, . . . .141 Good night, and joy, . . . 142 HENRY DUNCAN, D.D., . .142 The Ruthwell volunteers, . . . 145 Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, . 145 The roof of straw, .... 145 Marriage, and the care o 't, . . JOHN ROBERTSON The toom meal pock, ... ALEXANDER BALFOUR, The bounie lass o' Leven water, . Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, . . . 145 ROBERT ALLAN 146 Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, 146 Come awa, hie awa, . . . .146 On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, . 147 To a linnet, 147 The primrose is bonnie in spring, . 147 The bounie lass o' Woodhouselee, . 147 The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, 147 Her hair was like the Cromla mist, . 148 leeze me on the bonnie lass, . .148 Queen Mary's escape from Lochleven Castle, 148 GEORGE MACINDOE, The burn trout, .... ALEXANDER DOUGLAS, . Fife, an' a' the land about it, . WILLIAM M'LAREN. And dost thou speak sincere, my love? Say not the bard has turn'd old, HAMILTON PAUL, ." . When Charlie to the Highlands came, 148 Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, 149 The lovely maid of Ormadale, . .149 The thistle and the rose, . . .149 The Covenanter's lament, . . .150 ANDREW MERCER, . . .150 The hour of love, . . . .150 JOHN LEYDEN, M.D 151 The return after absence, . . .153 Lament for Rama, .... 153 ToAurelia, 153 JAMES SCADLOCK, . . . .154 Along by Levern stream so clear, . 154 Hark, hark, the skylark singing, . 154 October winds 155 SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART., 155 Jenny's bawbee, .... 157 The bonnie lass of Barr, ROBERT TANNAHILL, . Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane, . Loudon's bonnie woods and braes, The lass of Arranteenie, . ' . Yon burn side, The braes o' Gleniffer, Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, The braes o' Balquhither, . My bonnie young laddie, . Ye dear romantic shades, . Gloomy winter's now awa', rii CONTENTS. PAGE PAGE Jenny dang the weaver, 157 WILLIAM CHALMERS, . 180 157 Taste life's glad moments, Good night, and joy be vri' ye a', 158 158 Sing on, The Lomond braes, .... 180 180 Old and new times, .... 158 Bannocks o' barley meal, . . 159 JOSEPH TRAIN, .... 180 183 WILLIAM GILLESPIE, . 159 Blooming Jessie, .... 183 The Highlander, 160 Old Scotia, 183 Ellen, 160 ROBERT JAMIESON, 1S4 THOMAS MOUNSEY CUNNINGHAM, 160 My wife 's a winsome wee thing, Go to him, then, if thou canst go, JS4 185 Adown the burnie's flowery bank, 162 . The hills o' Gallowa', 162 The braes o' Ballahun, 163 WALTER WATSON, .... 185 The unco grave, Julia's grave, Fareweel, ye streams, . 163 163 163 My Jockie 's far awa, Maggie an' me, .... Braes o' Bedlay, .... 186 186 Jessie, 187 JOHN STRUTHERS, 164 Admiring Nature's simple charms, 165 WILLIAM LAIDLAW, 157 Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen tree, 166 1S9 Her bonnie black e'e, . . 1S9 Alake for the lassie, .... 190 RICHARD GALL, .... 166 How sweet is the scene, Captain O'Kain, .... 167 167 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, . 190 My only jo and dearie, 0, The bonnie blink o' Mary's ee, The braes o' Drumlee, 167 167 167 She's gane to dwall in heaven, . The lovely lass of Preston mill, . . Gane were but the winter cauld, 193 194 194 I winna gang back to my mammy again, 168 It's hame, and it 'shame, . 194 The bard, 168 168 169 The lovely lass of Inverness, A wet sheet and a flowing sea, . The bonnie bark, .... 195 195 195 Louisa in Lochaber, .... The hazelwood witch, Farewell to Ayrshire, . . 169 Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 196 Phemie Irving, 196 The thistle 's grown, .... 196 GEORGE SCOTT, 169 My bonnie lassie, .... 197 The flower of the Tyne, 170 My gentle Hugh Herries, . Morning song, ..... 197 197 }Iy lassie wi' the sunny locks, . 198 THOMAS CAMPBELL, . 170 Ye mariners of England, . . 173 EBENEZER PICKEN, 198 174 174 174 . ie wi' the glancin' ee, Woo me again, .... 199 199 The wounded hussar, Battle of the Baltic, .... 17 '5 The Exile of Erin, .... 175 176 STUART LEWIS, .... 200 Lord Ullin's daughter i -,; 201 Ode to the Gerniuns d. i \j 1 -,; 201 Farewell, * u 177 Oh ! scenes of my childhood, 177 DAVID DRUMMOND, 201 MRS G. G. RICHARDSON, 177 The bonnie lass o' Levenside, 202 The fairy dance, .... 170 T^AIF 5 ? AGE JAMES MANSON, .... 347 JOHN NEVAY, .... 362 Ocean, ...... 347 Emigrant's love-letter, . 363 348 Robin Goodheart's carol, . 348 MRS JANET HAMILTON, . 363 WILLIAM EDMONSTONE AYTOUN, D C L 348 Summer voices, . . . Effie . 364 364 The old Scottish cavalier, . 349 HEXRY SCOTT RIDDELL, . 366 HUGH MACDONALD, 350 The wild glen sae green, . Scotia's thistle, .... . 385 . 385 The wee primrose, .... Bonnie Greenlaw, .... 350 351 351 351 Land of gallant hearts, The yellow locks o' Charlie, We'll meet yet again, Our ain native laud, . . 3S5 . 386 . 386 . 386 The trysted hour, The laud of blooming heather, The lass I saw yestreen, 352 The Grecian war-song, . 387 The lass o' Colinslee, 352 Flora's lament, .... . 387 The dusky hour, The lass o' Carmyle, . 352 352 When the glen all is still, . The minstrel's grave, . 387 . 388 Scotland yet, .... . 388 388 EDWARD POLIN 353 The bower of the wild, . 389 353 The crook and plaid, . . 389 ^Qrt J. he minstrel s bower, . . When the star, . oyu . 390 Though all fair, . 390 ALEXANDER BUCHANAN, . 354 Would that I were, . . 391 I wander'd alane, . . 354 QZA Oh, tell me what sound, . . 391 391 JAMES LITTLE, .... 004 355 HUGH AINSLIE, . 392 Our native hills again, Here 'a a health, .... 355 355 The hameward song, . Dowie in the hint o' hairst, On wi' the tartan, . 393 . 393 . 393 The rover o' Lochryan, . 393 ROBERT LEIGHTON, 355 The lads an' the land, The last look o' hame, . 394 . 394 My muckle meal-pock, 356 My lioiinie wee Bell, . . 394 Ye three voyces, .... 356 Spunk Janet's cure for love, 356 The auld Gaberlunzie, . . 357 WILLIAM THOMSON, . 394 The maiden to her reaping-hook, . 395 JAMES MACLARDY, 357 The shepherd o' Glenshee, . . 395 The .sunny days, .... 358 Oh, my love was fair, ... 358 WILLIAM BLAIR, . . 395 The Highland maid, . . 396 WILLIAM AIR FOSTER, . 359 Neapolitan war-song, . 396 Fareweel to Scotia, .... 359 The falcon's flight, .... 359 ARCHIBALD MACKAY, . . 396 The salmon run, .... 360 Our auld Scots sangs, . . . 397 My laddie lies low, . . 397 ROBERT DUTHIE, .... 360 Jouk and let the jaw gae by, Victorious be again, . . 397 . 398 361 Boatman's song, .... 361 CHARLES MARSHALL, . . 398 WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL, . 361 The jewel o' a lad, . 398 Lament of Wallace, .... 362 Twilight joys, .... . 399 xviii CONTENTS. WILLIAM WILSON, .... Oh ! blessing on her star-like een, Oh ! blessing on thee, land, Auld Johnny Graham, . . . PAGE 399 399 400 400 400 401 401 401 401 402 402 402 402 403 404 404 405 405 405 406 406 406 407 407 407 408 408 408 409 409 409 409 410 411 411 411 412 412 412 412 413 413 413 413 WILLIAM BEATTIE, M.D. . Spring-tide in Lauterbrunnen, . Flowers that never die, FRANCIS BENNOCH, Truth and honour, . Auld Peter Macgowan, . The flower of Keir, . My bonnie wee wifie, . Come when the dawn, The Nith, .... PAGE . 414 . 415 . 415 . 415 . 415 . 416 . 416 . 416 . 417 . 417 JOHN RAMSAY, .... Farewell to Crawfurdland, . . . Jeanie o' the fiel', .... JAMES PARKER The mariner's song, .... Her lip is o' the rose's hue, . . ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D., . Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, Bessie, ..... . 417 . 418 . 418 Florence Nightingale, MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL, Lament for Glencoe, . The march of the Cameron men, The mole and the bat, 0, what will we do in the morning, ELIZA A. H. OGILVY, . Craig Elachie, .... THOMAS TOD STODDART, . . 418 . 419 . 419 . 419 . 420 . 420 . 421 . 422 . 421 . 422 The ladye that I love, Thou gentle and kind one, Lament for Highland warriors, . . THOMAS AIRD ROBERT WHITE, .... My native land, . . . A shepherd's life, . . . Her I love best, . . The maid whom I adore, Ellen, ... . The bonnie Redesdale lassie, Bonnie Coquet-side, .... WILLIAM CAMERON, Sweet Jessie o' the dell, . . . Meet me on the gowan lea, . . ALEXANDER TAIT E'ening's dewy hour, JAMES BALLANTINE, . Naebody's bairn, .... Castles in the air, .... Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew, Wine, come hame, .... The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest, Creep afore ye gang, .... Ae gude turn deserves anither, . The nameless lassie, .... Bonnie Bonally, .... Saft is the blink o' thine ee, lassie, . The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win, .... Let ither anglers, . . . The British oak, . . . ALEXANDER MACLAGAN, . Curling song, .... The Scotch blue-bell, The thistle, .... . 422 . 423 . 423 . 424 . 425 . 425 . 426 The Highland plaid, . . JANE C. SIMPSON, . 426 . 426 . 427 He loved her for her merry eye, MARION PAUL AIRD, . The fa' o' the leaf, . Far, far away, . . . WILLIAM SINCLAIR, . The royal Breadalbane oak, . 427 . 428 . 428 . 429 . 429 . 429 . 430 Absence, ..... The battle of Stirling, . 430 . 430 CONTENTS. xix PAGE PAGE CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D., . 431 LADY JOHN SCOTT, 447 Love aweary of the world, 432 Katherine Logie, ( . . 447 The lover's second thoughts on world 447 weariness, ..... 432 Shame on ye, gallants, . . . 447 A candid wooing, 433 Ettrick, 447 Procrastinations, 433 Your voices are not hush'd, 448 Believe if you can, . 433 The foul fords, . 448 Oh, the happy time departed ! 434 448 Come back ! Come back ! 434 Tears, .... 434 Cheer, boys ! Cheer ! 435 JOHN STUART BLACKIE, 448 A plain man's philosophy, The men of the North, The lover's dream of the wind, 435 435 436 Song of Ben Cruachin, Bonnie Strathnaver, .... The braes of Mar, .... 451 451 452 Hail, land of my fathers ! . 452 HENRY GLASSFORD BELL, . 436 Dora, A sprig of white heather, . 452 453 My life is one long thought of thee, . Ellen Mar, 437 437 The maid of Grishornish, . My Fanny 0! 453 454 437 The old soldier of the Gareloch Head, 454 The tall gentleman's apology, . A bachelor's complaint, . . 438 438 The wee herd laddie, My loves, ..... Liking and loving, .... 454 455 455 Young man, be wise, . . . 455 WILLIAM BENNET, 439 Bob and Billy, .... 456 Blest be the hour of night, 439 There's music in a mother's voice, 439 THOMAS C. LATTO, 457 I'll think on thee, love, 439 The kiss ahint the door, . . 457 The widow's ae bit lassie, 457 Tell me dear, .... 458 HENRY INGLIS, .... 440 440 WILLIAM CADENHEAD, 458 JAMES HEDDERWICK, . 440 Do you know what the birds are singing? An hour with an old love, 458 459 The linnet, 441 The land for me, .... Sorrow and song, .... 441 441 THOMAS ELLIOTT, 459 My ain mountain land, . . 459 WILLIAM BROCKIE, 442 Clyde boat song, .... Dimples and a', .... 460 460 Ye '11 never gang back to yer mither When I come hame at e'en, 460 nae mair, 442 GEORGE W. DONALD, . 461 ROBERT WILSON, .... 443 I rue the day she gaed awa', 461 Love, ...... 443 The weary draw to rest, 461 Away, away, my gallant bark, . 443 The bonnie bowers o' Tealing, . Amang the braes o' blooming heather, 462 462 The gowden-lock'd lassie, . 462 JOHN CRAWFORD 443 Young Jessie o' bonnie Dundee, The blue bell, 463 463 My auld wifie Jean, .... 444 The land o' the bonnet and plaid, Sing on, fairy Devon, 444 444 MARIA DOROTHEA OGILVY, 463 Ann o' Cornvlee, .... 445 463 The waes o' eild, .... 445 464 445 Tlic ?loLmin tour 464 LADY WAKE, 446 COLIN RAE BROWN, 465 Grizell Cochrane ; or, the daughter dear, 446 Charlie's comin', .... 465 xx CONTENTS. PAGE PAGE JAMES HENDERSON, 465 480 The Highland hills, .... 466 The stream of life, .... 430 My native land, . . . 466 JOHN BATHURST DICKSON, LL.D., 4SO DAVID WINGATE, .... 466 The American flag, . 481 The gloamin' hour 467 The collier's ragged wean, . 467 EVAN M'COLL, .... 481 The hills of the heather, . 481 ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON, . 467 Nature musical, .... 468 ANDREW YOUNG, .... 482 Fair as a star of light, Spring song, 468 469 The happy land, .... 482 Summer song, ..... 469 The snow, 469 HORATIUS BONAR, D.D., 482 Rest, 470 The meeting place, .... 483 Praise, 483 JAMES SMITH, 470 Bright feet of May, .... 183 Wee Joukydaidles, .... 470 Clap, clap handles, .... 471 GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D., . 474 Burd Ailie, Baloo, my bairnie, fa' asleep ! . . Masonic anthem, . . . . Achora Machree, .... The bonnie mornin' after the rain, 471 472 472 472 472 lassie ayont the hill, Gaein' and comin', .... An autumn wind, .... Child's song, 484 485 485 485 Doun fair Dalmeny's rosy dells,. 473 The Lily o' Clerwoodlee, . Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee, 473 473 MATTHIAS BARR, .... 486 The wee pair o' shoon, 474 486 The lintwhite, ..... 474 She's a' my ain, .... 486 Her I lo'e, .... 487 ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON, 474 Meet me in the glen, Jessie dear, Afar on the rolling sea, 487 487 Things must mend, .... 475 Only a baby small, .... 487 The wee blink that shines in a tear, . 475 JOHN HALLIDAY, 488 ISABELLA CRAIG KNOX, 475 The auld aik-tree, .... 488 Ode on the centenary of Burns, 476 The brides of Quair, .... A remembrance, .... 477 477 ALEXANDER BUCHAN, . 488 478 489 Thames, ..... 478 478 My heart's no my ain, I lame in the morning grey, 489 489 My Mary an' rne, . MAEfi. \11KT CRAWFORD ROSE- AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR TO MAGA, 490 BURGH, .... 479 The Sheriff's life at sen, . 490 Day-dreams of other years, 479 The memory of Mouboddo, 491 THE JOHN SKINNER, AMOXG those modern Scottish poets whose lives, by extending to a considerably distant period, render them connecting links between the old and recent minstrelsy of Scotland, the first place is due to the Eev. John Skinner. This ingenious person was born on the 3d of October 1721, at Balfour, in the parish of Birse, and county of Aberdeen. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was parochial school- master ; but two years after his son's birth, he was presented to the more lucrative situation of schoolmaster of Echt, a parish about twelve miles distant from Aberdeen. He discharged the duties of this latter appointment for the period of fifty years. He was twice married. By his first union with Mrs Jean Gillanders, the relict of Donald Farquharson of Balfour, was born an only child, the subject of this memoir. The mother dying when the child was only two years old, the charge of his early training depended solely on his father, who for several years remained a widower. The paternal duties were adequately performed : the son, while a mere youth, was initiated in classical learning, and in his thirteenth year he became a successful competitor for a bursary or exhibition in Marischal College, Aberdeen. At the University, during the usual philosophical course of four years, he pursued his studies with diligence and success ; and he afterwards became an usher in the parish schools of Kemnay and Monymusk. From early youth, young Skinner had courted the Muse of his country, and composed verses in the Scottish dialect. When a mere stripling, he took delight in repeating the long poem by James I. of " Christ-kirk on the Green ;" he afterwards translated it into Latin verse ; and an imitation of the same poem, entitled " The Monymusk Christmas Ba'ing," which he composed in his sixteenth year, attracting the notice of the lady of Sir Archibald Grant, Bart., of Monymusk, brought him the favour of that influential family. Though the humble usher of a parish school, he was honoured with the patronage of the worthy baronet and his lady, became an inmate of their mansion, and had the uncontrolled use of its library. The residence of the poet in Monymusk House indirectly conduced towards his forming ecclesias- tical opinions, which exercised an important influence on his career. The Episcopal clergyman of the district was frequently a guest at the table of Sir Archibald ; and by the conversation of this person, Mr Skinner was induced to enlist his sympathies in the cause of the Episcopal or non-juring clergy. They bore the latter appellation from their refusal, during the existence of the exiled family of Stuart, to take the oath of allegiance to the House of Hanover. In 1740, on the invitation of Mr Robert Forbes, Episcopal minister at Leith, afterwards a bishop, Mr Skinner, in the capacity of private tutor to the only son of Mr Sinclair of Scalloway, proceeded to Zetland, where he acquired the intimate friendship of the Eev. Mr Hunter, the only non- THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. juring clergyman in that remote district. There he remained only one year, owing to the death of the elder Mr Sinclair, and the removal of his pupil to pursue his studies in a less retired locality. He lamented the father's death in Latin, as well as in English verse. He left Scalloway with the best wishes of the family ; and as a substantial proof of the good-will of his friend Mr Hunter, he received in marriage the hand of his eldest daughter. Keturning to Aberdeenshire, he was ordained a presbyter of the Episcopal Church, by Bishop Dunbar of Peterhead; and in November 1742, on the unanimous invitation of the people, he was appointed to the pastoral charge of the congregation at Longside. Uninfluenced by ambition, he fixed here a permanent habitation : he rented a cottage at Linshart in the vicinity, which, though consisting only of a single apartment, besides the kitchen, sufficed for the expenditure of his limited stipend. In every respect he realised Goldsmith's description of the village pastor : " A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year ; Remote from towns lie ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place." Secluded, however, as were Mr Skinner's habits, and though he never had inter- fered in the political movements of the period, he did not escape his share in those ruthless severities which were visited \ipon the non-juring clergy subsequent to the last Eebellion. His chapel was destroyed by the soldiers of the Duke of Cumber- land ; and, on the plea of his having transgressed the law by preaching to more than four persons without subscribing the oath of allegiance, he was, during six months, detained a prisoner in the jail of Aberdeen. Entering on the sacred duties of the pastoral office, Mr Skinner appears to have checked the indulgence of his rhyming propensities. His subsequent poetical pro- ductions, which include the whole of his popular songs, were written to please his friends, or gratify the members of his family, and without the most distant view to publication. In 1787, he writes to Burns, on the subject of Scottish song : ""While I was young, I dabbled a good deal in these things ; but on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all. tolerably good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted those effusions which have made a public appearance, beyond my expectations, and con- trary to my intentions ; at the same time, I hope there is nothing to be found in them uncharacteristic or unbecoming the cloth, which I would always wish to see respected." Some of Mr Skinner's best songs were composed at a sitting, while they seldom underwent any revision after being committed to paper. To the following incident, his most popular song, " Tullochgorum," owed its origin : In the course of a visit he was making to a friend in Ellon (not Cullen, as has been stated on the authority of Burns), a dispute arose among the guests on the subject of Whig and Tory politics, which, becoming somewhat too exciting for the comfort of the lady of the house, in order to bring it promptly to a close, she requested Mr Skinner to suggest appropriate words for the favourite air, " The Reel of Tullochgorum." Mr Skinner readily complied, and, before leaving the house, produced what Burns, in a letter to the author, characterised as "the best Scotch song ever Scotland saw." The name of the lady who made the request to the poet was Mrs Montgomery, and hence the allusion in the first stanza of the ballad : ' ' Come gie'o a sang, Montgomery cried, And lay your disputes all aside ; What signifies 't for folks to chide For what was done before them ? Let Whig and Tory all agree, " etc. JOHN SKINNER. Though claiming no distinction as a writer of verses, Mr Skinner did not conceal his ambition to excel in another department of literature. In 1746, in his twenty- fifth year, he published a pamphlet in defence of the non-juring character of his Church, entitled " A Preservative against Presbytery." A performance of greater effort, published in 1757, excited some attention, and the unqualified commendation of the learned Bishop Sherlock. In this production, entitled " A Dissertation on Jacob's Prophecy," which was intended as a supplement to a treatise on the same subject by Dr Sherlock, the author has established, by a critical examination of the original language, that the words in Jacob's prophecy (Gen. xlix. 10), rendered " sceptre " and " lawgiver" in the authorised version, ought to be translated " tribe- ship " and " typifier," a difference of interpretation which obviates some difficulties respecting the exact fulfilment of this remarkable prediction. In a pamphlet printed in 1767, Mr Skinner again vindicated the claims and authority of his Church; and on this occasion, against the alleged misrepresentations of Mr Norman Sievewright, English clergyman at Brechin, who had published a work unfavourable to the cause of Scottish Episcopacy. His most important work, "An Ecclesiastical History of Scotland, from the first appearance of Christianity in that kingdom," was published in the year 1788, in two octavo volumes. This publication, which is arranged in the form of letters to a friend, and dedicated, in elegant Latin verse, " Ad Filium et Episcopuni" (to his son, and bishop), by partaking too rigidly of a sectarian character, did not attain any measure of success. Mr Skinner's other prose works were pub- lished after his death, together with a Memoir of the author, under the editorial care of his son, Bishop Skinner of Aberdeen. These consist of theological essays, in the form of " Letters addressed to Candidates for Holy Orders," " A Dissertation on the Shekinah, or Divine Presence with the Church or People of God," and " An Essay towards a literal or true radical exposition of the Song of Songs," the whole being included in two octavo volumes, which appeared in 1809. A third volume was added, containing a collection of the author's compositions in Latin verse, and his fugitive songs and ballads in the Scottish dialect the latter portion of this volume being at the same time published in a more compendious form, with the title, " Amusements of Leisure Hours ; or, Poetical Pieces, chiefly in the Scottish dialect." Though living in constant retirement at Linshart, the reputation of the Longside pastor, both as a poet and a man of classical taste, became widely extended, and persons distinguished in the world of letters sought his correspondence and friend- ship. With Dr Gleig, afterwards titular Bishop of Brechin, Dr Doig of Stirling, and John Ramsay of Ochtertyre, he maintained an epistolary intercourse for several years. Dr Gleig, who edited the Encyclopedia Britannica, consulted Mr Skinner respecting various important articles contributed to that valuable publication. His correspondence with Doig and Ramsay was chiefly on their favourite topic of philo- logy. These two learned friends visited Mr Skinner in the summer of 1795, and entertained him for a week at Peterhead. This brief period of intellectual intercourse was regarded by the poet as the most entirely pleasurable of his existence ; and the impression of it on the vivid imagination of Mr Ramsay is recorded in a Latin eulogy on his northern correspondent, which he subsequently transmitted to him. A poetical epistle addressed by Mr Skinner to Robert Burns, in commendation of his talents, was characterised by the Ayrshire Bard as " the best poetical compliment he had ever received." It led to a regular correspondence, which was carried on with much satisfaction to both parties. The letters, which chiefly relate to the preparation of Johnson's " Musical Museum," then in the course of publication, have been included in Burns's published correspondence. Burns never saw Mr Skinner ; he had not informed himself as to his locality during the prosecution of his northern tour, THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. and had thus the mortification of ascertaining that he had been in his neighbourhood, without having formed his personal acquaintance. To Mr Skinner's son, whom he accidentally met in Aberdeen on his return, he expressed a deep regret for the blunder, as " he would have gone twenty miles out of his way to visit the author of ' Tullochgorum.' " As a man of ingenuity, various acquirements, and agreeable manners, Mr Skinner was held in much estimation among his contemporaries. Whatever he read, with the assistance of a commonplace-book, he accurately remembered, and could readily turn to account ; and, though his library was contained in a closet of five feet square, he was abundantly well informed on every ordinary topic of conversation. He was fond of controversial discussion, and wielded both argument and wit with a power alarming to every antagonist. Though keen in debate, he was possessed of a most imperturbable suavity of temper. His conversation was of a playful cast, inter- spersed with anecdote, and free from every affectation of learning. As a clergyman, he enjoyed the esteem and veneration of his flock. Besides efficiently discharging his ministerial duties, he practised gratuitously as a physician, having qualified himself, by acquiring a competent acquaintance with the healing art at the medical classes in Marischal College. His pulpit duties were widely acceptable ; but his discourses, though edifying and instructive, were more the result of the prompti- tude of the preacher, than the effects of a painstaking preparation. He abandoned the aid of the manuscript in the pulpit, on account of the untoward occurrence of his notes being scattered by a startled fowl, in the early part of his ministry, while he was addressing his people from the door of his house, after the wanton destruction of his chapel. In a scene less calculated to invite poetic inspiration no votary of the muse had ever resided. On every side of his lonely dwelling extended a wild uncultivated plain ; nor for miles around did any other human habitation relieve the monotony of this cheerless solitude. In her gayest moods, Nature never wore a pleasing aspect in Longside, nor did the distant prospect compensate for the dreary gloominess of the surrounding landscape. For his poetic suggestions, Mr Skinner was wholly dependent on the singular activity of his fancy ; as he derived his chief happiness in his com- munings with an attached flock, and in the endearing intercourse of his family. Of his children, who were somewhat numerous, he contrived to afford the whole, both sons and daughters, a superior education; and he had the satisfaction, for a long period of years, to address one of his sons as the bishop of his diocese. The death of Mr Skinner's wife, in the year 1799, fifty-eight years after their marriage, was the most severe trial which he seems to have experienced. In a Latin elegy, he gave expression to the deep sense which he entertained of his bereavement. In 1807, his son, Bishop Skinner, having sustained a similar affliction, invited his aged father to share the comforts of his house ; and after ministering at Longside for the remarkably lengthened incumbency of sixty-five years, Mr Skinner removed to Aberdeen. But a greater change was at hand ; on the 16th of June 1807, in less than a week after his arrival at his son's residence, he was seized with illness, and almost immediately expired. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Long- side ; and the flock to which he had so long ministered placed over the grave a handsome monument, bearing, on a marble tablet, an elegant tribute to the remem- brance of his virtues. At the residence of Bishop Skinner, he had seen his descend- ants in the fourth generation. Of Mr Skinner's songs, printed in this collection, the most popular are " Tulloch- gorum," " John o' Badenyon," and " The Ewie wi' the Crookit Horn." The whole are pervaded by sprightliness and good-humoured pleasantry. Though possessing JOHN SKINNER. the fault of being somewhat too lengthy, no song-compositions of any modern writer in Scottish verse have, with the exception of those of Burns, maintained a stronger hold of the Scottish heart, or been more commonly sung in the social circle. Mr Skinner's poetical compositions, under the title of " Amusements of Leisure Hours," appeared at Edinburgh in 1809 in a thin duodecimo volume; and in 1859, Mr H. G. Reid published at Peterhead his " Songs and Poems," accompanied with a well- written biographical sketch. TULLOCHGORUM, COME gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, And lay your disputes all aside ; AVhat signifies 't for folks to chide For what was done before them ? Let Whig and Tory all agree, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory all agree, To drop their Whig-mig-morum ; Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend the night wi' mirth and glee, And cheerful sing alang wi' me The Reel o' Tullochgorum. Tullochgorum 's my delight, It gai~s us a' in ane unite, And ony sumph that keeps a spite, In conscience I abhor him : For blythe and cheerie we '11 be a', Blythe and cheerie, blythe and cheerie, Blythe and cheerie we '11 be a', And mak' a happy quorum ; For blythe and cheerie we '11 be a" As lang as we hae breath to draw, And dance, till we be like to fa', The Eeel o' Tullochgorum. What needs there be sae great a fraise Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ? I wadna gie our ain Strathspeys For half a hunder score o' them ; They 're dowf and dowie at the best, Dowf and dowie, dowf and dowie, Dowf and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum ; They 're dowf and dowie at the best, Their allegros and a' the rest, They canna please a Scottish taste, Compared wi' Tullochgorum. Let warldly worms their minds oppress Wi' fears o' want and double cess, And sullen sots themsells distress Wi' keeping up decorum : Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Sour and sulky shall we sit, Like old philosophorum ? Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit, Nor ever try to shake a fit To th' Reel o' Tullochgorum ? v. May choicest blessings aye attend Each honest, open-hearted friend, And calm and quiet be his end, And a' that's good watch o'er him ; May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, Peace and plenty be his lot, And dainties a great store o' them : May peace and plenty be his lot, Uustaiu'd by any vicious spot, And may he never want a groat, That '& fond o' Tullochgorum ! VI. But for the sullen, frumpish fool, That loves to be oppression's tool. May envy gnaw his rotten soul, And discontent devour him ; May dool and sorrow be his chance, Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow, Dool and sorrow be his chance, And nane say, Wae's me for him ! May dool and sorrow be his chance, Wi' a' the ills that come frae France, Wha e'er he be that winna dance The Reel o' Tullochgorum. JOHN 0' BADEXYON. I came to be a man Of twenty years or so, I thought myself a handsome youth, And fain the world would know ; In best attire I stept abroad, With spirits brisk and gay, And here and there and everywhere Was like a morn in May ; No care I had, nor fear of want, But rambled up and down, And for a beau I might have past In country or in town ; I still was pleased where'er I went, And when I was alone, I tuned my pipe and pleased myself Wi' John o' Badenyon. 6 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ii. A" thousand various schemes I tried, Now in the days of youthful prime And yet was pleased with none ; A mistress I must find, I threw them by, and tuned my pipe For love, I heard, gave one an air, To John o' Badenyon. And e'en improved the mind : On Phillis fair above the rest, VI. Kind fortune fix'd my eyes, Her piercing beauty struck my heart, And she became my choice ; To Cupid now, with hearty prayer, I offer' d many a vow ; And danced and sung, and sigh'd and swore, As other lovers do ; But, when at last I breathed my flame, And now, ye youngsters everywhere, That wish to make a show, Take heed in time, nor fondly hope For happiness below ; What you may fancy pleasure here, Is but an empty name, And girls, and friends, and books, and so, You'll find them all the same. I found her cold as stone ; Then be advised, and warning take I left the girl, and tuned my pipe From such a man as me ; To John o' Badenyon. I'm neither Pope nor Cardinal, in. Nor one of high degree ; When love had thus my heart beguiled With foolish hopes and vain ; To friendship's port I steer'd my course, And laugh'd at lovers' pain ; You'll meet displeasure everywhere ; Then do as I have done, E'en tune your pipe and please yourselves With John o' Badenyou. A friend I got by lucky chance, 'Twas something like divine, ' An honest friend 's a precious gift, And such a gift was mine ; And now whatever might betide THE EWIE WF THE CROC-KIT HORN. A happy man was I, In any strait I knew to whom i. 1 freely might apply. WERE I but able to rehearse A strait soon came : my friend I tried ; My Ewie's praise in proper verse, He heard, and spurn'd my moan ; I'd sound it forth as loud and fierce I hied me home, and tuned my pipe As ever piper's drone could blaw ; To John o' Badenyon. The Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Wha had kent her might hae sworn IV. Methought I should be wiser next, Sic a E*we was never born, Hereabout nor far awa* * And would a patriot turn, Began to doat on Johnny Wilkes Sic a Ewe was never born, Hereabout nor far ii\\ii' And cry up Parson Home.* Their manly spirit I admired j j And praised their noble zeal, Who had with flaming tongue and pen Maintain'd the public weal ; But e'er a month or two had pass'd, I found myself betray'd, 'Twas self and party, after all, For a' the stir thev made ; I never needed tar nor keil To mark her upo' hip or heel, Her crookit horn did as weel To ken her by amo' them a' ; She never threaten'd scab nor rot, But keepit aye her ain jog-trot, At last I saw the factious knaves Baith to the fanld and to the cot, Insult the very throne ; I cursed them a', and tuned my pipe Was never sweir to lead nor caw ; Baith to the fauld and to the cot, etc. To John o' Badeuyon. in. V What next to do I mused a while, Cauld nor hunger never dang her, Wind nor wet could never wrang her, Still hoping to succci .1 ; I pitch'd on books for company, Anes she lay an ouk and langer Furth aneath a wreath o' snaw : And gravely tried to read : I bought and borrow'd everywhere, Whan ither ewies lap the dyke, And eat the kail, for a' the tyke, And studied night and day, Nor miss'd what dean or doctor wrote My Ewie never play'd the like, But tyc'd about the barn wa' ; That happen'd in my way : Philosophy I now esteem 'd My Ewie never play'd the like, etc. The ornament of youth, IV. And carefully through many a page I hunted after truth. A better or a thriftier beast Nae honest man could weel hae wist, * This song was composed when Wilkes, Home, and others were exciting a commotion about liberty. For, silly thing, she never mist To hae ilk year a lamb or twa' : JOHN SKINNER, 7 The first she had I gae to Jock, For how happy now am I, To be to him a kind o' stock, With my old wife sitting by, And now the laddie has a flock And our bairns and our oys all around us ; 0' mair nor thirty head ava' ; For how happy now am I, etc. And now the laddie has a flock, etc. II. V. I lookit aye at even' for her, Lest mishanter should come o'er her, Or the fowmart might devour her, Gin the beastie bade awa' ; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, Well deserved baith girse and corn, We began in the warld wi' naething, And we've jogged on, and toil'd for the ae thing ; We made use of what we had, And our thankful hearts were glad, When we got the bit meat and the claithing ; We made use of what we had, etc. Sic a Ewe was never born, in. Hereabout nor far awa' ; Sic a Ewe w as never born, etc. We have lived all our lifetime contented, Since the day we became first acquainted : VI. Yet last ouk, for a' my keeping, (AVha can speak it without greeting .') A villain cam' when I was sleeping, Sta' my Ewie, horn, and a': It's true we've been but poor, And we are so to this hour, But we never yet repined or lamented ; It's true we've been but poor, etc. I sought her sair upo' the morn, rv. And down aneath a buss o' thorn I got my Ewie's crookit horn, But my Ewie was awa' ; 1 got my Ewie's crookit horn, etc. When we had any stock, we ne'er vauntit, Is or did we hing our heads when we wantit ; But we always gave a share Of the little we could spare, VII. When it pleased a kind Heaven to grant it; ! gin I had the loon that did it, But we always gave a share, etc. Sworn I have as well as said it, Though a' the warld should forbid it, V. I wad gie his neck a thra' : We never laid a scheme to be wealthy, I never met wi f sic a turn By means that were cunning or stealthy; As this sin' ever I was born, But we always had the bliss My Ewie, wi' the crookit horn, And what further could we wiss ? Silly Ewie, stown awa' ; To be pleased with ourselves and be healthy ; My Ewie wi' the crookit horn, etc. But we always had the bliss, etc. VIII. VI. ! had she died o' crook or cauld, As Ewies do when they grow auld, It wad na been, by mony fauld, Sae sair a heart to nane o's a' : What though we cannot boast of our guineas We have plenty of Jockies and Jeanies ; And these, I 'm certain, are . For a' the claith that we hae worn, Frae her and her's sae aften shorn, The loss o' her we could hae born, More desirable by far Than a bag full of poor yellow steinies ; And these, I am certain, are, etc. Had fair strae-death te'en her awa' ; VII. The loss o' her we could hae born, etc. We have seen many wonder and ferly, IX. But thus, poor thing, to lose her life, Aneath a bluidy villain's knife, I 'm really fleyt that our guidwife Of changes that almost are yearly, Among rich folks up and down, Both in country and in town, Who now live but scrimply and barely ; Will never win aboon't ava : ! a' ye bards benorth Kinghorn, Among rich folks up and down, etc. Call your muses up and mourn, VIII. Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn Stown frae's and fell'd and a'! Our Ewie wi' the crookit horn, etc. Then why should people brag of prosperity ? A straiten'd life we see is no rarity ; Indeed, we 've been in want, And our living's been but scant, ! WHY SHOULD OLD AGE SO MUCH AVOUXD US? Yet we never were reduced to need charity ; Indeed, we've been in want, etc. TUNE "Dumbarton Drums." IX. I. In this house we first came together, ! WHY should old age so much wound us ? * Where we've long been a father and mither ; There is nothing in it all to confound us : And though not of stone and lime, * This tune requires O to be added at the end of each of the long lines, but in reading the song the letter O is better omitted. It will last us all our time ; And I hope we shall ne'er need anither ; And though not of stone and lime, etc. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. And when we leave this poor habitation, \Ve '11 depart with a good commendation ; We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, To a better house than this, To make room for the next generation ; We 'H go hand in hand, I wiss, etc. Then why should old age so much wound us? etc. LIZZY LIBERTY. TUNE " Tibbie Fowler i' the Glen* I. THERE lives a lassie i' the braes, And Lizzy Liberty they ca' her, When she has on her Sunday's claes, Ye never saw a lady brawer ; So a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony woo- ing at her ! II. Her mither ware a tabbit mutch, Her father was an honest dyker, She's a black -eyed wanton witch, Ye winna shaw me mony like her ; So a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzie Liberty, wow, sae mony 's woo- ing at her ! Hi. A kindly lass she is, I 'm seer, Has fowth o' sense and smeddum in her, And nae a swankie far nor near, But tries wi' a' his might to win her : They're wooing at her, fain would hae her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony woo- ing at her ! IV. For kindly though she be, nae doubt, She manna thole the marriage tether, But likes to rove and rink about, Like Highland cowt amo' the heather, Yet a' the lads are wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony!s wooing at her ! v. It 'a seven year, and some guid mair, Syn Dutch Mynheer made courtship till her, A merchant bluff and fu' o' care, Wi' chuffy cheeks, and bags o' siller ; So Dutch Mynheer was wooing at her, Courting her, but cudna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her! VI. Neist to him came Baltic John, Stept up the brae, and leukit at her, Syne wear his wa', wi' heavy moan, And in a month or twa forgat her : Baltic John was wooing at her, Courting her, but cudna get her ; Filthy elf, she's nae herself, wi' sae mony woo- ing at her ! Syne after him cam' Yankie Doodle, Frae hyne ayont the muckle water ; Though Yankie 's nae yet worth a bodle, Wi' might and main he would be at her : Yankie Doodle's wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her ! Till. Now Monkey French is in a roar, And swears that nane but he sail hae her, Though he sud wade through bluid and gore, It's nae the king sail keep him frae her : So Monkey French is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her! For France, nor yet her Flanders frien', Xeedna think that she'll come to them ; They've casten aff wi' a' their kin, And grace and guid have flown frae them : They're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony 's wooing at her ! x. A stately chiel they ca' John Bull Is unco thrang and glaikit wi' her ; And gin he cud get a' his wull, There's nane can say what he wad gi'e her : Johnny Bull is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Filthy Ted, she'll never wed, as lang's sae mouy's wooing at her! Even Irish Teague, ayont Belfast, Wadna care to speir about her ; And swears, till he sail breathe his last, He'll never happy be without her : Irish Teague is wooing at her, Courting her, but canna get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty has ow'r mony wooing at her I XII. But Donald Scot's the happy lad, Though a' the lave sud try to rate him : Whan he steps up the brae sae glad, She disna ken maist whare to set him : Donald Scot is wooing at her, Courting her, will maybe get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, wow, sae mony's wooing at her ! XIII. Now, Donald, tak' a frien's advice I ken fu' weel ye fain wad hae her ; As ye are happy, sae be wise, And ha'd ye "wi' a smackie frae her : Ye 're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, will maybe get her ; Bonny Lizzy Liberty, there's ow'r mony wooing at her ! JOHN SKINNER. XIV. Ye'reweel, andwat'sna, lad, they're saj*in', Wi' getting leave to dwall aside her ; And gin ye had her a' your ain, Ye might na find it mows to guide her : Ye're wooing at her, fain wad hae her, Courting her, will maybe get her ; Cunning quean, she's ne'er be mine, as lang's sae mony's wooing at her. THE STIPENDLESS PARSON. TUNE "A Cobbler tltere was," etc. I. How happy a life does the Parson possess, "\Vlio would be no greater, nor fears to be less ; Who depends on his book and his gown for support, And derives no preferment from conclave or court! Derry down, etc. n. Without glebe or manse settled on him by law, No stipend to sue for, nor vic'rage to draw ; In discharge of his office he holds him content, With a croft and a garden, for which he pays rent. Derry down, etc. in. With a neat little cottage and furniture plain, And a spare room to welcome a friend now and then ; With a good-humoured wife in his fortune to share, And ease him at all times of family care. Derry down, etc. IV. With a few of the Fathers, the oldest and best, And some modern extracts pick'd out from the rest ; With a Bible in Latin, and Hebrew, and Greek, To aiford him instruction each day of the week. Derry down, etc. v. What children he has, if any are given, He thankfully trusts to the kindness of Heaven ; To religion and virtue he trains them while young, And with such a provision he does them no wrong. Derry down, etc. VI. With labour below, and with help from above, He cares for his flock, and is bless'd with their love: Though his living, perhaps, in the main may be scant, He is sure, while they have, that he'll ne'er be in want. Derry down, etc. VII. With no worldly projects nor hurries perplex'd, He sits in his closet and studies his text ; And while he converses with Moses or Paul, He envies not bishop, nor dean in his stall. Derry down, etc. VIII. Not proud to the poor, nor a slave to the great, Neither factious in Church, nor pragmatic in State, He keeps himself qniet within his own sphere, And finds work sufficient in preaching and prayer. Derry down, etc. In what little dealings he 's forced to transact, He determines with plainness and candour to act; And the great point on which his ambition is set, Is to leave at the last neither riches nor debt. Derry down, etc. Thus calmly he steps through the valley of life, Unencumber'd with wealth, and a stranger to strife ; On the bustlings around him unmoved he can look, And at home always pleased with his wife and his book. Derry down, etc. And when, in old age, he drops into the grave, This humble remembrance he wishes to have : " By good men respected, by the evil oft tried, Contented he lived, and lamented he died ! " Derry down, etc. THE MAN OF ROSS. TUNE "Miss Ross's Reel." WHEN fops and fools together prate, O'er punch or tea, of this or that, What silly poor unmeaning chat Does all their talk engross ! A nobler theme employs my lays, And thus my honest voice I raise In well-deserved strains to praise The worthy Man of Ross. His lofty soul (would it were mine !) Scorns every selfish, low design, And ne'er was known to repine, At any earthly loss : But still contented, frank, and free, In every state, whate'er it be, Serene and staid we always see The worthy Man of Ross. Let misers hug their worldly store, And gripe and pinch to make it more ; Their gold and silver's shining ore He counts it all but dross : 'Tis better treasure he desires ; A surer stock his passion fires, And mild benevolence inspires The worthy Man of Ross. 10 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. When want assails the widow's cot, Or sickness strikes the poor man's hut, When blasting winds or foggy rot Augment the farmer's loss : The suffrer straight knows where to go, With all his wants and all his woe ; For glad experience leads him to The worthy Man of Ross. This Man of Ross I '11 daily sing, With vocal note and lyric string, And duly, when I 've drank the king, He '11 be my second toss. May Heaven its choicest blessings send On such a man, and such a friend ; And still may all that's good attend The worthy Man of Ross. VI. Now, if yon ask about his name, Ami where he lives with such a fame, Indeed, I '11 say you are to blame, For truly, inter nos, 'Tis what belongs to you and me, And all of high or low degree, In every sphere to try to be The worthy Man of Ross. A SOXG OX THE TIMES. TUNE "Broom of the Cotvdenknowes." I. WHEN I began the world first, It was not as 'tis now ; For all was plain and simple then, And friends were kind and true : Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! The times that I now see ; I think the world's all gone wrong, From what it used to be. There were not then high capering heads, Prick'd up from ear to ear ; And cloaks and caps were rarities, For gentle folks to wear : Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! etc, There's not an upstart mushroom now, But what sets up for taste ; And not a lass in all the land, But must be lady-drest : Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! etc, IV. Our young men married then for love, So did our lasses too ; And children loved their parents dear, As children ought to do : Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! etc. For oh, the times are sadly changed A heavy change indeed ! For truth and friendship are no more, And honesty is fled : Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! etc. There's nothing now prevails but pride, Among both high and low ; And strife, and greed, and vanity, Is all that's minded now : Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! etc. vn. When I look through the world wide, How times and fashions go, It draws the tears from both my eyes, And fills my heart with woe ! Oh, the times, the weary, weary times ! The times that I now see ; I wish the world were at an end, For it will not mend for me ! WILLIAM CAMERON. II WILLIAM CAMERON, WILLIAM CAMERON was born in 1751. He studied at Marischal College, Aberdeen, where he was a pupil of Dr Beattie, " who ever after entertained for him much esteem." A letter, addressed to him by this eminent professor, in 1774, has been published by Sir William Forbes ;* and his name is thus introduced at the beginning of Dr Beattie's " Letter to the Rev. Hugh Blair, D.D., on the Improvement of Psalmody in Scotland, 1778, 8vo :" " The message you lately sent me by my friend Mr Cameron, has determined me to give you my thoughts at some length upon the subject of it." Having obtained licence as a probationer, he was ordained to the pastoral charge of Kirknewton, in the county of Midlothian, on the 17th August 1786 He died in his manse, on the 17th of November 1811, in the 60th year of his age, and the 26th year of his ministry. In 1781, along with the celebrated John Logan and Dr Morrison, minister of Canisbay, he contributed towards the formation of a collection of Paraphrases from Scripture, which, being approved by the General Assembly, is still used in public worship in Scotland. He is understood to have composed the 14th and 17th Paraphrases, and to have revised thirty-nine others in the series. He published "Poems on various occasions" (Edinburgh, 1780, 8vo) ; "The Abuse of Civil and Religious Liberty, a Sermon" (Edinburgh, 1793, 8vo) ; " Ode on Lochiel's Birth-day" (1796, 4to); "A Review of the French Revolution" (Edin- burgh, 1802, 8vo) j " Poems on several occasions " (Posthumous, 1813, 8vo). He is the reputed author of " Poetical Dialogues on Religion, in the Scottish Dialect, between two Gentlemen and two Ploughmen" (Edinburgh, 1788). The following song, which was composed by Mr Cameron, on the restoration of the forfeited estates by Act of Parliament in 1784, is transcribed from Johnson's "Musical Museum :" * Forbes's " Life of Beattie," vol. i. p. 375. AS O'ER THE HIGHLAND HILLS 1 HIED. TUNE "As I came in by Auchindoun," As o'er the Highland hills I hied, The Camerons in array I spied ; Lochiel's proud standard waving wide, In all its ancient glory. The martial pipe loud pierced the sky, The bard arose, resounding high Their valoiir, faith, and loyalty, That shine in Scottish' story. No more the trumpet calls to arms, Awaking battle's fierce alarms, But every hero's bosom warms With songs of exultation. While brave Lochiel at length regains, Through toils of war, his native plains, And, won by glorious wounds, attains His high paternal station. Let now the voice of joy prevail, And echo wide from hill to vale ; Ye warlike clans, arise and hail Your laurell'd chiefs returning. O'er every mountain, every isle, Let peace in all her lustre smile, And discord ne'er her day defile With sullen shades of mourning. M'Leod, 51 'Donald, join the strain, M'Pherson, Fraser, and M'Lean ; Through all your bounds let gladness reign ; Both prince and patriot praising ; Whose generous bounty richly pours The streams of plenty round your shores ; To Scotia's hills their pride restores, Her faded honours raising. Let all the joyous banquet share, Nor e'er let Gothic grandeur dare, With scowling brow, to overbear, A vassal's right invading. Let Freedom's conscious sons disdain To crowd his fawning, timid train, Nor even own his haughty reign, Their dignity degrading. Ye northern chiefs, whose rage unbroke Has still repell'd the tyrant's shock ; Who ne'er have bow'd beneath his yoke, With servile base prostration ; Let each now train his trusty band, 'Gainst foreign foes alone to stand, With undivided heart and hand, For Freedom, King, and Nation. 12 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. MRS JOHN HUNTER, ANNE HOME was the eldest daughter of Kobert Home of Greenlaw, Berwickshire, surgeon of Burgoyne's Regiment of Light Horse, and afterwards physician in Savoy. She was born at Hull in 1742, her father having then practised as a surgeon in that place. By contracting an early marriage, in which affection overcame more pruden- tial considerations, both her parents gave offence to their relations, who refused to render them pecuniary assistance. Her father, though connected with many families of rank, and himself the son of a landowner, was consequently obliged to depend, in the early part of his career, on his professional exertions for the support of his family. His circumstances appear subsequently to have been more favourable. In July 1771, Miss Home became the wife of John Hunter, the distinguished anatomist, to whom she bore two children. She afforded evidence of her early poetical talent, by com- posing, before she had completed her twenty-third year, the song beginning, " Adieu ! ye streams that smoothly glide." This appeared in the Lark, an Edinburgh periodical, in the year 1765. In 1802, she published a collection of her poems, in an octavo volume, which she inscribed to her son, John Banks Hunter. During the lifetime of her distinguished husband, Mrs Hunter was in the habit of receiving at her table, and sharing in the conversation of the chief literary persons of her time. Her evening conversazioni were frequented by many of the more learned, as well as fashionable persons in the metropolis. On the death of her husband, which took place in 1793, she sought greater privacyj though she still continued to reside in London. By those who were admitted to her intimacy, she was not more respected for her superior talents and intelligence, than held in esteem for her unaffected simplicity of manners. She was the life of her social parties, sustaining the happiness of the hour by her elegant conversation, and encouraging the diffident by her approbation. Amiable in disposition, she was possessed of a beautiful countenance and a handsome person. She wrote verses with facility, but she sought no distinction as a poetess, preferring to be regarded as a good housewife and an agreeable member of society. In her latter years, she obtained amusement in resuming the song-writing habits of her youth, and in corresponding with her more intimate friends. She likewise derived pleasure in the cultivation of music : she played with skill, and sung with singular grace. Mrs Hunter died at London, on the 7th January 1821, after a lingering illness. Several of her lyrics had for some years appeared in the collections of national poetry. Those selected for the present work have long maintained a wide popularity. The songs evince a delicacy of thought, combined with a force and sweetness of expression. THE INDIAN TIIK sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never com- plain. Remember the arrows he shot from his bow ; Kemember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low. Why so slow ? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain? No ! the son of Alknomook shall never complain. DEATH-SOXG. Kemember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away : Now the flame rises fast ; ye exult in my pain ; But the son of Alknomook can never complain. I go to the land where my father is gone ; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain, And thy son, Alknomook ! lias scorn'd to complain. MRS JOHN HUNTER. 13 MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR. MY mother bids me bind my hair "With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves -with ribbons rare, And lace my boddice blue. "For why," she cries, "sit still and weep, While others dance and play?" Alas ! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away. "Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love were near ; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear. And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.* ADIEU! ye streams that smoothly glide, Through mazy windings o'er the plain ; I '11 in some lonely cave reside, And ever mourn my faithful swain. Flower of the forest was my love, Soft as the sighing summer's gale, Gentle and constant as the dove, Blooming as roses in the vale. Alas! by Tweed my love did stray, For me he searched the banks around ; But, ah ! the sad and fatal day, My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd. Now droops the willow o'er the stream ; Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove ; Dire fancy paints him in my dream ; Awake, I mourn my hopeless love. THE SEASON COMES WHEN FIRST WE MET. THE season comes when first we met, But you return no more ; Why cannot I the days forget, Which time can ne'er restore? ! days too sweet, too bright to last, Are you, indeed, for ever past ? * Of the " Flowers of fhe Forest," two other versions appear in the Collections. That version beginning, " I 've heard the lilting at our yow-milking," is the composition of Miss Jane Elliot, daughter of Sir Gil- bert Elliot of Minto, Lord Justice-Clerk, who died in 1766. She composed the song about the middle of the century, in imitation of an old version to the same tune. The other version, which is the most popular of the three, with the opening line, " I 've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling," was also the composition of a lady, Miss Alison Rutherford ; by marriage, Mrs Cockburn, wife of Mr Patrick Cockburn, advocate. Mrs Cock- burn was a person of highly superior accomplishments. She associated with her learned contemporaries, by whom she was much esteemed, and died at Edinburgh in 1794, at an advanced age. "The forest" mentioned in the song comprehended the county of Selkirk, with portions of Peeblesshire and Lanarkshire. This was a hunting-forest of the Scottish kings. The fleeting shadows of delight, In memory 1 trace ; In fancy stop their rapid flight, And all the past replace ; But, ah ! I wake to endless woes, And tears the fading visions close ! OH, TUNEFUL YOICE! I STILL DEPLORE. OH, tuneful voice! I still deplore Those accents which, though heard no more, Still vibrate in my heart ; In echo's cave I long to dwell, And still would hear the sad farewell, \Yhen we were doom'd to part. Bright eyes ! that the task were mine, To guard the liquid fires that shine, And round your orbits play To watch them with a vestal's care, And feed with smiles a light so fair, That it may ne'er decay ! DEAR TO MY HEART AS LIFE'S WARM STREAM.* DKAR to my heart as life's warm stream, Which animates this mortal clay ; For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day ; And thus beguile the present pain, With hopes that we shall meet again? Yet will it be as when the past Twined every joy, and care, and thought, And o'er our minds one mantle cast, Of kind affections finely wrought. Ah, no ! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again ! May he who claims thy tender heart, Deserve its love as I have done ? For, kind and gentle as thou art, If so beloved, thou'rt fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again ! THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. WHEN hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close conceal'd, We shrink lest looks or words impart What must not be reveal' d. 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep, To speak when one would silent be ; To wake when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony. * These lines were addressed by Mrs Hunter to her daughter, on the occasion of her marriage. 14 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Yet such the lot by thousands cast, Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair. But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointments cannot come, And Time guides, with unerring feet, The weary wanderers home. ALEXANDER, DUKE OF GORDON, ALEXANDER, fourth Duke of Gordon, was born in the year 1743, and died on the 17th of January 1827, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. Chiefly remembered as a kind patron of the poet Burns, his name is likewise entitled to a place in the national minstrelsy as the author of a version of the often-parodied song, " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." Of this song, the original set of words is contained in a MS., bearing date 1728, which belonged to James Anderson, editor of Diplomata Scotiw, and is now deposited in the Advocates' Library. The song is anonymous, as is the version, first published in Dale's " Scottish Songs," beginning " There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie, Where ilka lad maun hae his lass, But I maun hae my cogie." A third version, distinct from that inserted in the text, was composed by William Reid, of Glasgow. The Duke's song, with which Burns expressed himself as being " charmed," was first published in the second volume of Johnson's " Musical Museum." It has the merit of being free of blemishes in want of refinement, which affect the older versions. A version was composed by Lady Nairne. (See posted.) The " Bogie" celebrated in the song is a river in Aberdeenshire, which, rising in the parish of Auchindoir, discharges its waters into the Deveron, a little below the town of Huntly. It gives its name to the extensive and rich valley of Strathbogie, through which it proceeds. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN. THERE'S cauld kail in Aberdeen, And castocks in Strabogie ; Gin I hae but a bonnie lass, Ye're welcome to your cogir. And ye may sit up a' the night, And drink till it be braid daylight ; Gi'e me a lass baith clean and tight, To dance the reel o' Bogie. In cotillions the French excel, John Bull loves country dances ; The Spaniards dance fandangoes well ; Mynheer an all'mande prances ; In foursome reels the Scots delight, At threesomes they dance wondrous light, But twasornes ding a' out o' sight, Danced to the reel o' Bogie. Come, lads, and view your partners weel, Wale each a blythesome rogie ; I'll tak' this lassie to mysel', She looks sae keen and vogie. Now, piper lads, bang up the spring, The country fashion is the thin.;, To pree their mou's ere we begin To dance the reel o' Bogie. Now ilka lad has got a lass, Save yon auld doited fogie, And ta'en a fling upon the grass, As they do in Strabogie. But a' the lasses look sae fain, We canna think oursel's to Lain, For they maun hae their come again, To dance the reel o' Bogie. Now a' the lads hae done their best, Like true men o' Strabogie, Well stop a while ami tak' a rest, And tipple out a cogie. Come now, my lads, and tak' your glass, And try ilk ither to surpass, In wishing health to every lass, To dance the reel o' Bogie. MRS GRANT OF CARRON. 15 MRS GRANT OF CARRON, MRS GRANT of Carron, the author of one song, which has long maintained a favourite place, was born in Ireland of Scottish parents. She married first, her cousin, Mr Grant of Carron, near Elchies, on the river Spey, about the year 1763 ; and, secondly, Dr Murray, a physician in Bath. She died at Bath about the year 1814. In his correspondence with George Thomson, Burns, alluding to the song of Mrs Grant, "Hoy's Wife," remarks that he had in his possession "the original words of a song for the air in the handwriting of the lady who composed it," which, he adds, " are superior to any edition of the song which the public has seen." He subsequently composed an additional version himself, beginning, " Canst thou leave me thus, my Katie ?" but this, like others of the bard's conversions of Scottish songs into an English dress, did not become popular. The verses by his female friend, in which the lady is made to be the sufferer by misplaced affection, and commencing, " Stay, my Willie, yet believe me," though published, remain likewise in obscurity. " Roy's Wife" was originally written to an old tune called " The Ruffian's Rant," but this melody is now known by the name of its favourite words. The sentiment of the song is peculiarly pleasing. The rejected lover begins by loudly complaining of his wrongs, and the broken assurances of his former sweetheart : then he suddenly recalls what were her good qualities; and the recollection of these causes him to for- give her marrying another, and even to extend towards her his warmest sympathies. EOY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. BOY'S wife of Aldivalloch, Eoy's wife of Aldivalloch, Wat ye how she cheated me As I cam' o'er the braes of JBalloch ? She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine, She said she lo'ed me best o' onie ; But, ah ! the fickle, faithless quean, She's ta'en the carl, and left her Johnnie. Eoy's wife, etc. Oh, she was a canty quean, An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch ! How happy I, had she been mine, Or I been Eoy of Aldivalloch,! Eoy's wife, etc. Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear, Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie ! To me she ever will be dear, Though she's for ever left her Johnnie. Eoy's wife, etc. ROBERT COOPER, M,D, ROBERT COUPER was born at Sorbie, in Wigtonshire, on the 22d of September 3753.* His father rented the farm of Balsier in that parish. With a view towards the ministry in the Scottish Church, he proceeded to the University of Glasgow in 1769 ; but being deprived of both his parents by death before the completion of the ordinary period of academical study, and his pecuniary means being limited, he quitted the country for America, where he became tutor to a family in Virginia. He now con- templated taking orders in the Episcopal Church, but on the outbreak of the War of Independence in 1776, he returned to Britain without fulfilling this intention. He resumed his studies at Glasgow preparatory to his seeking a surgeon's diploma ; and * The parochial register of births contains the following : " Robert Cooper, son to George Cooper in Balsier, baptized October z, 1753." 16 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. he afterwards established himself as a medical practitioner in Newton-Stewart, a considerable village in his native county. From this place he removed to Fochabers, about the year 1788, on being recommended, by his friend Dr Hamilton, Professor of Anatomy at Glasgow, as physician to the Duke of Gordon. Before entering on this new sphere of practice, he took the degree of M.D. At Fochabers he remained till the year 1806, when he again returned to the south. He died at Wigton on the 18th January 1818. From a MS. Life of Dr Couper, in the possession of a gentleman in Wigton, and communicated to Dr Thomas Murray, author of " The Literary History of Galloway," these leading events of Dr Couper's life were first published by Mr David Laing, in his " Additional Illustrations to the Scots Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 513. Dr Couper published " Poetry, chiefly in the Scottish Language " (Inverness, 1804, 2 vols. 12mo). Among much tawdry versification, there is occasional power, which, however, is insufficient to compensate for the general inferiority. A few songs are superior to the poems ; those following are not unworthy of a place among the national minstrelsy. KIXRARA. TUNE "Neil G cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw." "Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa' ; Your Jock 's but a gowk, and has naething ava; The hale o' his pack he has now on his back He 's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa. Be frank now, and kindly; I'll busk ye aye finely; To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw; A bein house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in, And flunkies to 'tend ye as aft as ye ca'." " My father's aye tauld me, my mither and a', Ye'd mak a gude husband, and keep me aye braw ; It's true I lo'e Johnnie, he's gude and he's bonnie ; But, waes me ! ye ken he has naething ava. I hae little tocher ; you 've made a gude offer ; I 'm now mair than twenty my time is but sma'; Sae gi'e me your plaidie, I '11 creep in beside ye ; I thocht ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa." She crap in ayont him, aside the stane wa', Whare Johnnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a' ; The day was appointed, his proud heart it dunted, And strack 'gainst his side as if bursting in twa. He wander'd hame weary, the night it was dreary ; And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw ; The owlet was screamin' while Johnnie cried, "Women Wad marry Auld Nick if he'd keep them aye braw." I LO'ED NE'ER A LADDIE BUT ANE.* I LO'ED ne'er a laddie but ane, He lo'ed ne'er a lassie but me ; He's willing to mak' me his ain, And his ain I am willing to be. He has coft me a rokelay o' blue, And a pair o' mittens o' green ; The price was a kiss o' my mou', And I paid him the debt yestreen. Let ithers brag weel o' their gear, Their land and their lordly degree ; I carena for aught but my dear, For lie's ilka thing lordly to me: * The first stanza of this song, along with a second, which is unsuitable for insertion, has been ascribed, on the authority of Burns, to the Rev. John Clunie, minister of Borthwick, in Mid-Lothian, who died in 1819, aged sixty-two. Ritson, however, by prefixing the letters " J. D." to the original stanza would seem to point to a different author. HECTOR MACNEILL. 29 His words are sae sugar'd and sweet! His sense drives ilk fear far awa' ! I listen, poor fool ! and I greet ; Yet how sweet are the tears as they fa' ! "Dear lassie," he cries, wi' a jeer, "Ne'er heed what the auld anes will say ; Though we've little to brag o', near fear What's gowd to a heart that is wae? Our laird has baith honours and wealth, Yet see how he's dwining wi' care ; Now we, though we 've naething but health, Are cantie and leal evermair. " Marion! the heart that is true, Has something mair costly than gear ! Ilk e'en it has naething to rue, Ilk morn it has naething to fear. Ye warldlings ! gae hoard up your store, And tremble for fear aught ye tyne ; Guard your treasures wi' lock, bar, and door, While here in my arms I lock mine! " He ends wi' a kiss and a smile Wae's me ! can I tak' it amiss ? My laddie's unpractised in guile, He's free aye to daut and to kiss! Ye lasses wha lo'e to torment Your wooers wi' fause scorn and strife, Play your pranks I hae gi'en my consent, And this nicht I'm Jamie's for life! DONALD AND FLORA.* WHEN* merry hearts were gay, Careless of aught but play, Poor Flora slipt away, Sadd'ning to Mora;*!* Loose flow'd her yellow hair, Quick heaved her bosom bare, As to the troubled air She vented her sorrow. "Loud howls the stormy flist, Cold, cold is winter's blast ; Haste, then, Donald, haste, Haste to tlry Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er, Since on a foreign shore You promised to fight no more, But meet me in Mora. " ' Where now is Donald dear ?' Maids cry with taunting sneer ; ' Say, is he still sincere To his loved Flora?' * This fine ballad was written by Macneill, to com- memorate the death of his friend, Captain Stewart, a brave officer, betrothed to a young lady in Athole, who, in 1777, fell at the battle of Saratoga, in America. The words, which are adapted to an old Gaelic air, appear with music in Smith's " Scottish Minstrel," vol. iii. p. 28. ' The ballad, in the form given above, has, in several of the stanzas, been improved by the author, on his original version, published in Johnson's "Museum." See the "Museum," vol. iv. p. 238. t Mora is the name of a small valley in Athole, so designated by the two lovers. Parents upbraid my moan, Each heart is turn'd to stone : Ah, Flora! thou'rt now alone, Friendless in Mora ! ' IV. " Come, then, come away ! Donald, no longer stay ; Where can my rover stray From his loved Flora! Ah ! sure he ne'er can be False to his vows and me ; Oh, Heaven ! is not yonder he, Bounding o'er Mora ! " v. "Never, ah! wretched fair !" Sigh'd the sad messenger, " Never shall Donald mair Meet his loved Flora ! Cold as yon mountain snow Donald thy love lies low ; He sent me to soothe thy woe, Weeping in Mora. VI. " Well fought our gallant men On Saratoga's plain ; Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But, ah ! though our foes did flee, Sad was such victory Truth, love, and loyalty Fell far from Mora. VII. " 'Here, take this love-wrought plaid,' Donald, expiring, said; ' Give it to yon dear maid Drooping in Mora. Tell her, Allan! tell Donald thus bravely fell, And that in his last farewell He thought on his Flora. ' " VIII. Mute stood the trembling fair, Speechless with wild despair ; Then, striking her bosom bare, Sigh'd out, " Poor Flora! Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!" Was all the fond heart could say : At length the sound died away Feebly in Mora. MY LUVE'S IN GERMANY. * TUNE " Ye Jacobites by name." MY luve's in Germanic, send him hame, send him hame ; My luve's in Germanie, send him hame ; My luve's in Germanie, Fighting brave for royalty : He may ne'er his Jeanie see Send him hame. * This song was originally printed on a single sheet by N. Stewart & Co., Edinburgh, in 1794, as the lament of a lady on the death of an officer. It does not appear in Macneill's " Poetical Works," but he asserted to MrStenhouse hisclaims to the authorship. Johnson's " Museum," vol. iv. p. 323. 30 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. He's as brave as brave can be send him hame, send him hame ; He's as brave as brave can be send him hame ; He's as brave as brave can be, He wad rather fa' than flee; His life is dear to me Send him hame. Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame, bonnie dame, Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, bonnie dame ; Your luve ne'er learnt to flee, But he fell in Germanie, In the cause of royalty, Bonnie dame. He'll ne'er come o'er the sea Willie's slain, Willie's slain ; He'll ne'er come o'er the sea "Willie's gane ! He'll ne'er come o'er the sea, To his love and ain countrie : This warld's nae mair for me Willie's gaue ! THINK, BOXXIE LASSIE.* TUNE "Clunie's Reel." " Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee! Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; I'll tak' a stick into my hand, and come again and see thee." " Far's the gate ye hae to gang; dark's the night, and eerie ; Far's the gate ye hae to gang ; dark's the night, and eerie ; Far's the gate ye hae to gang; dark's the night, and eerie ; Oh, stay this night wi' your love, and dinna gang and leave me." * The last verse of this song was added by John Hamilton. The song, on account of this addition, was not included by Macneill in the collected edition of his " Poetical Works." One of Miss Blamire's songs has the .same opening line ; and it has been conjectured by Mr Maxwell, the editor of her pocrrs, that Macneill had been indebted to her song for suggesting his verses. " It's but a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie But a night and hauf a day that I'll leave my dearie ; Whene'er the sun gaes west the loch, I'll come again and see thee." " Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me Dinna gang, my bonnie lad, dinna gang and leave me. When a' the lave are sound asleep, I'm dull and eerie ; And a' the lee-lang night I'm sad, wi' thinking on my dearie. " "Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee; Dinna think, bonnie lassie, I'm gaun to leave thee ; Whene'er the sun gaes out o' sight, I'll come again and see thee. "Waves are rising o'er the sea; winds blaw loud and fear me ; Waves are rising o'er the sea ; winds blaw loud and fear me ; While the winds and waves do roar, I am wae and drearie ; And gin ye lo'e me as ye say, ye winna gang and leave me." "Oh, never mnir, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee ; Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee ; Never mair, bonnie lassie, will I gang and leave thee ; E'en let the world gang as it will, I'll stay at hame and cheer ye. " Frae his hand he coost his stick; "I winna gang and leave thee;" Threw his plaid into the neuk ; " Never can I grieve thee ;" Drew his boots, and flang them by ; cried, " My lass, be cheerie ! I'll kiss the tear frne aft" thy cheek, and never leave my dearie." MJfS GRANT OF LAGGAN. 31 MRS GRANT OF LAGGAN. MRS AXXE GRAXT, commonly styled of Laggan, to distinguish her from her contem- porary, Mrs Grant of Carron, was born at Glasgow, in February 1755. Her father, Mr Duncan Macvicar, was an officer in the army, and, by her mother, she was descended from the old family of Stewart, of Invernahyle, in Argyllshire. Her early infancy was passed at Fort- William ; but her father having accompanied his regiment to America, and there become a settler, in the State of New York, at a very tender age she was taken by her mother across the Atlantic, to her new home. Though her third year had not been completed when she arrived in America, she retained a distinct recollection of her landing at Charleston. By her mother she was taught to read, and a well-informed sergeant made her acquainted with writing. Her precocity for learning was remarkable. Ere she had reached her sixth year, she had made herself familiar with the Old Testament, and could speak the Dutch language, which she had learned from a family of Dutch settlers. The love of poetry and patriotism was simultaneously evinced. At this early period, she read Milton's " Paradise Lost" with attention, and even appreciation ; and glowed with the enthusiastic ardour of a young heroine over the adventures of Wallace, detailed in the metrical history of Henry-, the Minstrel. Her juvenile talent attracted the notice of the more intelligent settlers in the State, and gained her the friendship of the distinguished Madame Schuyler, whose virtues she afterwards depicted in her " Memoirs of an American Lady." In 1768, along with his wife and daughter, Mr Macvicar returned to Scotland, his health having suffered by his residence in America ; and, during the three follow- ing summers, his daughter found means of gratifying her love of song, on the banks of the Cart, near Glasgow. The family residence was now removed to Fort- Augustus, where Mr Macvicar had received the appointment of barrack-master. The chaplain of the fort was the Rev. James Grant, a young clergyman, related to several of the more respectable families in the district, who was afterwards appointed minister of the parish of Laggan, in Inverness-shire. At Fort- Augustus, he had recommended himself to the affections of Miss Macvicar, by his elegant tastes and accomplished manners, and he now became the successful suitor for her hand. They were married in 1779, and Mrs Grant, to approve herself a useful helpmate to her husband, began assiduously to acquaint herself with the manners and habits of the humbler classes of the people. The inquiries instituted at this period were turned to an account more extensive than originally contemplated. Mr Grant, who was constitutionally delicate, died in 1801, leaving his widow and eight surviving children without any means of support, his worldly circumstances being considerably embarrassed. On a small farm which she had rented, in the vicinity of her late husband's parish, Mrs Grant resided immediately subsequent to his decease ; but the profits of the lease were entirely inadequate for the comfortable maintenance of the family. Among the circle of her friends she was known as a writer of verses ; in her ninth year, she had essayed an imitation of Milton ; and she had written poetry, or at least verses, on the banks of the Cart and at Fort- Augustus. To aid in supporting her family, she was strongly advised to collect her pieces into a volume ; and, to encourage her in acting upon this recommendation, no fewer than three thousand subscribers were procured for the work by her friends. The celebrated Duchess of Gordon proved an especial promoter of the cause. In 1803, a volume of poems appeared, from her pen, which, though displaying no high powers, was favourably received and had the double advantage of making her known, and of materially aiding her 32 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, finances. From the profits, she made settlement of her late husband's liabilities; and now perceiving a likelihood of being able to support her family by her literary exertions, she abandoned the lease of her farm. She took up her residence near the town of Stirling, residing in the mansion of Gartur, in that neighbourhood. In 1806, she again appeared before the public as an author, by publishing a selection of her correspondence with her friends, in three duodecimo volumes, under the designation of " Letters from the Mountains." This work passed through several editions. In 1808, Mrs Grant published the life of her early friend, Madame Schuyler, under the designation of " Memoirs of an American Lady," in two volumes. From the rural retirement of Gartur, she soon removed to the town of Stirling ; but in 1810, as her circumstances became more prosperous, she took up her permanent abode in Edinburgh. Some distinguished literary characters of the Scottish capital now resorted to her society. She was visited by Sir Walter Scott, Francis Jeffrey, James Hogg, and others, attracted by the vivacity of her conversation. The " Essays on the Superstitions of the Highlanders of Scotland" appeared in 1811, in two volumes ; in 1814, she published a metrical work, in two parts, entitled, " Eighteen Hundred and Thirteen;" and, in the year following, she produced her "Popular Models and Impressive Warnings for the Sons and Daughters of Industry." In 1825, Mrs Grant received a civil-list pension of 50 a-year, in consideration of her literary talents, which, with the profits of her works and the legacies of several deceased friends, rendered the latter period of her life sufficiently comfortable in respect of pecuniary means. She died on the 7th of November 1838, in the eighty- fourth year of her age, and retaining her faculties to the last. A collection of her correspondence was published in 1844, in three volumes octavo, edited by her only surviving son, John P. Grant, Esq. As a writer, Mrs Grant occupies a respectable place. She had the happy art of turning her every-day observation, as well as the fruits of her research, to the best account. Her letters, which she published at the commencement of her literary career, as well as those which appeared posthumously, are favourable specimens of that species of composition. As a poet, she attained to no eminence. " The High- landers," her longest and most ambitious poetical effort, exhibits some glowing descriptions of mountain scenery, and of the stern though simple manners of the.'Gael. Of a few songs which proceed from her pen, that commencing, " Oh, where, tell me where ?" written on the occasion of the Marquis of Huntly's departure for Holland with his regiment in 1799, has only become generally known. It has been parodied in a song, by an unknown author, entitled " The Blue Bells of Scotland," which has obtained a wider range of popularity. OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE ? " On, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone ? Oh, where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie- gone?" "He's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home. He's gone, with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home." " Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay ? Oh, where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay?" 1 ' He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away. He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow'd him, the day he went away. " JOHN MA YNE. 33 "Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? Oh, what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear ? " "A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star; A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star. " "Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound, Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound ! " "The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye ; The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly : And for his king and country dear with pleasure he would die!" "But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds ; But I will hope to see him yet, in Scotland's bonny bounds. His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds j His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While, wide through all our Highland hills, his warlike name resounds." OH, MY LOVE, LEAVE ME NOT!* AIR " Bealach na Gharraidh." OH, my love, leave me not! Oh, my love, leave me not ! Oh, my love, leave me not ! Lonely and weary. Could you but stay a while, And my fond fears beguile, I yet once more could smile, Lightsome and cheery. Night, with her darkest shroud, Tempests that roar aloud, Thunders that burst the cloud, Why should I fear ye? Till the sad hour we part, Fear cannot make me start ; Grief cannot break my heart Whilst thou art near me. Should you forsake my sight, Day would to me be night ; Sad, I would shun its light, Heartless and weary. * FromAlbyn's "Anthology," voL i., p. 42. Edin- burgh, 1816, 410. JOHN MAYNE, JOHN MAYNE, chiefly known as the author of " The Siller Gun," a poem descriptive of burgher habits in Scotland towards the close of the century, was born at Dumfries, on the 26th of March 1759. At the grammar school of his native town, under Dr Chapman, the learned rector, whose memory he has celebrated in the third canto of his principal poem, he had the benefit of a respectable elementary education ; and, having chosen the profession of a printer, he entered at an early age the printing office of the Dumfries Journal. In 1782, when his parents removed to Glasgow, to reside on a little property to which they had succeeded, he sought employment under the celebrated Messrs Foulis, in whose printing establishment he continued during the five following years. He paid a visit to London in 1785, with the view of advancing his professional interests, and two years afterwards he settled in the metropolis. Mayne, while a mere stripling, was no unsuccessful wooer of the Muse ; and in his sixteenth year he produced the germ of that poem on which his reputation chiefly depends. This production, entitled " The Siller Gun," descriptive of a sort of wapinschaw, or an ancient practice which obtained in his native town, of shooting, on the king's birth-day, for a silver tube or gun, which had been presented by James VI. to the incorporated trades, as a prize to the best marksman, was printed THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. at Dumfries in 1777, on a small quarto page. The original edition consisted of twelve stanzas; in two years it increased to two cantos; in 1780, it was printed in three cantos; in 1808, it was published in London with a fourth; and in 1836, just before his death, the author added a fifth. The latest edition was published by subscription, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1780, in the pages pf Kuddiman's Weekly Magazine, Mayne published a short poem on " Hallowe'en," which suggested Burns' celebrated poem on the same subject. In 1781, he published at Glasgow his song of " Logan Braes," of which Burns after- wards composed a new version. In London, Mayne was first employed as printer, and subsequently became joint- editor and proprietor, along with Dr Tilloch, of the Star evening newspaper. With that journal, he retained a connection till his death, which took place at London on the 14th of March 1836. Besides the humorous and descriptive poem of " The Siller Gun," which, in the opinion of Sir Walter Scott, surpasses the eiforts of Fergusson, and comes near to those of Burns,* Mayne published another epic production, entitled " Glasgow," which appeared in 1803, and has passed through several editions. In the same year he published " English, Scots, and Irishmen," a chivalrous address to the population of the three kingdoms. To the literary journals, his contributions, both in prose and verse, were numerous and interesting. Many of his songs and ballads enriched the columns of the journal which he so long and ably conducted. In early life, he maintained a metrical correspondence with Thomas Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native of the same county, and whose earliest ambition was to earn the reputation of a poet, t Possessed of entire amiability of disposition, and the utmost amenity of manners, John Mayne was warmly beloved among the circle of his friends. Himself embued with a deep sense of religion, though fond of innocent humour, he preserved in all his writings a becoming respect for sound morals, and is entitled to the commendation which a biographer has awarded him, of having never committed to paper a single line " the tendency of which was not to afford innocent amusement, or to improve and increase the happiness of mankind." He was singularly modest and even retiring. His eulogy has been pronounced by Allan Cunningham, who knew him well, that " a better or warmer-hearted man never existed." The songs, of which we have selected the more popular, abound in vigour of expression and sentiment, and are pervaded by a genuine pathos. * See Note to " Lady of the Lake." t See the "Encyclopaedia Britannica,"vol. xxi. p. 170. LOGAN BRAES.* BY Logan's streams that rin sae deep, Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep ; I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes, Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes. But, waes my heart ! thae days are gane, And I wi' grief may herd alane ; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. * This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza being subsequently added by the author. It is adapted to a beautiful old air, " Logan Water," in- congruously connected with some indecorous stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the Scottish muse, and attempted to modernise the song, but his edition is decidedly inferior. Other four -.tanzas have been added to Mayne's verses by some Anonymous versifier. These first appeared in Duncan's Nae mair at Logan kirk will he Atween the preachings meet wi' me ; Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk, Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. I weel may sing thae days are gane, Frae kirk and fair I come alane ; While my dear lad maun face his faes, Far, far frae me and Logan braes. " Encyclopaedia of Scottish, English, and Irish Songs," printed at Glasgow in 1836, 2 vols. i2mo. In these stanzas the lover is brought back to Logan Braes, and consummates his union with his weeping shepherdess. The stream of Logan takes its rise among the hills separating the parishes of Lesmahagp and Muirkirk, and after a flow of eight miles, deposits its waters into the Nethan river. JOHN MA YNE. 35 At e'en, when hope amaist is gane, I (launder dowie and forlane ; I sit alane, beneath the tree Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me. Oh, could I see thae days again, My lover skaithless, and my ain ! Beloved by friends, revered" by faes, We'd live in bliss on Logan braes. HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.* I WISH I were -where Helen lies, For night and day on me she cries ; And, like an angel, to the skies Still seems to beckon me ! For me she lived, for me she sigh'd, For me she wish'd to be a bride ; For me in life's sweet morn she died On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! Where Kirtle waters gently wind, As Helen on my arm reclined, A rival with a ruthless mind Took deadly aim at me. My love, to disappoint the foe, Rush'd in between me and the blow ; And now her corse is lying low, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! Though Heaven forbids my wrath to swell, I curse the hand by which she fell The fiend who made my heaven a hell, And tore my love from me ! For if, when all the graces shine, Oh! if on earth there's aught divine, My Helen ! all these charms were thine, They centred all in thee ! Ah ! what avails it that, amain, I clove the assassin's head in twain ? No peace of mind, my Helen slain, No resting-place for me. I see her spirit in the air I hear the shriek of wild despair, When murder laid her bosom bare, On fair Kirkconnel-Lee ! Oh ! when I'm sleeping in my grave, And o'er my head the rank weeds wave, May He who life and spirit gave Unite my love and me ! Then from this world of doubts and sighs, My soul on wings of peace shall rise, And, joining Helen in the skies, Forget Kirkconnel-Lee. * During the reign of Mary Queen of Scots, a young lady, of great personal attractions and numerous ac- complishments, named Helen Irving, daughter of Irving of Kirkconnel, in Annandale, was betrothed to Adam Fleming de Kirkpatrick, a young gentleman of fortune in the neighbourhood. Walking with her lover on the banks of the Kirtle, she was slain by a shot which had been aimed at Fleming by a disappointed rival. The melancholy history has been made the theme of three different ballads, two of these being old. The present ballad, by Mr Mayne, was inserted by Sir Walter Scott in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 1815. THE WINTER SAT LANG. THE winter sat lang on the spring o' the year, Our seedtime was late, and our mailing was dear; My mither tint her heart when she look'd on us a', Andwethoughtupon those that were farestawa". Oh, were they but here that are farest awa' ! Oh, were they but here that are dear to us a' ! Our cares would seem light and our sorrow but sma', If they were but here that are far frae us a' ! Last week, when our hopes were o'erclouded wi' fear, And nae ane at hame the dull prospect to cheer ; Our Johnnie has written, frae far awa' parts, A letter that lightens and hands up our hearts. He says, "My dear mither, though I be awa', In love and affection I 'm still wi' ye a' ; While I hae a being ye'se aye hae a ha', Wi' plenty to keep out the frost and the snaw. " My mither, o'erjoy'd at this change in her state, By the bairn she doated on early and late, Gi'es thanks night and day to the Giver of a', There's been naething unworthy o' him that's awa' ! Then here is to them that are far frae us a', The friend that ne'er fail'd us, though farest awa' ! Health, peace, and prosperity wait on us a' ; And a blithe comin' hame to the friend that's awa'! MY JOHNNIE. AIR "Johnnie's Gray Breeks." JENNY'S heart was frank and free, And wooers she had mony, }-et The sang was aye, "Of a' I see, Commend me to my Johnnie yet. For ear' and late, he has sic gate To mak' a body cheerie, that I wish to be, before I dee, His ain kind dearie yet." Now Jenny's face was fu' o' grace, Her shape was sma' and genty-like, And few or nane in a' the place, Had gowd or gear mair plenty, yet Though war's alarms, and Johnnie's charms, Had gart her oft look eerie, yet She sungwi' glee, "I hope to be My Johnnie's ain dearie yet. " What though he's now gane far awa', Whare guns and cannons rattle, yet Unless my Johnnie chance to fa' In some uncanny battle, yet Till he return my breast will burn Wi' love that weel may cheer me yet, For I hope to see, before I dee, His bairns to him endear me yet." 36 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE TROOPS WERE EMBARKED. THE troops were all embark'd on board, The ships were under way, And loving wives, and maids adored, Were weeping round the bay. They parted from their dearest friends, From all their heart desires ; And Rosabel to Heaven commends The man her soul admires ! For him she fled from soft repose, Renounced a parent's care ; He sails to crush his country's foes, She wanders in despair ! A seraph in an infant's frame Reclined upon her arm ; And sorrow in the lovely dame Now heighten'd every charm : She thought, if fortune had butsmiled- She thought upon her dear ; But when she look'd upon his child, Oh, then ran many a tear ! "Ah ! who will watch thee as thou sleep'st? Who'll sing a lullaby, Or rock thy cradle when thou weep'st, If I should chance to die? " On board the ship, resign'd to fate, Yet planning joys to come, Her love in silent sorrow sate Upon a broken drum. He saw her lonely on the beach ; He saw her on the strand ; And far as human eye can reach He saw her wave her hand ! "0 Rosabel! though forced to go, With thee my soul shall dwell, And Heaven, who pities human woe, Will comfort Rosabel ! " JOHN HAMILTON. OF the personal history of John Hamilton, only a few particulars can he ascertained. He carried on business for many years as a music-seller in North Bridge Street, Edinburgh, and likewise gave instructions in the art of instrumental music to private families. He had the good fortune to attract the favour of one of his fair pupils a young lady of birth, and fortune whom he married, much to the displeasure of her relations. He fell into impaired health, and died on the 23d of September 1814, in the fifty-third year of his age. To the lovers of Scottish melody, the name of Mr Hamilton is familiar as a composer of several esteemed and beautiful airs. His contributions to the department of Scottish song entitle his name to an honourable place. THE RANTIN' HIGHLANDMAN. AE morn, last ouk, as I gaed out To nit a tether'd ewe and lamb, I met, as skiffin' o'er the green, A jolly, rantin' Highlandman. His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet, And ilka smile my favour wan ; I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad As this young rantiii' Highlandman. He said, "My dear, ye're sune asteer ; Cam' ye to hear the lav 'rock's sang? Oh, wad ye gang and wed wi' me, And wed a rantin' Highlandman ? In summer days, on flow'ry braes, When frisky are the ewe and lamb, I'se row ye in my tartan plaid, And be your rantin' Highlandman. ' ' Wi' heather bells, that sweetly smell, I'll deck your hair, sae fair and lang, If ye'll consent to scour the bent Wi' me, a rantin' Highlandman. We'll big a cot, and buy a stock, Syne do the best that e'er we can ; Then come, my dear, ye needna fear To trust a rantin' Highlaiidrnan." His words, sae sweet, gaed to my heart, And fain I wad hae gi'en my han', Yet durstna, lest my mither should Dislike a rantiu' Highlandman. But I expect he will come back ; Then, tho' my kin should scauld and ban. I'll o'er the hill, or whare he will, Wi' my young rantiu' Highlandman. JOHN HAMILTON. 37 UP IN THE MORXIX' EARLY.* CATTLD blaws the wind frae north to south ; The drift is drifting sairly ; The sheep are cow'rin' in the heuch ; Oh, sirs, it's winter fairly ! Xo\v, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early ; I'd rather gae supperless .to my bed Than rise in the mornin' early. Loud roars the blast amang the woods, And tirls the branches barely ; On hill and house hear how it thuds ! The frost is nippin' sairly. Xow, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early ; To sit a' nieht wad better agree Than rise in the mornin' early. The sun peeps ower yon southland hills, Like ony timorous carlie ; Just blinks a wee, then sinks again ; And that we find severely. Xow, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early ; When snaw blaws in at the chimley cheek, Wha'd rise in the mornin' early? Xae linties lilt on hedge or bush : Poor things ! they suffer sairly ; In cauldrife quarters a' the nicht, A' day they feed but sparely. Xow, up in the mornin's no for me, Up in the mornin' early ; A pennyless purse I wad rather dree, Than rise in the mornin' early. A cosie house and canty wife Aye keep a body cheerly ; And pantries stowed wi' meat and drink, They answer unco rarely. But up in the mornin' na, na, na ! Up in the mornin' early 1 The gowans maun glint on bank and brae When I rise in the mornin' early. GO TO BERWICK, JOHXXIE.t Go to Berwick, Johnnie ; Bring her frae the Border ; Yon sweet bonny lassie, Let her gae nae farther. English loons will twine ye 0' the lovely treasure ; But we '11 let them ken A sword wi' them we'll measure. * Burns composed two verses to the same tune, which is very old. It was a favourite of Queen Mary, the consort of William III. In his " Beggar's Opera," Gay has adopted the tune for one of his songs. It was published, in 1652, by John Hilton, as the third voice to what is called a "Northern Catch" for three voices, beginning " I'se gae wi' thee, my sweet Peggy." t These stanzas are founded on some lines of old doggerel, beginning " Go, go, go, Go to Berwick, Johnnie ; Thou shall have the horse, And I shall have the pony." Go to Berwick, Johnnie, And regain your honour ; Drive them o'er the Tweed, And show our Scottish banner. I am Rob, the King, And ye are Jock, my brither ; But, before we lose her, We '11 a' there thegither. MISS FORBES' FAREWELL TO BANFF. FAREWELL, ye fields an' meadows green ! The blest retreats of peace an' love ; Aft have I, silent, stolen from hence, With my young swain a while to rove. Sweet was our walk, more sweet our talk, Among the beauties of the spring ; An' aft we 'd lean us on a bank, To hear the feather'd warblers sing. The azure sky, the hills around, Gave double beauty to the scene ; The lofty spires of Banff in view On every side the waving grain. The tales of love my Jamie told, In such a saft an' moving strain, Have so engaged my tender heart, I'm loath to leave the place again. But if the Fates will be sae kind As favour my return once more, For to enjoy the peace of mind In those retreats I had before : Xow, farewell, Banff ! the nimble steeds Do bear me hence I must away ; Yet time, perhaps, may bring me back, To part nae niair from scenes so gay. TELL ME, JESSIE, TELL ME WHY? TELL me, Jessie, tell me why My fond suit you still deny? Is your bosom cold as snow ? Did you never feel for woe ? Can you hear, without a sigh, Him complain who for you could die ? If you ever shed a tear, Hear me, Jessie, hear, hear ! Life to me is not more dear Than the hour brings Jessie here ; Death so much I do not fear As the parting moment near. Summer smiles are not so sweet As the bloom upon your cheek ; Nor the crystal dew so clear As your eyes to me appear. These are part of Jessie's charms, Which the bosom ever warms ; But the charms by which I 'm stung, Come, Jessie, from thy tongue! Jessie, be no longer coy; Let me taste a lover's joy ; With your hand remove the dart, And heal the wound that 's in mv heart THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE HAWTHORN. LAST midsummer's morning, as going to the fair, [ met with young Jamie, wh' as taking the air ; He ask'd me to stay with him, and indeed he did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale. He said he had loved me both long and sincere, That none on the green was so gentle and fair ; [ listen 'd with pleasure to Jamie's tender tale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale That blooms in the valley, etc. " Oh, haste," says he, "to hear the birds in the grove, flow charming their song, and enticing to love ! Che briers that with roses perfume the passing gale, ind meet the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale" That blooms in the valley, etc. Sis words were so moving, and looks soft and kind, Convinced me the youth had nae guile in his mind; My heart, too, confess'd him the flower of the dale, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale That blooms in the valley, etc. Yet I oft bade him go, for I could no longer stay, But leave me he would not, nor let me away ; Still pressing his suit, and at last did prevail, Beneath the pretty hawthorn that blooms in the vale That blooms in the valley, etc. Now tell me, ye maidens, how could I refuse ? His words were so sweet, and so binding his vows! "We went and were married, and Jamie loves me still, And we live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale That blooms in the valley, that blooms in the vale, We live beside the hawthorn that blooms in the vale. OH, BLAW, YE WESTLIN WINDS!* OH, blaw, ye westlin' winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees ! Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me, That 's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink of her wad banish care, Sae lovely is my Jean. What sighs and vows, amang the knowes, Hae pass'd atween us twa ! How fain to meet, how wae to part, That day she gaed awa' ! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet, lovely Jean. * These verses were written as a continuation to Burns' " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." Other two stanzas were added to the same song by W. Reid. See posted. JOANNA BAILLIE. JOANNA BAILLIE was born on the llth of September 1762, in the manse of Bothwell, Lanarkshire. Her father, Dr James Baillie, was descended from the old family of Baillie of Lamington, and was consequently entitled to claim propinquity with the distinguished Principal Robert Baillie, and the family of Baillie of Jerviswoode,* so celebrated for its Christian patriotism. The mother of Joanna likewise belonged to an honourable house : she was a descendant of the Hunters of Hunterston ; and her two brothers attained a wide reputation in the world of science Dr William Hunter being an eminent physician, and Mr John Hunter, the greatest anatomist of his age. Joannaa twin, the other child being still-born was the youngest of a family of * The following entry respecting the birth of the future poetess is extracted from the baptismal register of her native parish: "Anno 1762, Joanna, daughter lawfull to the Rev. Mr James Baillie, minister of the Gospell in Bothwell, and his spouse, Donete Hunter, was born the eleventh day of September, and baptized in the church of Bothwell upon the twelfth day of the said month by the Reverend Mr James Miller, minister of the Gospell in Hamiltoun." JOANNA BAILLIE. 39 three children. Her only brother was Dr Matthew Baillie, highly distinguished in the medical world. Agnes, her sister, who was the eldest of the family, remained unmarried, and continued to live with her under the same roof. In the year 1768, Dr Baillie was transferred from the parochial charge of Bothwell to the office of collegiate minister of Hamilton a town situate, like his former parish, on the banks of the Clyde. He was subsequently elected Professor of Divi- nity in the University of Glasgow. After his death, which took place in 1778, his daughters both continued, along with their widowed mother, to live at Long Calder- wood, in the vicinity of Hamilton, until 1784, when they all accepted an invitation to reside with Dr Matthew Baillie, who had entered on his medical career in London, and had become possessor of a house in Great "Windmill Street, built by his now deceased uncle, Dr Hunter. Though evincing no peculiar promptitude in the acquisition of learning, Joanna had, at the very outset of life, exhibited remarkable talent in rhyme-making. She composed verses before she could read, and, before she could have fancied a theatre, formed dialogues for dramatic representations, which she carried on with her com- panions. But she did not early seek distinction as an author. At the somewhat mature age of twenty-eight, after she had gone to London, she first published, and that anonymously, a volume of miscellaneous poems, which did not excite any particular attention. In 1798, she published, though anonymously at first, "A Series of Plays : in which it is attempted to delineate the stronger Passions of the Mind, each Passion being the subject of a Tragedy and a Comedy." In a lengthened preliminary dissertation, she discoursed regarding the drama in all its relations, maintaining the ascendency of simple nature over every species of adornment and decoration. " Let one simple trait of the human heart, one expression of passion, genuine and true to nature," she wrote, " be introduced, and it will stand forth alone in the boldness of reality, whilst the false and unnatural around it fades away upon every side, like the rising exhalations of the morning." The reception of these plays was sufficient to satisfy the utmost ambition of the author, and established the foundation of her fame. " Nothing to compare with them had been produced since the great days of the English drama ; and the truth, vigour, variety, and dignity of the dramatic portraits, in which they abound, might well justify an enthusiasm which a reader of the present day can scarcely be expected to feel. This enthusiasm was all the greater, when it became known that these remarkable works, which had been originally published anonymously, were from the pen of a woman still young, who had passed her life in domestic seclusion."* Encouraged by the success of the first volume of her dramas on the " Passions," the authoress added a second in 1802, and a third in 1812. During the interval, she published a volume of miscellaneous dramas in 1804, and produced the "Family Legend" in 1810 a tragedy, founded upon a Highland tradition. With a prologue by Sir Walter Scott, and an epilogue by Henry Mackenzie, the " Family Legend " was produced at the Edinburgh theatre, under the auspices of the former illustrious character ; and was ably supported by Mrs Siddons, and by Terry, then at the commencement of his career. It was favourably received during ten successive performances. " You have only to imagine all that you could wish to give success to a play," wrote Sir Walter Scott to the authoress, "and your conceptions will still fall short of the complete and decided triumph of the ' Family Legend.' The house was crowded to a most extraordinary degree ; many people had come from your native capital of the west ; everything that pretended to distinction, whether from rank or literature, was in the boxes ; and in the pit, such an aggregate mass of humanity as I have seldom, if ever, witnessed in * Literary Gazette, March 1851. 40 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. the same space." Other two of her plays, " Count Basil " and " De Montfort," brought out in London, the latter being sustained by Kemble and Siddons, likewise received a large measure of general approbation ; but a want of variety of incident prevented their retaining a position on the stage. In 1836, she produced three additional volumes of dramas ; her career as a dramatic writer thus extending over the period of nearly forty years. Subsequent to her leaving Scotland, in 1784, Joanna Baillie did not retiirn to her native kingdom, unless on occasional visits. On the marriage of her brother to a sister of the Lord Chief -Justice Denman, in 1791, she passed some years at Colchester ; but she subsequently fixed her permanent habitation at Hampstead. Her mother died in 1806. At Hampstead, in the companionship of her only sister, whose virtues she has celebrated in one of her poems, and amidst the society of many of the more distinguished literary characters of the metropolis, she continued to enjoy a large amount of comfort and happiness. Her pecuniary means were sufficiently abundant, and rendered her entirely independent of the profits of her writings. Among her literary friends, one of the most valued was Sir Walter Scott, who, being introduced to her personal acquaintance on his visit to London in 1806, maintained with her an affectionate and lasting intimacy. The letters addressed to her are amongst the most interesting of his correspondence in his Memoir by his son-in-law. He evinced his estimation of her genius by frequently complimenting her in his works. In his " Epistle to William Erskine," which forms the introduction to the third canto of " Marmion," he thus generously eulogises his gifted friend: " Or, if to touch such chord be thine, Eestore the ancient tragic line, And emulate the notes that wrung From the wild harp, which silent hung By silver Avon's holy shore, Till twice a hundred years roll'd o'er ; When she, the bold Enchantress, came, With fearless hand and heart on flame ! From the pale willow snatch' d the treasure, And swept it with a kindred measure, Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove With Montfort' s hate and Basil's love, Awakening at the inspired strain, Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again. " To Joanna, Scott inscribed his fragmental drama of " Macduft's Cross," which was included in a Miscellany published by her in 1823. Though a penury of incident, and a defectiveness of skill in sustaining an in- creasing interest to the close, will probably prevent any of her numerous plays from being renewed on the stage, Joanna Baillie is well entitled to the place assigned her as one of the first of modern dramatists. In all her plays there are passages and scenes surpassed by no contemporaneous dramatic writer. Her works are a magazine of eloquent thoughts and glowing descriptions. She is a mistress of the emotions, and " Within her mighty page, Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage. " The tragedies of " Count Basil " and " De Montfort " are her best plays, and are well termed by Sir Walter Scott a revival of the great Bard of Avon. Forcible and energetic in style, her strain never becomes turgid or diverges into commonplace. She is masculine, but graceful ; and powerful without any ostentation of strength. Her personal history was the counterpart of her writings. Gentle in manners and affable in conversation, she was a model of the household virtues, and would have JOANNA BAILLIE. 41 attracted consideration as a woman by her amenities, though she had possessed no reputation in the world of letters. She was eminently religious and benevolent. Her countenance bore indication of a superior intellect and deep penetration. Though her society was much cherished by her contemporaries, including distinguished foreigners who visited the metropolis, her life was spent in general retirement. She was averse to public demonstration, and seemed scarcely conscious of her power. She died at Hampstead, on the 23d of February 1851, at the very advanced age of eighty-nine, and a few weeks after the publication of her whole "Works in a collected form. The songs of Joanna Baillie immediately obtained an honourable place in the minstrelsy of her native kingdom. They are the simple and graceful effusions of a heart passionately influenced by the melodies of the " land of the heath and the thistle," and animated by those warm affections so peculiarly nurtured in the region of " the mountain and the flood." " Fy, let us a' to the wedding," " Saw ye Johnnie comin'?" " It fell on a morning when we were thrang," and " Woo'd, and married, and a'," maintain popularity among all classes of Scotsmen throughout the world. Several of the songs were written for Thomson's " Melodies," and " The Harp of Caledonia," a collection of songs published at Glasgow in 1821, in three vols. 12mo, under the editorial care of John Struthers, author of " The Poor Man's Sabbath." The greater number are included in the present work. THE MAID OF LLANWELLYN. I'VE no sheep on the mountain, nor boat on the lake, Nor coin in my coffer to keep me awake, Nor corn in my garner, nor fruit on my tree Yet the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly on me. Soft tapping, at eve, to her window I came, And loud bay'd the watch-dog, loud scolded the dame ; For shame, silly Lightfoot ; what is it to thee, Though the maid of Llanwellyu smiles sweetly on me? Rich Owen will tell you, with eyes full of scorn, Threadbare is my coat, and my hosen are torn : Scoff on, my rich Owen, for faint is thy glee When the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly The farmer rides proudly to market or fair, The clerk, at the alehouse, still claims the great chair ; But of all our proud fellows the proudest I'll be, While the maid of Llanwellyn smiles sweetly For blythe as the urchin at holiday play, And meek as the matron in mantle of gray, And trim as the lady of gentle degree, Is the maid of Llanwellyn who smiles upon ;ood GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT! THE sun is sunk, the day is done, E'en stars .are setting one by one ; Nor torch nor taper longer may Eke out the pleasures of the day ; And since, in social glee's despite, It needs must be, Good night, good night ! The bride into her bower is sent, And ribbald rhyme and jesting spent ; The lover's whisper'd words and few Have bade the bashful maid adieu ; The dancing-floor is silent quite No foot bounds there, Good night, night ! The lady in her curtain'd bed, The herdsman in his wattled shed, The clansman in the heather'd hall, Sweet sleep be with you, one and all ! We part in hope of days as bright As this now gone Good night, good night ! Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! And if upon its stillness fall The visions of a busy brain, We'll have our pleasure o'er again ; To warm the heart, to charm the sight, Gay dreams to all ! Good night, good nkrht! 42 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THOUGH RICHER SWAINS THY LOVE PURSUE. THOUGH richer swains thy love pursue, In Sunday gear and bonnets new j And every fair before thee lay Their silken gifts, with colours gay They love thee not, alas ! so well As one who sighs, and dare not tell ; Who haunts thy dwelling, night and noon, In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon. I grieve not for my wayward lot, My empty folds, my roofless cot ; Nor hateful pity, proudly shown, Nor alter'd looks, nor friendship flown ; Nor yet my dog, with lanken sides, Who by his master still abides ; But how wilt thou prefer my boon, In tatter'd hose and clouted shoon? POVERTY PARTS GUDE COMPANIES AIR" Toddlirf Hame." WHEN white was my owrelay as foam of the linn, And siller was chinking my pouches within ; When my lambkins were bleating on meadow and brae, As I gaed to my love in new deeding say gay Kind was she, and my friends were free ; But poverty parts gude companie. How swift pass'd the minutes and hours of delight ! The piper play'd cheerly, the crusie burn'd bright ; And link'd in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holiday gear. Woe is me ! and can it then be, That poverty parts sic companie? We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk ; We met in the sunshine, we met in the mirk ; And the sound of her voice, and the blinks of her een, The cheering and life of my bosom have been. Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee, And poverty parts sweet companie. At bridal and in fair I 've braced me wi' pride, The bruse I hae won, and a kiss of the bride ; And loud was the laughter, gay fellows among, When I utter'd my banter, or chorus'd my song. Dowie to dree are jesting and glee, When poverty parts gude companie. Wherever I gaed the blythe lasses smiled sweet, And mithers and aunties were mair than discreet, * This song was written for Thomson's "Melodies." "Todlin' Hame," the air to which it is adapted, appears in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany" as an old song. The words begin "When I hae a saxpence under my thum." Burns remarks that "it is perhaps one of the first bottle-songs that ever was composed." While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board ; But now they pass by me, and never a word. So let it be ; for the worldly and slie Wi' poverty keep nae companie. But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart ; The spaewife has tauld me to keep up my heart ; For wi' my last sixpence her loof I hae cross'd, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost. Cruelly though we ilka day see How poverty parts dear companie. FY, LET US A' TO THE WEDDING.* FY, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there ; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair. And there will be jilting and jeering, And glancing of bonnie dark een ; Loud laughing and smooth-gabbit speering 0' questions, baith pawky and keen. And there will be Bessie, the beauty, Wha raises her cock-up sae hie, And giggles at preachings and duty ; Gude grant that she gang nae ajee ! And there will be auld Geordie Tanner, Wha coft a young wife wi' his gowd ; She '11 flaunt wi' a silk gown upon her, But, wow ! he looks dowie and cow'd. And braw Tibby Fowler, the heiress, Will perk at the top o' the ha', Encircled wi' suitors, wliase care is To catch up the gloves when they fa', Repeat a' her jokes as they're cleckit, And haver and glower in her face, When tocherless Mays are negleckit A crying and scandalous case. And Mysie, whase clavering aunty Wad match her wi' Jamie, the laird ; And learn the young fouk to be vaunty, But neither to spin nor to caird, And Andrew, whase granny is yearning To see him a clerical blade, Was sent to the college for learning, And cam' back a coof, as he gaed. And there will be auld Widow Martin, That ca's hersel' thretty and t\va ! And thrawn-gabbit Madge, wha for certain Was jilted by Hab o' the Shaw. And Elspy, the sewster, sae genty A pattern of havens and sense Will straik on her mittens sae dainty, And crack wi' Mess John in the spence. * This song is a new version of " The Blythesome Bridal," beginning, " Fy, let us a' to the bridal," which first appeared in Watson's Collection, in 1706, and of which the authorship was formerly assigned to Francis Semple of Beltrees, in Renfrewshire, who lived in the middle of the seventeenth century. More recently "The Blythesome Bridal" has been attributed to Sir William Scott of Thirlestane, in Selkirkshire, who flourished in the beginning of last century. The words are coarse, but humorous. JOANNA BAILLIE. 43 And Angus, the seer o' ferlies, That sits on the stane at his door, And tells about bogles, and mair lies Than tongue ever utter'd before. And there will be Bauldy, the boaster, Sae ready wi' hands and wi' tongue ; Proud Pattie and silly Sam Foster, Wha quarrel wi' auld and wi' young. And Hugh, the town-writer, I'm thinking, That trades in his lawyerly skill, Will egg on the fighting and drinking, To bring after grist to his mill. And Maggie na, na ! we'll be civil, And let the wee bridie abee ; A vilipend tongue it is evil, And ne'er was encouraged by me. Then fy, let us a" to the wedding, For they will be lilting there, Frae mony a far-distant ha'ding, The fun and the feasting to share ; For they will get sheep's-head and haggis, And browst o' the barley-mow ; E'en he that comes latest and lag is May feast upon dainties enow. Veal florentines, in the o'en baken, "\Veel plenish'd wi' raisins and fat ; Beef, mutton, and chuckies, a' taken Het reekin' frae spit and frae pat. And glasses (I trow 'tis nae said ill) To drink the young couple gude luck, Weel filled wi' a braw beechen ladle, Frae punch-bowl as big as Dumbuck. And then will come dancing and daffing, And reelin' and crossin' o' han's, Till even auld Lucky is laughing, As back by the aurnry she stan's. Sic hoboing, and flinging, and whirling, "While fiddlers are making their din ; And pipers are droning and skirling, As loud as the roar o' the linn. Then fy, let us a' to the wedding, For they will be lilting there ; For Jock's to be married to Maggie, The lass wi' the gowden hair. HOOLY AXD FAIRLY.* OH, neighbours! what had I to do for to marry? My wife she drinks posset and wine o' Canary ; And ca's me a niggardly, thrawn-gabbit cairly. gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; gin my wife wad drink hooly and fairly ! She sups, wi' her kimmers, on dainties enow, Aye bowing, and smirking, and wiping her mou' ; * The style of this song and the chorus are borrowed from "The Drucken Wife o' Gallowa'," a song which first appeared in the " Charmer," a collection of songs, pub- lished at Edinburgh in 1751, but the authorship of which is unknown. "While I sit aside, and am helpit but sparely. gin my wife would feast hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; gin my wife wad feast hooly and fairly ! To fairs, and to bridals, and preachings an' a', She gangs sae light-headed, and buskitsae braw, In ribbons and mantuas, that gar me gae barely. gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; gin my wife wad spend hooly and fairly ! I' the kirk sic commotion last Sabbath she made, "Wi' babs o' red roses, and breast -knots o'erlaid; The dominie stickit the psalm very nearly. gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; gin my wife wad dress hooly and fairly ! She's warring and flyting frae mornin' till e'en, And if ye gainsay her, her een glower sae keen ; Then tongue, neive, and cudgel, she'll lay on me sairly. gin my wife would strike hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; gin my wife wad strike hooly and fairly ! When tired wi' her cantrips, she lies in her bed The wark a' negleckit, the chalmer unred While a' our gude neighbours are stirring sae early. gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly ; Timely and fairly, timely and fairly ; gin my wife wad wark timely and fairly ! A word o' gude counsel or grace she'll hear none; She bandies the elders, and mocks at Mess John; While back in his teeth his own text she flings sairly. gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly ! Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; gin my wife wad speak hooly and fairly ! I wish I were single, I wish I were freed ; I wish I were doited, I wish I were dead ; Or she in the mouls, to dement me nae mairly. What does it 'vail to cry, Hooly and fairly ; Hooly and fairly, hooly and fairly ; Wasting my health to cry,_Hooly and fairly ! THE WEAEY PUND 0' TOW. A YOUNG gudewife is in my house, And thrifty means to be, But aye she's runnin' to the town Some ferlie there to see. The weary pund, the weary pund, the weary pund o' tow, I soothly think, ere it be spun, I'll wear a lyart pow. 44 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. And when she sets her to her wheel, They'll say I was doited, they'll say I was fu' To draw her threads wi' care, They'll say I was dowie, and Kobin untrue ; In comes the chapman wi' his gear, They'll say in the fire some luve-powther I And she can spin nae mair. threw, The weary pund, etc. And that made the ill beginniu' o't. And then like ony merry May, At fairs maun still be seen, At kirkyard preachings near the tent, At dances on the green. The weary pund, etc. curst be the day, and unchancy the hour, When I sat me adown to the spinnin' o't ! Then some evil spirit or warlock had power, And made sic an ill beginnin' o't. May Spunkie my feet to the boggie betray, The lunzie folk steal my new kirtle away, Her dainty ear a fiddle charms, A bagpipe's her delight, And Robin forsake me for douce Effie Gray, The next time I try the spinnin' o't ! " But for the crooning o' her wheel She disna care a mite. The weary pund, etc. THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE SWARD. " You spake, my Kate, of snaw-white webs Made o' your hinkum twine, But, ah ! I fear our bonnie burn . Will ne'er lave web o' thine. The weaiy pund, etc. THE gowan glitters on the sward, The lav'rock's in the sky, And collie on my plaid keeps ward, And time is passing by. Oh, no ! sad and slow, " Nay, smile again, my winsome mate, Sic jeering means nae ill ; Should I gae sarkless to my grave, And lengthen'd on the ground ; The shadow of our trysting bush It wears so slowly round. I'll lo'e and bless thee still." The weary pund, etc. My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west, My lambs are bleating near ; But still the sound that I lo'e best, Alack ! I canna hear. Oh, no ! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still ; THE WEE PICKLE TOW.* And like a lanely ghaist I stand, And croon upon the hill. A LIVELY young lass had a wee pickle tow, And she thought to try the spinnin' o't ; She sat by the fire, and her rock took alow, And that was an ill beginnin' o't. I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clacking din, And lucky scolding frae the door. Loud and shrill was the cry that she utter'd, To ca' the bairnies in. I ween ; Oh, no ! sad and slow, The sudden mishanter brought tears to her These are nae sounds for me ; een; The shadow of our trysting bush Her face it was fair, but her temper was keen ; It creeps sae drearily ! dole for the ill beginnin' o't ! I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tarn, She stamp'd on the floor, and -her'twa hands she wrung, Her bonny sweet mou' she crookit, ! And fell was the outbreak o' words frae her A snood o' bonnie blue, And promised, when our trysting cam', To tie it round her brow. Oh, no ! sad and slow, The mark it winna pass ; tongue ; Like ane sair demented she lookit, ! " Foul fa' the inventor o' rock and o' reel ! The shadow o' that dreary bush Is tether'd on the grass. I hope, Gude forgi'e me, he's now wi' the d 1, He brought us mair trouble than help, wot I now I see her on the way ! She 's past the witch's knowe ; WCCl y dole for the ill beginnin' o't ! She's climbing up the brownie's brae My heart is in a lowe. Oh no ! 'tis not so, " And now, when they're spinnin' and kempin* 'Tis glamrie I hae seen ; awa', The shadow o' that hawthorn bush They'll talk o' my rock and the burnin' o't, Will move nae mair till e'en. While Tibbie, and Mysie, and Maggie, and a', Into some silly joke will be turniu' it : My book o' grace I'll try to read, Though conn'd wi' littlG skill * * "The Wee Pickle Tow" is an old air, to which the When collie barks I'll raise my head, words of this song were written. And find her on the hill. JOANNA BA1LLIE. 45 Oh, no ! sad and slow, The time will ne'er be gane ; The shadow o' our trysting bush Is fix'd like ony stane. SAW YE JOHNNIE COMIN'? "SAW ye Johnnie comin' ? " quo' she ; " Saw ye Johnnie comin' ? Wi' his blue bonnet on his head, And his doggie rinnin'. Yestreen, about the gloamin' time, I chanced to see him comin', Whistling merrily the tune, That I am a' day hummin', " quo' she ; ' ' I am a' day hummin. ' "Fee him, faither, fee him," quo' she; " Fee him, faither, fee him ; A' the wark about the house Gaes wi' me when I see him : A' the wark about the house I gang sae lightly through it ; And though you pay some merks o' gear, Hoot ! ye winna rue it, " quo' she ; "No ; ye winna rue it. ' "What wad I do wi' him, hizzy? What wad I do wi' him ? He 's ne'er a sark upon his back, And 1 hae nane to gi'e him." ' ' I hae twa sarks into my kist, And ane o' them I '11 gi'e him ; And for a merk o' mair fee, Oh, dinna stand wi' him," quo' she; " Dinna stand wi' him. " Weel do I lo'e him," quo' she ; " Weel do I lo'e him ; The brawest lads about the place Are a' but hav'rels to him. Oh, fee him, faither ; lang, I trow, We've dull and dowie been: He'll haud the plough, thrash i' the barn. And crack wi' me at e'en," quo' she; ' ' Crack wi' me at e'en. " IT FELL ON A MORNING.* IT fell on a morning when we were thrang Our kirn was gaun, our cheese was making, And bannocks on the girdle baking That ane at the door chapp'd loud and lang ; Buttheauldgudewife, and her Mays sae tight, Of this stirrin' an' din took sma' notice, I ween ; For a chap at the door in braid daylight Is no like a chap when heard at e'en. Then the clocksie auld laird of the warlock glen, Wha stood without, half cow'd, half cheerie, And yearn' d for a sight of his winsome dearie, Raised up the latch and came crousely ben. * This song was contributed by Miss Baillie to "The Harp of Caledonia." His coat was new, and his owrelay was white, And his hose and hismittenswerecozyandbein ; But a wooer that comes in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. He greeted the carlin' and lasses sae braw, And his bare lyart pow he smoothly straikit, And looked about, like a body half glaikit, On bonny sweet Nanny, the youngest of a' : "Ha, ha!" quo' the carlin', "and look ye that way ? Hoot ! let na sic fancies bewilder ye clean An elderlin' man, i' the noon o' the day, Should be wiser than youngsters that come at e'en." " Na, na, " quo' the pawky auld wife ; "I trow You'll fash na your head wi' a youthfu' gilly, As wild and as skeigh as a muirland filly ; Black Madge is far better and fitter for you." He hem'd and he haw'd, and he screw'd in his mouth, And he squeezed his blue bonnet his twa hands between ; For wooers that come when the sun's in the south Are mair awkward than wooers that come at e'en. "Black Madge she is prudent." "What's that to me?" ' ' She is eident and sober, has sense in her noddle Is douce and respeckit." " I carena a bod- die ; I'll baulk na my luve, and my fancy's free." Madge toss'd back her head wi' a saucy slight, And Nanny ran laughing out to the green ; For wooers that come when the sun shines bright Are no like the wooers that come at e'en. Awa' flung the laird, and loud mutter'd he, " All the daughters of Eve, between Orkney and Tweed, : Black and fair, young and old, dame, damsel, and widow, May gang, wi' their pride, to the wuddy for me. " But the auld gudewife, and her Mays sae tight, For a' his loud banning cared little, I ween ; For a wooer that conies in braid daylight Is no like a wooer that comes at e'en. WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'. 1 The bride she is winsome and bonnie, Her hair it is snooded sae sleek ; And faithful and kind is her Johnnie, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. * Of the song, "Woo'd, and married, and a'," there is another version, published in Johnson's " Musical Museum," vol. i. p. 10, which was long popular among the ballad-singers. It was composed by Alexander Ross, schoolmaster of Lochlee, author of " Helenore, or the Fortunate Shepherdess." A song having a similar commencement, had previously been current on the Border. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. New pearlings are cause o' her sorrow New pearlings aud plenishing too ; The bride that has a' to borrow Has e'en right muckle ado. Woo'd, and married, and a' ; Woo'd, and married, and a' ; And is na she very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a' ? Her mither then hastily spak' " The lassie is glaikit wi' pride ; In my pouches I hadna a plack The day that I was a bride. E'en tak' to your wheel and be clever, And draw out your thread in the sun ; The gear that is gifted, it never "Will last like the gear that is won. Woo'd, and married, an' a', Tocher and havings sae sma' ; I think ye are very weel aif To be woo'd, and married, and a'." " Toot, toot! " quo' the grey headed faither ; " She's less of a bride than a bairn ; She's ta'en like a cowt frae the heather, Wi' sense and discretion to learn. Half husband, I trow, and half daddy, As humour inconstantly leans ; A chiel' maun be constant and steady, That yokes wi' a mate in her teens. Kerchief to cover so neat, Locks the winds used to blaw ; 1 'm baith like to laugh and to greet, When I think o' her married at a'." Then out spak' the wily bridegroom, Weel waled were his wordies, I ween, "I'm rich, though my coffer be toom, Wi' the blinks o' your bonnie blue een ; I'm prouder o' thee by my side, Though thy ruffles or ribbons be few, Than if Kate o' the Craft were my bride, Wi' purples and pearlings enew. Dear and dearest of ony, I've woo'd, and bookit, and a'; And do you think scorn o' your Johnnie, And grieve to be married at a' ? " She turn'd, and she blush' d, and she smiled, And she lookit sae bashfully down ; The pride o' her heart was beguiled, And she play'd wi' the sleeve o' her gown ; She twirl'd the tag o' her lace, And she nippit her boddice sae blue ; Syne blinkit sae sweet in his face, And aff like a maukin she flew. Woo'd, and married, and a', Married and carried awa' ; She thinks hersel' very weel aff, To be woo'd, and married, and a'. WILLIAM DUDGEON. THOUGH author of a single composition, William Dudgeon is entitled to a place among the modern contributors to Caledonian minstrelsy. Of his personal history, a few facts only have been recovered. He was the son of a farmer in East-Lothian, and himself rented an extensive farm at Preston, in Berwickshire. During his border tour in May 1787, Robert Burns met him at Berrywell, the residence of the father of his friend, Mr Robert Ainslie, who acted as land-steward on the estate of Lord Douglas in the Merse. In his journal, Burns has thus recorded his impression of the meeting : " A Mr Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy, remarkable character, natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty." Dudgeon died in October IS13, about his sixtieth year. " He was," writes a relative, " a man of a weakly frame of body, but of a liberal and enlarged capacity a poet, a writer of sermons, a first-rate performer on the violin, and could use tolerably well the graving tool ; and last, and greatest of all, a temperate and well-conducted person." UP AMONG YON CLIFFY ROCKS. UP among yon cliffy rocks Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats Lilting o'er her native notes. Hark, she sings, "Young Sandy's kind, An' he 's promised aye to lo'e me ; Here 'a a brooch I ne'er shall tine, Till he 's fairly married to me. Drive away, ye drone, Time, And bring about our bridal day. WILLIAM REID. 47 " Sandy herds a flock o' sheep ; Aften does he blaw the whistle In a strain sae sal'tly sweet, Lammies list'ning daurna bleat. He's as fleet's the mountain roe, Hardy as the Highland heather, Wading through the winter snow, Keeping aye his flock together ; But a plaid, wi' bare houghs, He braves the bleakest norlan' blast. " Brawly can he dance and sing, Canty glee or Highland cronach ; Nane can ever match his fling, At a reel or round a ring. Wightly can he wield a rung ; In a brawl he's aye the bangster : A' his praise can ne'er be sung By the langest -winded sangster ; Sangs that sing o' Sandy Seem short, though they were e'er sae lang. " WILLIAM REID. WILLIAM REID was born at Glasgow on the 10th of April 1764. His father, a baker by trade, was enabled to give him a good education at the school of his native city. At an early age, he was apprenticed to Messrs Dunlop & Wilson, booksellers ; and in the year 1790, along with another enterprising individual, he commenced a book- selling establishment, under the firm of " Brash & Reid." In this business, both partners became eminently successful, their shop being frequented by the literati of the West. The poet Burns cultivated the society of Mr Reid, who proved a warm friend, as he was an ardent admirer, of the Ayrshire bard. He was an enthusiastic patron of literature, was fond of social humour, and was a zealous promoter of Scot tish song. Between 1795 and 1798, the firm published in numbers, at one penny each, " Poetry, Original and Selected," which extended to four volumes. To this publication, both Mr Reid and his partner, Mr Brash, made some original contribu- tions. The work is now very scarce, and is accounted valuable by collectors. Mr Reid died at Glasgow, on the 29th of November 1831, leaving a widow and a family. " To a peculiarly placid temper," writes Dr Strang, " he united a strong smack of broad humour, and an endless string of personal anecdotes, which he detailed with a gusto altogether his own. Of all things, he loved a joke, and indulged in this vein even at the risk of causing the momentary displeasure either of an acquaintance or a customer. We say momentary, for, with all his jesting and jocularity, he never really said, we believe, one word which was meant to offend. To " laugh and grow fat " was his constant motto, and, consequently, he never troubled himself either about his own obesity, or about that of any one else, who might follow his laughing example.* * " Glasgow and its Clubs," by John Strang, LL.D. London, 1856, p. 486. THE LEA RIG.* WILL ye gang o'er the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, ! And cuddle there fu' kindly Wi' me, my kind dearie, ! At thorny bush, or birken tree, We'll daff and never weary, ! They' 11 scug ill e'en frae you and me, Hy ain kind dearie, ! Nae herds wi' kent or collie there, Shall ever come to fear ye, ! But lav'rocks, whistling in the air, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, ! While ithers herd their lambs and ewes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lea my pleasure grows, Wi' thee, my kind dearie, ! * The two first stanzas are the composition of Robert Fergusson. The song is founded on ditty, beginning, " I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig." See Johnson's 'Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 53. an older 48 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. At gloamin', if my lane I be, Oil, but I'm wondrous eerie, ! And mony a heavy sigh I gi'e, When absent frae my dearie, ! But seated 'neath the milk-white thorn, In ev'ning fair and clearie, ! Enraptured, a' my cares I scorn, When wi' my kind dearie, ! Whare through the birks the burnie rows, Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, ! Upon the bonny greensward howes, Wi' thee, ray kind dearie, ! I 've courted till I Ve heard the craw Of honest chanticleerie, ! Yet never miss'd my sleep ava, When wi' my kind dearie, ! For though the night were ne'er sae dark, And I were ne'er sae weary, ! I 'd meet thee on the lea rig, My ain kind dearie, 0! While in this weary world of wae, This wilderness sae dreary, ! What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae ? 'Tis thee, my kind dearie, 1 JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.* JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, I wonder what ye mean, To rise sae early in the morn, And sit sae late at e'en ; ie'11 blear out a' your een, John, And why should you do so ? Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, When Nature first began To try her canny hand, John, Her masterpiece was man ; And you amang them a', John, Sae trig frae tap to toe She proved to be nae journeyman, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit ; And ye needna think it strange, John, That I ca' ye trim and neat ; Though some folks say ye 're auld, John, I never think ye so ; But I think ye 're aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We 've seen our bairns' bairns ; And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms ; And sae are ye in mine, John, I 'm sure ye '11 ne'er say No ; Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo. * These stanzas are in continuation of Burns's song, "John Anderson, my Jo." Five other stanzas have been added to the continuation by some unknown hand, which will be found in the " Book of Scottish Song," p. 54. Glasgow, 1853. FAIR, MODEST FLOWER. TUNE " Ye banks and braes a' bonnif Doon." FAIR, modest flower, of matchless worth ! Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem ; Blest is the soil that gave thee birth, And bless'd thine honour'd parent stem. But doubly bless'd shall be the youth To whom thy heaving bosom warms ; Possess'd of beauty, love, and truth, He'll clasp an angel in his arms. Though storms of life were blowing snell, And on his brow sat brooding care, Thy seraph smile would quick dispel The darkest gloom of black despair. Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us, And chose thee from the dwellers there ; And sent thee from celestial bliss, To show what all the virtues are. KATE 0' COWRIE.* TUNE " Locherroch side." WHEN Katie was scarce out nineteen, Oh, but she had twa coal-black een ! A bonnier lass ye wadua seen In a' the Carse o' Gowrie. Quite tired o' livin' a' his lane, Pate did to her his love explain, And swore he'd be, were she his ain, The happiest lad in Gowrie. Quo' she, "I winna marry thee, For a' the gear that ye can gi'e ; Nor will I gang a step ajee, For a' the gowd in Gowrie. My father will gi'e me twa kye ; My mother's gaun some yarn to dye ; I '11 get a gown just like the sky, Gif I'll no gang to Gowrie." " Oh, my dear Katie, say nae sae! Ye little ken a heart that's wae ; Hae! there's my hand; hear me, I pray, Sin' thou 'It no gang to Gowrie : Since first I met thee at the shiel, My saul to thee's been true and leal; The darkest night I fear nae deil, Warlock, or witch in Gowrie. "I fear nae want o' claes nor nocht, Sic silly things my mind ne'er taught ; I dream a' nicht, and start about, And wish for thee in Gowrie. I lo'e thee better, Kate, my dear, Than a' my rigs and out-gaun gear ; Sit down by me till ance I swear, Thou'rt worth the Carse o' Gowrie." Syne on her mou' sweet kisses laid, Till blushes a' her cheeks o'erspread ; She sigh'd, and in soft whispers said, " Oh, Pate, tak' me to Gowrie! " Quo' he, " Let's to the auld folk gang; * See fasten, in this volume, under memoir of the Baroness Nairne, p. 62. ALEXANDER CAMPBELL. 49 Say what they like, I'll bide their bang, And bide a' nicht, though beds be thrang ; But I'll hae thee to Cowrie." The auld folk syne baith gi'ed consent ; The priest was ca'd : a' were content ; And Katie never did repent That she gaed hame to Cowrie. For routh o' bonnie bairns had she ; ilair strappin' lads ye wadna see ; And her braw lasses bore the gree Frae a' the rest o' Cowrie. UPON THE BANKS 0' FLOWING CLYDE. UPON the banks o' flowing Clyde The lasses busk them braw ; But when their best they hae put on, My Jeanie dings them a' ; In hamely weeds she far exceeds The fairest o' the toun ; Baith sage and gay confess it sae, Though drest in russit goun. The gamesome lamb that sucks its dam, Mair harmless canna be ; She has nae faut, if sic ye ca't, Except her love for me ; The sparkling dew, o' clearest hue, Is like her shining een ; In shape and air wha can compare, "UT my sweet lovely Jean.* * These two stanzas were written as a continuation of Burns's popular song, " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw. " Two other stanzas were added by Joha Hamilton. See ante, p. 38. ALEXANDER CAMPBELL, A MISCELLANEOUS writer, a poet, and a musical composer, Alexander Campbell -was born at Tombea, on the banks of Loch Lubnaig, Perthshire. He was born on the 22d of February 1764,* and received such education as his parents could afford him, which was not very ample, at the parish school of Callander. An early taste for music induced him to proceed to Edinburgh, there to cultivate a systematic acquaint- ance with the art. Acquiring a knowledge of the science under the celebrated Tenducci and others, he became a teacher of the harpsichord and of vocal music in the metropolis. An upholder of Jacobitism, when it was scarcely to be dreaded as a political offence, he officiated as organist in a non-juring chapel in the vicinity of Nicolson Street ; and while so employed, he had the good fortune to form the acquaintance of the poet Burns. Mr Campbell was twice married ; his second wife was the widow of a Highland gentleman, and he was induced to hope that his condition might thus be permanently improved. He therefore relinquished his original vocation, and commenced the study of physic, with the view of obtaining an appointment as surgeon in the public sendee ; but his hopes proved abortive, and, to complete his mortification, his wife left him in Edinburgh, and sought a retreat in the Highlands. He again procured some employment as a teacher of music ; and about the year 1810, one of his expe- dients was to give lessons in drawing. He was a man of a fervent spirit, and pos- sessed of talents, which, if they had been adequately cultivated, and more concen- trated, might have enabled him to attain considerable distinction ; but, apparently aiming at the reputation of universal genius, he alternately cultivated the study of music, poetry, painting, and physic. At a more recent period, Sir Walter Scott found him occasional employment in transcribing manuscripts ; and during the unhappy remainder of his life he had to struggle with many difficulties. One of his publications bears the title of " Odes and Miscellaneous Poems, by a Student of Medicine in the University of Edinburgh," Edinburgh, 1790, 4to. These lucubrations, which attracted no share of public attention, were followed by " The Guinea Note, a Poem, by Timothy Twig, Esquire," Edinburgh, 1797, 4to. His next * " 1764. Duncan Campbell and Janet Lamond, in Tombea, had a son, born 22, baptized 25 February, called Alex " Ca.lla.nder Register of Births and Baptisms 50 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. work is entitled, " An Introduction to the History of Poetry in Scotland, with Illustrations by David Allan," Edinburgh, 1798, 4to. This work, though written in a rambling style, contains a small proportion of useful materials very unskilfully digested. " A Dialogue on Scottish Music," prefixed, had the merit of conveying to continental musicians for the first time a correct acquaintance with the Scottish scale, the author receiving the commendations of the greatest Italian and German composers. The work likewise contains " Songs of the Lowlands," a selection of some of the more interesting specimens of the older minstrelsy. In 1802 he published " A Tour from Edinburgh through various parts of North Britain," in two volumes quarto, illustrated with engravings from sketches executed by himself. This work met with a favourable reception, and has been regarded as the most successful of his literary efforts. In 1804 he sought distinction as a poet by giving to the world " The Grampians Desolate," a long poem, in one volume octavo. In this production he essays " to call the attention of good men, wherever dispersed throughout our island, to the manifold and great evils arising from the introduction of that system which has within these last forty years spread among the Grampians and Western Isles, and is the leading cause of a depopulation that threatens to extirpate the ancient race of the inhabitants of those districts." That system to which Mr Campbell refers, he afterwards explains to be the monopoly of sheep-stores, a subject scarcely poetical, but which he has contrived to clothe with considerable smoothness of versification. The last work which issued from his pen was " Albyn's Anthology, a Select Collection of the Melodies and Vocal Poetry Peculiar to Scotland and the Isles, hitherto Un- published." The publication appeared in 1816, in two parts, of elegant folio. It was adorned by the contributions of Sir "Walter Scott, James Hogg, and other poets of reputation. The preface contains " An Epitome of the History of Scottish Poetry and Music from the Earliest Times." His musical talents have a stronger claim to remembrance than his powers as a poet or his skill as an author. Yet his industry was unremitted, and his researches have proved serviceable to other writers who have followed him on the same themes. Only a few lyrical pieces proceeded from his pen ; these were first published in " Albyn's Anthology." From this work we have ex- tracted two specimens. Mr Campbell died of apoplexy on the 15th of May 1824, after a life much chequered by misfortune. He left various MSS. on subjects connected with his favourite studies, which have found their way into the possession />f Mr David Laing, to whom the history of Scottish poetry is more indebted than to any other living writer. The poems in this collection, though bearing marks of sufficient elaboration, could not be recommended for publication. Mr Campbell was understood to be a contributor to " The Ghost," a forgotten periodical, which ran a short career in the year 1790. It was published in Edinburgh twice a- week, and reached the forty-sixth number; the first having appeared on the 25th of April, the last on the 16th of November. He published an edition of a book, curious in its way Donald Mackin- tosh's " Collections of Gaelic Proverbs, and Familiar Phrases ; Englished anew ! " Edinburgh, 1819, 12mo. The preface contains a characteristic account of the com- piler, who described himself as " a priest of the old Scots Episcopal Church, and last of the non-jurant clergy in Scotland." MRS DUGALD STEWART. 51 THE HAWK WHOOPS ON HIGH. THE hawk whoops on high, and keen, keen from yon cliff, Lo ! the eagle on watch eyes the stag cold and stiff; The deer-hound, majestic, looks lofty around, While he lists with delight to the harp's dis- tant sound ; Is it swept by the gale, as it slow wafts along. The heart-soothing tones of an olden times' song? Or is it some Druid who touches, unseen, " The Harp of the North," newly strung now I ween ? 'Tis Albyn's own minstrel ! and, proud of his name, He proclaims him chief bard, and immortal his fame ! He gives tongue to those wild lilts that ravish 'd of old, And soul to the tales that so oft have been told ; Hence WALTER THE MIXSTREL shall flourish for aye. Will breathe in sweet airs, and live long as his. "Lay;" To ages unnumber'd thus yielding delight, Which will last till the gloaming of Time's endless night. NOW WINTER'S WIND SWEEPS. Now Winter's wind sweeps o'er the moun- tains, Deeply clad in drifting snow ; Soundly sleep the frozen fountains ; Ice-bound streams forget to flow : The piercing blast howls loud and long, The leafless forest oaks among. Down the glen, lo ! comes a stranger, Wayworn, drooping, all alone ; Haply, 'tis the deer-haunt Eanger ! But alas ! his strength is gone ! He stoops, he totters on with pain, The hill he'll never climb again. Age is being's winter season, Fitful, gloomy, piercing cold ; Passion, weaken'd, yields to reason, Man feels then himself grown old ; His senses one by one have fled, His very soul seems almost dead. MRS DUGALD STEWART, HELEN D'AncY CRAXSTOUN, the second wife of the celebrated Professor Dugald Stewart, is entitled to a more ample notice in a work on Scottish Song than the limited materials at onr command enable us to supply. She was the third daughter of the Hon. George Cranstoun, youngest son of William, fifth Lord Cranstoun, by his wife Maria, daughter of Mr Thomas Brisbane. She was born in 1765, and married Professor Dugald Stewart on the 26th July 1790. Having survived her husband ten years, she died at "Warriston House, near Edinburgh, on the 28th of July 1838. She was the sister of the Countess Purgstall (the subject of Captain Basil Hall's " Schloss Hainfeld "), and of George Cranstoun, a senator of the College of Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse. THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL. TUNE "lantfte tlie Lovely." THE tears I shed must ever fall : I mourn not for an absent swain ; For thoughts may past delights recall, And parted lovers meet again. I weep not for the silent dead : Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er ; And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more. Though boundless oceans roll'd between, If certain that his heart is near, A conscious transport glads each scene, Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear. E'en when by death's cold hand removed, We mourn the tenant of the tomb, To think that e'en in death he loved, Can gild the horrors of the gloom. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. But bitter, bitter are the tears Of her who slighted love bewails ; No hope her dreary prospect cheers, No pleasing melancholy hails. Hers are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, of wither' d joy ; The flattering veil is rent aside, The flame of love burns to destroy. In vain does memory renew The hours once tinged in transport's dye The sad reverse soon starts to view, And turns the past to agony. E'en time itself despairs to cure Those pangs to every feeling due : Ungenerous youth ! thy boast how poor, To win a heart, and break it too ! No cold approach, no alter'd mien; Just what would make suspicion start ; No pause the dire extremes between He made me blest, and broke my heart :* From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn, Neglected and neglecting all ; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall. RETURNING SPRING, WITH GLADSOME RAY.f RETURNING spring, with gladsome ray, Adorns the earth and smoothes the deep : All nature smiles, serene and gay, It smiles, and yet, alas ! I weep. But why, why flows the sudden tear, Since Heaven such precious boons has lent, The lives of those who life endear, And, though scarce competence, content ? Sure, when no other bliss was mine Than that which still kind Heaven bestows, * The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns. t These tender and beautiful verses are transcribed from Johnson's " Musical Museum," in a note to which they were first published by the editor, Mr David Laing. He remarks that he "has reason to believe" that .they are from the pen of Mrs Stewart. (See Johnson's " Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 366, new edition. Edin- burgh, 1853.) Yet then could peace and hope combine To promise joy and give repose. Then have I wander'd o'er the plain, And bless'd each flower that met my view ; Thought Fancy's power would ever reign, And Nature's charms be ever new. I fondly thought where Virtue dwelt, That happy bosom knew no ill That those who scorn'd me, time would melt, And those I loved be faultless still. Enchanting dreams ! kind was your art That bliss bestow'd without alloy ; Or if soft sadness claim 'd a part, 'Twas sadness sweeter still than joy. Oh ! whence the change that now alarms, Fills this sad heart and tearful eye, And conquers the once powerful charms Of youth, of hope, of novelty ? ' Tis sad Experience, fatal power ! That clouds the once illumined sky, That darkens life's meridian hour, And bids each fairy vision fly. She paints the scene how different far From that which youthful fancy drew ? Shows joy and freedom oft at war, Our woes increased, our comforts few. And when, perhaps, on some loved friend Our treasured fondness we bestow, Oh ! can she not, with ruthless hand, Change e'en that friend into a foe ? See in her train cold Foresight move, Shunning the rose to 'scape the thorn ; And Prudence every fear approve, And Pity harden into scorn! The glowing tints of Fancy fade, Life's distant prospects charm no more ; Alas ! are all my hopes betray 'd? Can nought my happiness restore ? Relentless power ! at length be just, Thy better skill alone impart ; Give Caution, but withhold Distrust, And guard, but harden not, my heart ! ALEXANDER WILSON, THE author of the celebrated " American Ornithology " is entitled to an honourable commemoration as one of the minstrels of his native land. Alexander Wilson was born at Paisley on the 6th of July 1766.* His father had for some time carried on a small trade as a distiller ; but the son was destined by his parents for the clerical profession, in the National Church a scheme which was frustrated by the death of ' "July 1766. Alexander, son lawful to Alexander Wilson and Mary M'Nab, born 6th, baptized loth inst Baptismal Registry of Paisley. ALEXANDER WILSON. his mother in his tenth year, leaving a large family of children to the sole care of his father. He had, however, considerably profited by the instruction already received at school ; and having derived from his mother a taste for music and a relish for books, he invoked the muse in solitude, and improved his mind by miscellaneous reading. His father contracted a second marriage when Alexander had reached his thirteenth year ; and it became necessary that he should prepare himself for entering upon some handicraft employment. He became an apprentice to his brother-in-law, William Duncan, a weaver in his native town ; and on completing his indenture, he wrought as a journeyman, during the three following years, in the towns of Paisley, Lochwinnoch, and Queensferry. But the occupation of weaving, which had from the first been unsuitable to his tastes, growing altogether irksome, he determined to relinquish it for a vocation which, if in some respects scarcely more desirable, afforded him ample means of gratifying his natural desire of becoming familiar with the topography of his native country. He provided himself with a pack, as a pedlar, and in this capacity, in company with his brother-in-law, continued for three years to lead a wandering life. His devotedness to verse-making had continued unabated from boyhood : he had written verses at the loom, and had become an enthusiastic votary of the muse during his peregrinations with his pack. He was now in his twenty- third year ; and, with the buoyancy of ardent youth, he thought of offering to the public a volume of his poems by subscription. In this attempt he was not success- ful ; nor would any bookseller listen to proposals of publishing the lucubrations of an obscure pedlar. In 1790, he at length contrived to print his poems at Paisley, on his own account, in the hope of being able to dispose of them along with his other wares. But this attempt was not more successful than his original scheme, so that he was compelled to return to his father's house at Lochwinnoch, and resume the obnoxious shuttle. His aspirations for poetical distinction were not, however, subdued : he heard of the institution of the Forum, a debating society established in Edinburgh by some literary aspirants, and learning, in 1791, that an early subject of discussion was the comparative merits of Ramsay and Fergusson as Scottish poets, he prepared to take a share in the competition. By doubling his hours of labour at the loom, he procured the means of defraying his travelling expenses ; and, arriving in time for the debate in the Forum, he repeated a poem which he had prepared, entitled the " Laurel Disputed," in which he gave the preference to Fergusson. He remained several weeks in Edinburgh, and printed his poem. To Dr Anderson's " Bee " he contributed several poems, and a prose essay, entitled " The Solitary Philosopher." Finding no encouragement to settle in the capital, he once more returned to his father's house in the West. He now formed the acquaintance of Robert Burns, who testified his esteem both for him as a man and a poet. In 1792, he published anonymously his popular ballad of " Watty and Meg," which he had the satisfaction to find regarded as worthy of the Ayrshire Bard. The star of the poet was now promising to be in the ascendant, but an untoward event ensued. In the ardent enthusiasm of his temperament, he was induced to support in verse the cause of the Paisley hand-loom operatives in a dispute with their employers, and to satirise in strong invective a person of irreproachable reputation. For this offence he was prosecuted before the sheriff, who sentenced him to be imprisoned for a few days, and publicly to burn his own poem in the front of the jail. This satire is entitled " The Shark ; or, Long Mills detected." Like many other independents, he mistook anarchy in France for the dawn of liberty in Europe ; and his sentiments becoming known, he was so vigilantly watched by the authorities, that he found it was no longer expedient for him to reside in Scotland. He resolved to emigrate to America ; and, contriving by four months' extra labour, and living on 54 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. a shilling weekly, to earn his passage-money, he sailed from Portpatrick to Belfast, and from thence to Newcastle, in the State of Delaware, where he arrived on the 14th July 1794. During the voyage he had slept on deck, and when he landed, his finances consisted only of a few shillings ; yet, with a cheerful heart, he walked to Philad. phia, a distance of thirty-three miles, with only his fowling-piece on his shoulder. He shot a red-headed woodpecker by the way an omen of his future pursuits, for hitherto he had devoted no attention to the study of ornithology. He was first employed by a copperplate printer in Philadelphia, but quitted this occupation for the loom, at which he worked about a year in Philadelphia, and at Shepherdstown, in Virginia. In 1795, he traversed a large portion of the State of New Jersey as a pedlar, keeping a journal a practice which he had followed during his wandering life in Scotland. He now adopted the profession of a schoolmaster, and was successively employed in this vocation at Frankford, in Pennsylvania, at Miles- town, and at Bloomfield, in New Jersey. In preparing himself for the instruction of others, he essentially extended his own acquaintance with classical learning and mathematical science ; and by occasional employment as a land-surveyor, he some- what improved his finances. In 1801, he accepted the appointment of teacher in a seminary in Kingsessing, on the river Schuylkill, about four miles from Philadelphia a situation which, though attended with limited emolument, proved the first step in his path to eminence. He was within a short distance of the residence of William Bartram, the great American naturalist, with whom he became intimately acquainted : he also formed the friendship of Alexander Lawson, an eminent engraver, who initiated him in the art of etching, colouring, and engraving. Discovering an apti- tude in the accurate delineation of birds, he was led to the study of ornithology ; with which he became so much interested, that he projected a work descriptive, with drawings, of all the birds of the Middle States, and even of the Union. About this period he became a contributor to the " Literary Magazine," conducted by Mr Brockden Brown, and to Denny's " Portfolio." Along with a nephew and another friend, Wilson made a pedestrian tour to the Falls of Niagara, in October 1804, and on his return published in the " Portfolio " a poetical narrative of his journey, entitled " The Foresters" a production surpassing his previous efforts, and containing some sublime apostrophes. But his energies were now chiefly devoted to the accomplishment of the grand design he had contem- plated. Disappointed in obtaining the co-operation of his friend Mr Lawson, who was alarmed at the extent of his projected adventure, and likewise frustrated in obtaining pecuniary assistance from the President Jefferson, on which he had some reason to calculate, he persevered in his attempts, himself drawing, etching, and colouring the requisite illustrations. In 1806, he was employed as assistant-editor of a new edition of Rees' " Cyclopaedia," by Mr Samuel Bradford, bookseller in Phila- delphia, who rewarded his services with a liberal salary, and undertook, at his own risk, the publication of his " Ornithology." The first volume of the work appeared in September 1808, and immediately after its publication the author personally visited, in the course of two different expeditions, the Eastern and Southern States, in quest of subscribers. These journeys were attended with a success scarcely adequate to the privations which were experienced in their prosecution; but. the " Ornithology" otherwise obtained a wide circulation, and, excelling in point of illustration, every production that had yet appeared in America, gained for the author universal commendation. In January 1810, his second volume appeared, and in a month after he proceeded to Pittsburg, and from thence, in a small skiff, made a solitary voyage down the Ohio, a distance of nearly six hunded miles. During this lonely and venturous journey he experienced relaxation in the composi- ALEXANDER WILSON. tion of a poem, which afterwards appeared under the title of " The Pilgrim." In 1813, after encountering numerous hardships and perils, which an enthusiast only could have endured, he completed the publication of the seventh volume of his great work. But the sedulous attention requisite in the preparation of the plates of the eighth volume, and the effect of a severe cold, caught in rashly throwing himself into a river to swim in pursuit of a rare bird, brought on him a fatal dysentery, which carried him off, on the 23d of August 1813, in his forty-eighth year. He was interred in the cemetery of the Swedish church, Southwark, Philadelphia, where a plain marble monument has been erected to his memory. A ninth volume was added to the " Ornithology," by Mr George Ord, an intimate friend of the deceased naturalist ; and three supplementary volumes have been published, in folio, by Charles Lucien Bonaparte, uncle of the present Emperor of the French. Amidst his extraordinary deserts as a naturalist, the merits of Alexander "Wilson as a poet have been somewhat overlooked. His poetry, it may be remarked, though unambitious of ornament, is bold and vigorous in style, and, when devoted to satire, is keen and vehement. The ballad of " "Watty and Meg," though exception may be taken to the moral, is an admirable picture of human nature, and one of the most graphic narratives of the " taming of a shrew" in the language. Allan Cunningham writes : " It has been excelled by none in lively, graphic fidelity of touch : whatever was present to his eye and manifest to his ear, he could paint with a life and a humour which Burns seems alone to excel."* In private life, Wilson was a model of benevolence and of the social virtues : he was devoid of selfishness, active in bene- ficence, and incapable of resentment. Before his departure for America, he waited on every one whom he conceived he had offended by his juvenile escapades, and begged their forgiveness ; and he did not hesitate to reprove Burns for the levity too apparent in some of his poems. To his aged father, who survived till the year 1816, be sent remittances of money as often as he could afford ; and at much inconvenience and pecuniary sacrifice, he established the family of his brother-in-law on a farm in the States. He was sober even to abstinence ; and was guided in all his transactions by correct Christian principles. In person, he was remarkably handsome ; his countenance was intelligent, and his eye sparkling. He never attained riches, but few Scotsmen have left more splendid memorials of their indomitable perseverance, f * The "Songs of Scotland," by Allan Cunningham, vol. i. p. 247. t The most complete collection of his poems appeared in a volume published under the following title: " The Poetical Works of Alexander Wilson; also, his Miscellaneous Prose Writings, Journals, Essays, etc., now first collected: Illustrated by Critical and Explanatory Notes, with an extended Memoir of his Life and Writings, and a Glossary." Belfast, 1844, i8mo. A portrait of the author is prefixed. COXKEL A*?D FLORA. DARK lowers the night o'er the wide stormy main, Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again ; Alas ! morn returns to revisit the shore, But Connel returns to his Flora no more. For see, on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death, O'er Connel's lone cottage, lies low on the heath ; While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore, He lies to return to his Flora no more. Ye light fleeting spirits, that glide o'er the steep, Oh, would ye but waft me across the wild deep ! There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar, I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more. MATILDA. YE dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main, Here shelter me under your cliffs while I weep, And cease while ye hear me complain. 56 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. For distant, alas ! from my dear native shore, And far from each friend now I be ; And wide is the merciless ocean that roars Between my Matilda and me. How blest were the times when together we stray'd, While Phosbe shone silent ahove, Or lean'd by the border of Cartha's green side, And talk'd the whole evening of love ! Around us all nature lay wrapt up in peace, Nor noise could our pleasures annoy, Save Cartha's hoarse brawling, convey'd by the breeze, That soothed us to love and to joy. If haply some youth had his passion express'd, And praised the bright charms of her face, What horrors unceasing revolved through my breast, While, sighing, I stole from the place ! For where is the eye that could view her alone, The ear that could list to her strain, Nor wish the adorable nymph for his own, Nor double the pangs I sustain ! Thou moon, that now brighten'st those regions above, How oft hast thou witness'd my bliss, While breathing my tender expressions of love, I seal'd each kind vow with a kiss ! Ah, then, how I joy'd while I gazed on her charms ! What transports flew swift through my heart ! I press'd the dear, beautiful maid in my arms, Nor dream'd that we ever should part. But now from the dear, from the tenderestmaid, By fortune unfeelingly torn : 'Midst strangers, who wonder to see me so sad, In secret I wander forlorn. And oft, while drear Midnight assembles her shades, And Silence pours sleep from her throne, Pale, lonely, and pensive, I steal through the glades, And sigh, 'midst the darkness, my moan. In vain to the town I retreat for relief, In vain to the groves I complain ; Belles, coxcombs, and uproar, can ne'er soothe my grief, And solitude nurses my pain. Still absent from her whom my bosom loves best, I languish in mis'ry and care ; Her presence could banish each woe from my heart, But her absence, alas ! is despair. Ye dark rugged rocks, that recline o'er the deep; Ye breezes, that sigh o'er the main Oh, shelter me under your cliifs while I weep, And cease while ye hear me complain ! Far distant, alas ! from my dear native shore, And far from each friend now I be ; And wide is the merciless ocean that roars. Between my Matilda and me. AUCHTERTOOL.* From the village of Leslie, with a heart full of glee, And my pack on my shoulders, I rambled out free, Resolved that same evening, as Luna was full, To lodge, ten miles distant, in old Auchtertool. Through many a lone cottage and farm-house I steer'd, Took their money, and off with my budget I sheer'd ; The road I explored out, without form or rule, Still asking the nearest to old Auchtertool. At length I arrived at the edge of the town, As Phoebus, behind a high mountain, went down; The clouds gather'd dreary, and weather blew foul, And I hugg'd myself safe now in old Auchter- tool. An inn I inquired out, a lodging desired, But the landlady's pertness seem'd instantly fired; For she saucy replied, as she sat carding wool, "I ne'er kept sic lodgers in auld Auchtertool. " With scorn I soon left her to live on her pride; But, asking, was told there was none else beside, Except an old weaver, who now kept a school, And these were the whole that were in Auch- tertool. To his mansion I scamper'd, and rapp'd at the door; He oped, hut as soon as I dared to implore, He shut it like thunder, and utter 'd a howl That rung through each corner of old Auchter- tool. Deprived of all shelter, through darkness I trode, Till I came to a ruin'd old house by the road, Here the night I will spend, and, inspired by the owl, My wrath I '11 vent forth upon old Auchtertool. * We have ventured to omit three verses, and to alter slightly the last line of this song. It was originally pub- lished at Paisley, in 1790, to the tune of "One bottle more." Auchtertool is a small hamlet in Fifeshire, about five miles west of the town of Kirkcaldy. The inhabi- tants, whatever may have been their failings at the period when Wilson in vain solicited shelter in the ham- let, are certainly no longer entitled to bear the reproach of lacking in hospitality. The editor rejoices in the opportunity thus afforded of testifying as to the disinterested hospitality and kindness which he has experienced in that neighbourhood. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 67 CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. CAROLINA OLIPHAXT was born in the old mansion of Gask, in the county of Perth, on the 16th of July 1766.* She was the third daughter of Laurence Oliphant of Gask, who had espoused his cousin, Margaret Robertson, a daughter of Duncan Robertson of Strowan and his wife, a daughter of the second Lord Nairne. The Oliphants of Gask were cadets of the formerly noble house of Oliphant ; whose ancestor, Sir William Oliphant of Aberdalgie, a puissant knight, acquired distinction in the beginning of the fourteenth century by defending the Castle of Stirling against a formidable siege by the first Edward. The family of Gask were devoted Jacobites : the father and grandfather of Carolina Oliphant had attended Prince Charles Edward during his disastrous campaign of 1745-6, and, on his account, underwent an exile .of seventeen years. The estate of Gask was bought back from Government in 1753, and in ten years the Oliphants found it safe to return home ; but the father of Carolina did not renounce the Jacobite sentiments of his ancestors. He named the subject of this sketch Carolina, in honour of Prince Charles Edward ; and his pre- vailing topic of conversation was the reiterated expression of his hope that " the king would get his ain." He would not permit the names of the reigning monarch and his queen to be mentioned in his presence ; and when impaired eyesight compelled him to seek the assistance of his family in reading the newspapers, he angrily re- proved the reader if the " German lairdie and his leddy " were designated otherwise than by the initial letters " K. and Q." This extreme Jacobitism at a period when the crime was scarcely to be dreaded, was reported to George III., who sent the Laird his compliments as Elector of Hanover, with a message testifying respect for the steadiness of his principles. In her youth, Carolina Oliphant was singularly beautiful, and was known in her native district by the poetical designation of " The Flower of Strathearn." She was as remarkable for the precocity of her intellect, as she was celebrated for the elegance of her person. Descended by her mother from a family which, in one instance,f at least, had afforded some evidence of poetical talent, and possessed of a correct musical ear, she early composed verses for her favourite melodies. To the development of her native genius, her juvenile condition abundantly contributed : the locality of her birthplace, rich in landscape scenery, and associated with family traditions and legends of chivalric adventure, might have been sufficient to promote, in a mind less fertile than her own, sentiments of poesy. In the application of her talents she was influenced by another incentive. A loose ribaldry tainted the songs and ballads which circulated among the peasantry, and she was convinced that the diffusion of a more wholesome minstrelsy would elevate the moral tone of the community. Thus, while still young, she began to purify the older melodies, and to compose new songs, which: were ultimately destined to occupy an ample share of the national heart. Her brother Laurence entertaining the Gask tenantry at dinner, when called on for a song, gave with much spirit a new version of " The Ploughman," which he said he had received from the writer. It was received with warm approbation, and was speedily set to music. Thus encouraged, the " Flower of Strathearn " proceeded * " Baptized the z8th July 1766, Carolina, daughter of Laurence Oliphant of Gask and Margaret Robert- son. Was born at Gask the i6th July 1766." Baptismal Register of Cask Parish. t Robertson of Strowan, cousin-german of Lady Nairne's mother, and a conspicuous Jacobite chief, com- posed many fugitive verses for the amusement of his friends ; and a collection of them, said to have been sur- reptitiously obtained from a servant, was published without a date, under the following title: "Poems on various Subjects and Occasions, by the Honourable Alexander Robertson of Struan, Esq. mostly taken from his own original Manuscripts." Edinburgh, Svo. 58 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. in her self-imposed task ; and to this early period of her life may be ascribed some of her best lyrics. Carolina Oliphant had many suitors for her hand. She gave a preference to Captain William Murray Nairne, her second cousin, who but for an attainder had been fifth Lord Nairne. The marriage was celebrated on the 2d June 1806. Captain Nairne had obtained the office of Assistant Inspector-General of Barracks in Scotland, with the brevet rank of major. His official duties implied a residence in Edinburgh, and he and his accomplished helpmate began their married life in a villa situated at Wester Duddingston, under the shadow of Arthur's Seat, near the city. The house was named Caroline Cottage. There, in 1808, Mrs Nairne gave birth to her only child, a son, who received liis father's Christian name of William Murray. At Edin- burgh, Major and Mrs Nairne were known only to a select circle of friends, but even these were kept in entire ignorance of Mrs Nairne's poetical inclinations. Even Major Nairne himself was uninformed of his wife's habits of song- writing, and that she had composed the " Land o' the Leal." By an Act of Parliament, which received the royal sanction on the 17th June 1824, Major Nairne was restored to his rank in the peerage, and the subject of this notice became the Baroness Nairne. Lord Nairne did not long survive the acquisition of the family honours : he died on the 9th of July 1830. Subsequent to the death of her husband, Lady Nairne accompanied her son, the sixth Lord Nairne, to a place of residence first at Clifton in Gloucestershire, and afterwards to Ireland. In the autumn of 1834 they proceeded to the Continent with several relatives, and resided in succession at Paris, Florence, Kome, Naples, Geneva, and Baden. During the spring of 1837 Lord Nairne was at Baden seized with influenza, then an epidemic. He gradually became weaker, till the 7th of December, when he died at Brussels. To our authoress, this second bereavement was a heavy affliction. She was deeply attached to her son, and some of her relatives feared that the event of his death would entirely overwhelm her. But after the first burst of grief, she yielded to her loss with a calm resignation, and began to engage even more assiduously than here- tofore in works of Christian philanthropy. From this period to the close of her life, her charities were munificent. The literary history of our authoress commenced about 1792, when she seems to have composed her song of " The Ploughman." " The Laird o' Cockpen" was written about the same period. In 1798 she produced " The Land o' the Leal," in testimony of her affectionate sympathy with an early friend on the death of her first-born. Other compositions from her pen appeared at intervals, and as occasion offered to present them, without a revelation of the writer's name. Some time previous to 1821, she entrusted to a gentlewoman in Edinburgh the secret of her authorship. In that year, Mr Robert Purdie, a musicseller in the capital, resolved to publish a series of the more approved national songs, accompanied by suitable melodies. Several ladies of musical tastes were solicited to render their assistance in the undertaking ; and among others, the gentlewoman who had become the depositary of Lady Nairne's secret. Informed by this friend of Mr Purdie's project, our authoress consented to render every assistance, on her incognita being preserved. The condition was readily acceded to ; and though the publication of " The Scottish Minstrel" extended over three years, and our authoress had several personal interviews and much correspon- dence with the publisher and his editor, Mr Robert Archibald Smith, both these indi- viduals remained ignorant of her real name. She had assumed the signature " B. B." in the " Minstrel," and in her correspondence with Mr Purdie, who appears to have been entertained by the discovery, communicated in confidence, that the name of his contribu- tor was " Mrs Bogan of Bogan ;" and by this designation he subsequently addressed her. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 59 The new collection of minstrelsy, unexceptionable as it was in the words attached to all the airs, commanded a wide circulation, and excited general attention. The original contributions were especially commended, and some of them were forthwith sung by professed vocalists in the principal towns. Much speculation arose respecting the authorship, and various conjectures were supported, each with plausible argu- ments, by the public journalists. In these circumstances, Lady Nairne experienced painful alarm, lest the origin of her songs should be traced. While the publication of the " Minstrel " was proceeding, her confidential correspondent received repeated injunctions to adopt every caution in preserving her incognita ; she was even desirous that her sex might not be made known. " I beg the publisher will make no mention of a lady," she wrote ; " as you observe, the more mystery the better, and still the balance is in favour of the lords of creation. I cannot help, in some degree, under- valuing beforehand what is said to be a feminine production." " The Scottish Minstrel " was completed in 1824, in six royal octavo volumes. In the advertisement to the last volume, Messrs Purdie and Smith wrote as follows : " In particular, the editors would have felt happy in being permitted to enumerate the many original and beautiful verses that adorn their pages, for which they are indebted to the author of the much-admired song, 'The Land o' the Leal;' but they fear to wound a delicacy which shrinks from all observation." Subsequent to the appearance of " The Scottish Minstrel," Lady Nairne did not publish any lyrics; and she was eminently successful in preserving her incognita. Xo critic ventured to identify her as the celebrated " B. B.," and it was only whis- pered among a few that she had composed " The Land o' the Leal." The mention of her name publicly as the authoress of this beautiful ode, on one occasion, much discon- certed her. While she was resident in Paris, in 1842, she wrote to her Edinburgh correspondent : " A Scottish lady here, with whom I never met in Scotland, is so good as, among perfect strangers, to denounce me as the origin of ' The Land o' the Leal ! ' I cannot trace it, but very much dislike as ever any kind of publicity." The extreme diffidence and shrinking modesty of the amiable authoress continued to the close of her life : she never divulged, beyond a small circle of confidential friends, the authorship of a single verse. The songs published in her youth had been given to others ; but, as in the case of Lady Anne Barnard, these assignments caused her no uneasiness. She experienced much gratification in finding her simple minstrelsy supplanting the coarse and demoralising rhymes of a former period : this knowledge she preferred to fame. The philanthropic dispositions of Lady Xairne have already been named : her benevolence extended towards the support of every institution likely to promote the temporal comforts, or advance the spiritual interests of her countrymen. In an address delivered at Edinburgh, on the 29th of December 1845, Dr Chalmers, referring to the exertions which had been made for the supply of religious instruction in the district of the West Port of Edinburgh, made the following remarks regarding Lady Nairne, who was then recently deceased : " Let me speak now as to the counte- nance we have received. I am now at liberty to mention a very noble benefaction which I received about a year ago. Inquiry was made at me by a lady, mentioning that she had a sum at her disposal, and that she wished to apply it to charitable purposes ; and she wanted me to enumerate a list of charitable objects, in proportion to the estimate I had of their value. Accordingly, I furnished her with a scale of about five or six charitable objects. The highest in the scale were those institutions which had for their design the Christianising of the people at home ; and I also mentioned to her, in connection with the Christianising at home, what we were doing at the West Port ; and there came to me from .her, in the course of a day or two, no 60 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. less a sum than 300. She is now dead ; she is now in her grave, and her works do follow her. When she gave me this noble benefaction, she laid me under strict injunctions of secrecy, and, accordingly, I did not mention her name to any person ; but after she was dead, I begged of her nearest heir that I might be allowed to proclaim it, because I thought that her example, so worthy to be followed, might influence others in imitating her ; and I am happy to say that I am now at liberty to state that it was Lady Nairne of Perthshire. It enabled us, at the expense of 330, to purchase sites for schools, and a church ; and we have got a site in the very heart of the locality, with a very considerable extent of ground for a washing-green, a washing-house, and a play-ground for the children, so that we are a good step in advance towards the completion of our parochial economy." After the death of her son, and till within two years of her own death, Lady Nairne resided chiefly on the Continent. Her health had for several years been considerably impaired, and latterly she had recourse to a wheeled chair. In the mansion of Gask, on Sunday, the 26th of October 1845, she gently sunk into her rest, at the advanced age of seventy-nine years. After her ladyship's death, it occurred to her relatives that, as there could no longer be any reason for retaining her incognita, full justice should be done to her memory by the publication of a collected edition of her songs. This scheme was partially executed in an elegant folio, entitled " Lays from Strathearn : by Carolina, Baroness Nairne. Arranged with Symphonies and Accompaniments for the Piano- forte, by Finlay Dun." In 1868, the editor of the present work undertook, chiefly at the solicitation of the excellent gentlewoman to whom Lady Nairne had entrusted the secret of her authorship, to edit the whole of her lyrical compositions, along with a memoir of her life. In the execution of his task, he was privileged to receive the cordial assistance of Lady Nairne's relatives, who, by an examination of the familv correspondence and otherwise, afforded him material assistance in the accomplishment of his object. " The Life and Songs of the Baroness Nairne," published by Messrs Charles Griffin & Co., at once passed into a second edition, and has excited much interest among the lovers of Scottish minstrelsy both at home and abroad. I'M wearin' awa', John, Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, I'm wearin' awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair In the land o" the leaL Our bonnie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And oh ! we grudg'd her sair To the land o' the leal. But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy's a-comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal. THE LAND 0' THE LEAL.* AIR" Hey tutti taiti." Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That siufu' man e'er brought To the land o* the leal. Oh ! dry your glist'ning e'e, John, My saul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal. Oh ! haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearin' thro', John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leaL Now fare ye weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain, In the land o' the leal. * Written in 1798, on occasion of the death of the eldest child of Mr and Mrs Archibald Campbell Colquhoun of Killermont. Mrs Colquhoun nee Mary Ann Erskine, daughter of the Rev. William Erskine, Episcopal clergyman at Muthill, was an early friend and distant relative of the authoress. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 61 CALLER HERRIN'.* AIR BY NEIL GOW. WHA'LL buy my caller herrin' ? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin' ; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth ? "When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dream' d ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they fac'd the billows, A' to fill the woven willows? Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? They're no brought here without brave daring ; Buy my caller herrin', Haul'd thro' wind and rain. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin', Wives and mithers maist despairing, Ca' them lives o' men. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads and screw their faces. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. Caller herrin' s no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie, Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? etc. Neebour wives, now tent my tellin' : When the bonny fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in ye're dealin' Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth ? THE LAIRD 0' COCKPEN. t THE Laird o' Cockpen he's proud and he's great, His mind is ta'en up with the things o' the State ; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek. Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thought she'd look well ; M 'dish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree. * This song was written, by Lady Nairne, for the benefit of Nathaniel Gow, music composer, son of the more celebrated Neil Gow. It was conveyed to the musician by the Edinburgh gentlewoman, to whom the authoress confided her secret. t This humorous and highly popular song was com- posed by Lady Nairne, in place of the older words con- nected with the air, "When she came ben, she bobbit." The older version, which is entitled " Cockpen," is His wig was weel pouther'd, and as gude as new ; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue ; He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat, And wha' could refuse the Laird wi' a' that? He took the grey mare, and rade cannily And rapp'd at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee ; "Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben, She's wanted to speak to the Laird o' Cockpen. " Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine, "And what brings the Laird at sic a like time ?" She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down. And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low, And what was his errand he soon let her know ; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said "Na;" And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'. Dumfounder'd he was, nae sigh did he gi'e ; He mounted his mare he rade cannily ; And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. And now that the Laird his exit had made, Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said; "Oh ! for ane I'll get better, it'swaur I'll get ten, I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen. " Next time thatthe Laird andthe Lady were seen, They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green; Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen, But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen. exceptional on the score of refinement, but was formerly sung on account of the air. It is believed to be a composition of the reign of Charles II. ; and the hero of the piece, " the Laird of Cockpen," is said to have been the companion in arms and attached friend of his sovereign. Of this personage an anecdote is preserved. Having been engaged with his countrymen at the battle of Worcester, in the cause of Charles, he accompanied the monarch to Holland, and, forming one of the little court at the Hague, amused his royal master by his skill in music. In playing the tune, " Brose and Butter," he particularly excelled. It became the favourite of the exiled monarch, Cockpen lulling the king to sleep at night, and awakening him in the morning by this en- chanting air. At the Restoration he found that his estate had been confiscated for his attachment to the royal cause, and had the mortification to discover that he had suffered on behalf of an ungrateful prince, who gave no response to his many entreaties for the restora- tion of his possessions. Visiting London, he was denied an audience ; but he entertained a hope that, by a per- sonal conference with the king, he might yet attain his object. To accomplish this design, he had recourse to the following artifice : He formed acquaintance with the organist of the chapel-royal, and obtained permission to officiate as his substitute when the king came to service. He did so with becoming propriety till the close of the service, when, instead of the solemn departing air, he struck up " Brose and Butter." The scheme succeeded in the manner intended. The king proceeding hastily to the organ gallery, discovered Cockpen, whom he saluted familiarly, declaring that he had " almost made him dance." "I could dance too," said Cockpen, "if 1 had my lands again." The request, to which every entreaty could not gain a response, was yielded to the power of music. Cockpen was restored to his inherit- ance. The modern ballad has been often attributed to Miss Ferrier the accomplished author of " Marriage," and other popular novels. She only contributed the last two stanzas. 62 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE LASS 0' GOWRIE.* AIR " Loch Erroch Side." 'T WAS on a summer's afternoon, A wee afore the sun gaed down, A lassie, wi' a braw new gown, Cam' ower the hills to Gowrie. The rose-bud, wash'd in summer's shower, Bloom'd fresh within the sunny bower ; But Kitty was the fairest flower That e'er was seen in Gowrie. To see her cousin she cam' there, An', oh, the scene was passing fair ! For what in Scotland can compare Wi' the Carse o' Gowrie? The sun was setting on the Tay, The blue hills melting into grey ; The mavis' and the blackbird's lay Were sweetly heard in Gowrie. Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd ! An' truth and constancy had vow'd, But cam' nae speed wi' her 1 lo'ed, Until she saw fair Gowrie. I pointed to my faither's ha', Yon bonnie bield ayont the shaw, Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw ; Wad she no bide in Gowrie? Her faither was baith glad and wae ; Her mither she wad naething say ; The bairnies thocht they wad get play If Kitty gaed to Gowrie. She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet, The blush and tear were on her cheek ; She naething said, an' hung her head ; But now she's Leddy Gowrie. HUNTINGTOWER.t " WHEN ye gang awa', Jamie, When ye gang awa', laddie, What will ye gi'e my heart to cheer, When ye are far awa', Jamie?" * There are three other versions of this song. One of these, the composition of William Reid, has been presented. See ante, p. 48. A second, by an unknown author, is, in the two first verses, nearly the same with the opening stanzas of Lady Nairne's version. In his "Ancient Ballads and Songs" (Lond. 1827, izrno, p. 138), Dr Thomas Lyle presents a third version, which, he states, had been revised by him from an old stall copy, ascribed to Colonel James Ramsay of Stirling Castle. It begins : A wee bit north frae yon green wood, Whar draps the sunny showerie, The lofty elm-trees spread their boughs, To shade the braes o' Gowrie. t The original set of " Huntingtower," commencing, " When ye gang awa', Jamie, Far across the sea, laddie, When ye gang to Germanic, What will ye send to me, laddie," has long been a favourite. With no sacrifice of the original simplicity, Lady Nairne has improved the moral of the composition. In her version, Jeanie is less demonstrative in affection. Instead of pleading with her lover for his hand, she resolves to consult her parents before accepting his proposal. Jamie, too, avoids practising that deception, which, though short- lived, is a prominent defect in the older ballad. " I '11 gi'e ye a braw new gown, Jeanie, I '11 gi e ye a braw new gown, lassie, An' it will be a silken ane, Wi' Valenciennes trimm'd round, Jeanie." "0, that's nae luve at a', laddie, That's nae luve, at a', Jamie, How could I bear braw gowns to wear, When ye are far awa', laddie. " But mind me when awa', Jamie, Mind me when awa', laddie, For out o' sicht is out o' mind Wi' niony folk we ken, Jamie." ' ' Oh, that can never be, Jeanie, Forgot ye ne'er can be, lassie ; Oh, gang wi' me to the north countrie, My bonnie bride to be, Jeanie. ' ' The hills are grand and hie, Jeanie, The burnies runnin' clear, lassie, 'Mang birks and braes, where wild deer strays, Oh, come wi' me, and see, lassie." " I winna gang wi' thee, laddie, I tell'd ye sae afore, Jamie ; Till free consent my parents gi'e. I caiina gang wi' thee, Jamie." " But when ye're wed to me, Jeanie, . Then they will forgi'e, lassie ; How can ye be sae cauld to me, Wha's lo'ed ye Aveel and lang, lassie. " " No sae lang as them, laddie, No sae lang as them, Jamie ; A grief to them I wadna be, No for the Duke himsel', Jamie. " We'll save our penny fee, laddie, To keep frae poortith free, Jamie ; An' then their blessing they will gi'e Baith to you and me, Jamie." " Huntingtower is mine, lassie, Huntingtower is mine, Jeanie ; Huntingtower an' Blairnagower, An' a' that's mine is thine, Jeanie ! " WHA'LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE.* THE news frae Moidart cam' yestreen, AY ill soon gar mony ferlie, For ships o' war liae just come in, And landed Royal Charlie. Come thro' the heather, around him gather, Ye'r a' the welcomer early ; Around him cling wi' a' your kin, For wha'll be king but Charlie? Come thro' the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegether, And crown your rightfu', lawfu', king ! For wha'll be king but Charlie? * The air of this song forms No. 136 of Captain Simon Eraser's "Airs and Melodies peculiar to the Highlands." Edin., 1816. Prince Charles Edward landed on the 25th July 1745, at Lochnanuagh, an arm of the sea, dividing the districts of Moidart and Arisaig. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 63 The Highland clans wi' sword in hand, Frae John o' Groat's to Airlie, Hae to a man declared to stand Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie. Come thro' the heather, etc. The Lowlands a', baith great an' sma', Wi' mony a lord and laird, hae Declar'd for Scotia's king an' law, An' speir ye wha but Charlie ? Come thro' the heather, etc. There's ne'er a lass in a' the Ian', But vows baith late an' early, She '11 ne'er to man gi'e heart nor han', Wha wadna fecht for Charlie. Come thro' the heather, etc. Then here's a health to Charlie's cause, And be't complete an' early ; His very name our heart's blood warms To arms for Royal Charlie ! Come thro' the heather, around Mm gather, Ye'r a' the welcomer early ; Around him cling wi' a' your kin, For wha '11 be king but Charlie ? Come thro' the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' thegether, And crown your rightfu', lawfu' king ! For wha 'II be king but Charlie? CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.* 'T WAS on a Monday morning Right early in the year, When Charlie cam' to our toun, The young Chevalier. Oh ! Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, Oh ! Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier. As he cam' marching up the street, The pipes play'd loud and clear, And a' the folk cam' running out, To meet the Chevalier. Oh ! Charlie is my darling, etc. \YT Hieland bonnets on their heads, And claymores bright and clear, They cam' to fight for Scotland's right And the young Chevalier. Oh ! Charlie is my darling, etc. They've left their bonnie Hieland hills, Their wives and bairnies dear, To draw the sword for Scotland's lord, The young Chevalier. Oh ! Charlie is my darling, etc. * A version of this song, written to an older air, was communicated by Burns to "Johnson's Musical Museum" (voL iv., p. 440). The Ettrick Shepherd composed another set of verses. (See pas tea. ) A third version was composed by Captain Charles Gray. (See postea.) Oh ! there were many beating hearts, And many a hope and fear, And many were the prayers put up For the young Chevalier. Oh ! Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling, Oh ! Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier. HE'S OWER THE HILLS THAT I LO'E WEEL. He's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, He's ower the hills we daurna name ; He's ower the hills ayont Dunblane, Wha soon will get his welcome harne. My father's gane to fight for him, My brithers winna bide at hame ; My mither greets and prays for them, And ' deed she thinks they're no to blame. He's ower the hills, etc. The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer ; But, ah ! that love maun be sincere Which still keeps true whate'er betide, An' for his sake leaves a* beside. He's ower the hills, etc. His right these hills, his right these plains ; Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns ; What lads e'er did our laddies will do ; Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too. He's ower the hills, etc. Sae noble a look, eae princely an air, Sae gallant and bold, sae young and sae fair ; Oh, did ye but see him, ye'd do as we've done ! Hear him but ance, to his standard you'll run. He's ower the hills, etc. Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight ; For your country, religion, and a' that is right ; Were ten thousand lives now given to me, I'd die as aft for ane o' the three. He 's ower the hills, etc. THE HUNDRED PIPERS.* AIR " Hundred Pipers." Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', We'll up, and we'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw, Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. * On receiving the submission of the civic authorities, and the surrender of the castle, Prince Charles Edward entered Carlisle on Monday the i8th November 1745, preceded by one hundred pipers. So far the poetess has sung truly. But she is historically at fault with reference to the " two thousand." So many High- landers of the Chevalier's army did indeed wade across the Esk, but it was in flight, not in triumph. They waded the Esk on their return to Scotland from an expedition which boded disaster. Probably Lady Nairne's father witnessed the scene. 64 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. It is ower the border, awa', awa', It is ower the border, awa', awa', Oh, we'll on, an' we'll march to Carlisle Ha', Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'. Oh, our brave sodger lads look'd braw, an' braw, Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a', Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glitterin' gear, An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear. Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen ? Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men ? Oh, second-sichted Sandie look'd fu' wae, An' mithers grat sair whan they march'd away. Wi' a hundred pipers, etc. Oh, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a' ? Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw ? Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a', Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', His bannet and feather, he's waving high, His prancin' steed maist seems to fly ; The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair, While the pipers blaw up an unco flare ! Wi' his hundred pipers, etc. The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep, But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep ; Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground. An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound. Dumfounder'd the English were a', were a', Dumfounder'd they a' heard the blaw, the blaw, Dumfounder'd they a' ran awa', awa', Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. Wi' a hundred pipers, etc. THERE GROWS A BONNIE BRIER BUSH.* THERE grows a bonnie brier bush in our kail- yard, And white are the blossoms o't in our kail -yard, Like wee bit white cockauds to deck our Hie- land lads, And the lasses lo'e the bonnie bush in our kail- yard. An' it's hame, an' it's hame to the north countrie, An' it's hame, an' it's hame to the north countrie, Where my bonnie Jean is waiting for me, Wi' a heart kind and true, in my ain countrie. " But were they a' true that were far awa' ? Oh ! were they a* true that were far awa' ? They drew up wi' glaikit Englishers at Carlisle Ha', And forgot auld frien's that were far awa'. " Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, where aft ye've been, Ye'll come nae mair, Jamie, to Atholl's green ; Ye lo'ed ower weel the dancin' at Carlisle Ha', And forgot the Hieland hills that were far awa'." * The present is an amended version of an old song, entitled "The Bonnie Brier Bush," altered and added to by Burns for the "Musical Museum " " I ne'er lo'ed a dance but on Atholl's green, I ne'er lo'ed a lassie but my dorty Jean, Sair, sair against my will did I bide sae lang awa', And my heart was aye in Atholl's green at Carlisle Ha'." The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail- yard ; The brier bush was bonnie ance in our kail- yard ; A blast blew ower the hill, that gae Atholl's flowers a chill, And the bloom's blawn aff the bonnie bush in our kailyard. BONNIE Charlie's now awa', Safely ower the friendly main ; Mony a heart will break in twa Should he ne'er come back again? Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no come back again ? Better lo'ed ye canna be Will ye no come back again ? Ye trusted in your Hieland men, They trusted you, dear Charlie ! They kent your hiding in the glen, Death or exile braving. Will ye no, etc. English bribes were a' in vain, Tho' puir, and puirer, we maun be ; Siller canna buy the heart That beats aye for thine and thee. Will ye no, etc. We watch'd thee in the gloamin' hour, We watch'd thee in the mornin' grey ; Though thirty thousand pound they gi'e, Oh, there is none that wad betray ! Will ye no, etc. Sweet's the laverock's note, and lang, Lilting wildly \ip the glen ; But aye to me he sings ae sang, Will ye no come back again ? Will ye no, etc. JAMIE THE LAIRD. Am" The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow." SEND a horse to the water, ye'll no mak' him drink, Send a fule to the college, ye'll no mak' him think ; Send a craw to the singin', and still he will craw, An' the wee laird had nae rummulgumshion ava*. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 65 Yet is lie the pride o' his fond mother's e'e, In body or mind, nae fau't can she see ; " He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang. An' oh ! she's a haverin" lucky, I trow, An' oh ! she's a haverin' lucky I trow ; "He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an' end o' her sang. His legs they are bow'd, his e'en they do glee, His wig, whiles it's aff, and when on, it's ajee ; He's braid as he's lang, an' ill-faur'd is he, A dafter-like body I never did see. An' yet for this cratur' she says I am deein', When that 1 deny, she's fear'd at my leein' ; Obliged to put up wi' this sair defamation, I'm liken to dee wi' grief an' vexation. An' oh ! she's a haverin' lucky, etc. An' her clishmaclavers gang a' through the toun, An' the wee lairdie trows I'll hang or I'll droun. Wi' his gawky-like face, yestreen he did say, " I'll maybe tak' you, for Bess I'll no hae, Xor Mattie, nor Effie, nor lang-legged Jeanie, Nor Nelly, nor Katie, nor skirfin' wee Beenie." I stappit my ears, ran aff in a fury I'm thinkin' to bring them afore judge an' jury. For oh ! what a randy auld luckie is she, etc. Freen's ! gi'e your advice ! I'll follow your counsel Maun I speak to the Provost or honest Toun Council, Or the writers, or lawyers, or doctors ? now say, For the law on the lucky I shall an' will hae. The hale town at me are jibin' and jeerin', For a leddy like me it's really past bearin' ; Thelucky maun nowha'e dune wi' her claverin', For I'll no put up wi' her nor her haverin'. For oh ! she's a randy, I trow, I trow, For oh ! she's a randy, I trow, I trow ; ' ' He's a fell clever lad, an' a bonny wee man," Is aye the beginnin' an" end o' her sang. JOHN TOD.' HE'S a terrible man, John Tod, John Tod, He's a terrible man, John Tod; He scolds in the house, He scolds at the door, He scolds on the vera hie road, John Tod, He scolds on the vera hie road. The weans a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The weans a' fear John Tod ; When he's passing by, The mithers will cry, Here's an ill wean, John Tod, John Tod, Here's an ill wean, John Tod. * As far as we can discover, the hero of this song was the Rev. John Tod, minister of Ladykirk, Berwickshire. Of eccentric manners, Mr Tod was, nevertheless, a man of worth and of excellent dispositions. The callants a' fear John Tod, John Tod, The callants a' fear John Tod ; If they steal but a neep, The callant he'll whip, And it 's unco weel done o' John Tod. An' saw ye nae wee John Tod, John Tod? Oh, saw ye nae wee John Tod? His bannet was blue, His shoon maistly new, An' weel does he keep the kirk road, John Tod, Oh," weel does he keep the kirk road. How is he fendin', John Tod, John Tod? How is ho wendin', John Tod? He 's scourin' the land, Wi' his rung in his hand, An* the French wadna frighten John Tod, John An* the French wadna frighten John Tod. Ye 're sun-brunt and batter 'd, John Tod, John Tod, Ye 're tautit and tatter 'd, John Tod ; Wi' your auld srrippit coul, Ye look rnaist like a Me, But there's nouse i' the lining,* John Tod, John Tod, But there's nouse i' the lining, John Tod. He's weel respeckit, John Tod, John Tod, He's weel respeckit, John Tod; He's a terrible man, But we 'd a' gae wrang If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod, John Tod, If e'er he sud leave us, John Tod. THE FIFE LAIRD. AIR" The Fife Hunt." YE should na' ca' the Laird daft, tho' daft-like he may be ; Ye should na' ca' the Laird daft, he's just as wise as me ; Ye should na' ca' the Laird daft, his bannet has a bee, He's just a wee bit Fifish, like some Fife Lairds that be. Last Lammas when the Laird set out, to see Auld Reekie's toun, The Firth it had nae waves at a', the waves were sleepin' soun' ; But wicked witches bide about gude anld St Andrews toun, And they steer'd up an unco' blast, our ain dear Laird to droun. Afore he got to Inchkeith Isle, the waves were white an' hie " weel I ken thae witches wud hae aye a spite at me ! " They drove him up, they drove him doun, the Fife touns a' they pass, And up and round Queensferry toun, then doun unto the Bass. * A familiar Scottish phrase for good sense. 66 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The sailors row, but row in vain, Leith port they canna gain Nae meat nor beds they hae on board, but there they maun remain ; mirk and cauld the midnight hour, how thankfu' did they see The first blush o' the dawnin' day, fair spreadin' ower the sea. Ye should na' ca' the Laird daft, etc. "Gae hame, gae hame," the Laird cried out, "as fast as ye can gang. Oh, ! rather than wi' witches meet, I'd meet an ournatang, A' nicht and day I've been away, an' naething could I see, But auld wives' cantrips on broomsticks, wild cap'ring ower the sea. 1 ha'e na' had a mouth o' meat, nor yet had aff my claes Afore I gang to sea again, some folk maun mend their ways;" The Laird is hame wi' a' his ain, below the Lomond hill, Richt glad to see his sheep again, his dookit and his mill! Ye shouldna' ca' the Laird daft, tho' daft-like he may be ; Ye should na' ca' the Laird daft, he's just as wise as me ; Ye should na' ca' the Laird daft, his bannet has a bee, He's just a wee bit Fifish, like some Fife Lairds that be. MY AIN KIND DEAEIE, 0!* WILL ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, ? Will ye gang ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, 0? Gin ye '11 tak' heart, and gang wi' me, Mishap will never steer ye, ; Gude luck lies ower the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, ! There's walth ower yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, ! There's walth ower yon green lea-rig, My ain kind dearie ! Its neither land, nor gowd, nor braws Let them gang tapsle teerie, ! It's walth o' peace, o' love, and truth, My ain kind dearie, 1 JOY OF MY EARLIEST DAYS. AIR" 7 '// never leave tJiee." JOY of my earliest days, Why must I grieve thee T Theme of my fondest lays, Oh, I maun leave thee ! Leave thee, love! leave thee, love! How shall I leave thee? Absence thy truth will prove, For, oh ! I maun leave thee ! When on yon mossy stane, Wild weeds o'ergrowin', Ye sit at e'en your lane, And hear the burn rowin' ; Oh ! think on this partin' hour, Down by the Garry, And to Him that has a' the pow'r, Commend me, my Mary ! OH, WEEL'S ME ON MY AIN MAN. AIR "Landlady count the laiuiri." OH, weel's me on my ain man, My ain man, my ain man ! Oh, weel's me on my ain gudeman ! He'll aye be welcome hame. I 'm wae I blamed him yesternight, For now my heart is feather light ; For gowd I wadna gi'e the sight ; I see him linking ower the height. Oh, weel's me on my ain man, etc. Rin, Jamie, bring the kebbuck ben, And fin' aneath the speckled hen ; Meg, rise and sweep about the fire, Syne cry on Johnnie frae the byre. For weel's me on my ain man, My ain man, my ain man ! For weel's me on my ain gudeman ! I see him linkin' hame. KIND ROBIN LOE'S ME.* ROBIN is my ain gudeman, Now match him, carlins, gin ye can, For ilk ane whitest thinks her swan, But kind Robin lo'es me. To mak' my boast I '11 e'en be bauld, For Robin lo'ed me young and auld, In summer's heat and winter's cauld, My kind Robin lo'es me. Robin he comes hame at e'en Wi' pleasure glancin' in his e'en ; He tells me a' he's heard and seen, And syne how he lo'es me. There 's some hae land, and some hae gowd, Mair wad hae them gin they could, But a* I wish o' warld's gude, Is Robin still to lo'e me. * These stanzas were composed by Lady Nairne in commendation of her husband, to whom she was devotedly attached. They form a continuation to the wooing song of the same name, beginning, " Robin is my only jo, which first appeared in Herd's Collection in 1776. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 67 SAW YE NAE MY PEGGY?* SAW ye nae my Peggy ? Saw ye nae my Peggy? Saw ye nae my Peggy comin' Through Tillibelton's broom ? I'm frae Aberdagie, Ower the crafts o' Craigie, For aught I ken o' Peggy, She's ayont the moon. 'Twos but at the dawnin', Clear the cock was crawin', I saw Peggy cawin' Hawky by the brier. Early bells were ringin", Blythest birds were singin', Sweetest flowers were springin', A' her heart to cheer. Now the tempest's blawin', Almond "Water's flowin', Deep and ford unknowin', She maun cross the day. Almond waters, spare her, Safe to Lynedoch bear her ! Its braes ne'er saw a fairer, Bess Bell nor Mary Gray. Oh, now to be wi' her! Or but ance to see her Skaithless, far or near, I'd gi'e Scotland's crown. Byeword, blind's a lover Wha's yon I discover! Just yer ain fair rover, Stately stappin' down. SONGS OF MY NATIVE LAND. AIR "Happy Land." SONGS of my native land, To me how dear ! Songs of my infancy, Sweet to mine ear ! Entwined with my youthful days, Wi' the bonny banks and braes, Where the winding burnie strays Murmuring near. Strains of my native land, That thrill the soul, Pouring the magic of Your soft control ! Often has your minstrelsy Soothed the pang of misery, Winging rapid thoughts away To realms on high. * A song with the same title, ' ' Saw ye nae my Peggy ? " appeared in Herd's Collection, in 1769, though it is under- stood to be of a considerably older date. Allan Ramsay composed two songs to the same air, but they are both inferior. The air is believed to have originally been con- nected with some exceptionable words, beginning, "Saw ye my Maggie T" Weary pilgrims there have rest, Their wand'rings o'er ; There the slave, no more oppress'd, Hails Freedom's shore. Sin shall then no more deface, Sickness, pain, and sorrow cease, Ending in eternal peace, And songs of joy! There, when the seraphs sing, In cloudless day ; There, where the higher praise The ransom'd pay. Soft strains of the happy land, Chanted by the heavenly band, Who can fully understand How sweet ye be ! THE TWA DOOS. THEEE were twa doos sat in a dookit, Twa wise-like birds, and round they luiket; An' says the ane unto the ither, What do ye see, my gude blither ? I see some pickles o' gude strae, An' wheat, some fule has thrown away ; For a rainy day they should be boukit, Sae down they flew frae aff their dookit. The snaw will come an' cour the grund, Nae grains o' wheat will then be fund ; They pickt a' up, an' a' were boukit, Then round an' round, again they luiket. lang he thocht, an' lang he luiket ; An' aye his wise-like head, he shook it ; 1 see, I see, what ne'er should be, I see what's seen by mair than me. Wae's me, there's thochtless, lang Tarn Grey, Aye spending what he's no to pay ; In wedlock, to a taupie, hookit, He's taen a doo, but has nae dookit. When we were young it was na sae ; Nae rummulgumshion folk now ha'e ; What gude for them can e'er be luiket, When folk tak' doos that ha'e nae dookit. THE MITHEKLESS LAMMIE. THE mitherless lammie ne'er miss'd its ain mammie, We tentit it kindly by night and by day, The bairnies made game o't, it had a blythe hame o't, Its food was the gowan its music was "mai." Without tie or fetter, it couldna been better, But it would gae witless the world to see ; The foe that it fear'd not, it saw not, it heard not, Was watching its wand'ring frae Bonnington Lea. 68 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Oh, what then befell it, 't were waefu' to tell it, Tod Lowrie kens best, wi' his lang head sae sly; He met the pet lammie, that wanted its mammie. And left its kind hame the wide world to try. We miss'd it at day-dawn, we miss'd it at night-fa'in', Its wee shed is tenantless under the tree, Ae dusk i' the gloamin' it wad gae a roamin' ; ' T will frolic nae mair upon Bonnington Lea. Her weddin' plenishin' was gane, She never thocht to borrow ; Her bonnie face was waxin' wan And Will wrought a' the sorrow. He's reelin' hame ae winter's nicht, Some later than the gloamin' ; He's ta'en the rig, he's miss'd the brig, And Bogie's ower him foamin'. Wi' broken banes, out ower the stanes, He creepit up Strabogie ; And a' the nicht he pray'd wi' micht, To keep him frae the cogie. Now Mary's heart is ligkt again She's neither sick nor silly ; For auld or young, nae sinfu" tongue, Could e'er entice her Willie ; And aye the sang through Bogie rang " haud ye frae the cogie ; The weary gill's the sairest ill On braes o' fair Strabogie. " SAW YE NE'ER A LANELY LASSIE ? Alft " Will ye go and marry, Katie f" Saw ye ne'er a lanely lassie, Thinkin' gin she were a wife, The sun o' joy wad ne'er gae down, But warm and cheer her a' her life ? Saw ye ne'er a wearie wine, Thinkin' gin' she were a lass, She wad aye be blythe and cheerie, Lightly as the day wad pass? Wives and lasses, young and aged, Think nae on each ither's state ; Ilka ane it has its crosses, Mortal joy was ne'er complete. Ilka ane it has its blessings, Peevish dinna pass them by, But like choicest berries seek them, Tho* amang the thorns they lie. CASTELL GLOOM.* OH, Castell Gloom ! thy strength is gone, The green grass o'er thee growin' ; On hill of Care thou art alone, The Sorrow round thee flowin'. Oh, Castell Gloom ! on thy fair wa's Nae banners now are streamin', The houlet flits amang thy ha's, And wild birds there are screamin'. Oh ! mourn the woe, oh ! mourn the crime, Frae civil war that flows ; Oh ! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, And mourn the great Montrose. Here ladies bright were aften seen, Here valiant warriors trod ; And here great Knox has aften been, Wha fear'd nought but his God ! But a' are gane ! the gude, the great, And naething now remains, But ruin sittin' on thy wa's, And crumblin' down the stanes. Oh ! mourn the woe, etc. Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow, Though sleepin' was the sun ; But mornin's light did sadly show, What ragin' flames had done. CAULD KAIL IN ABERDEEN.* THERE'S cauld kail in Aberdeen, There's castocks in Strabogie ; And morn and e'en, they're blythe and bein, That haud them frae the cogie. Now, haud ye frae the cogie, lads ; bide ye frae the cogie ! I'll tell ye true, ye'll never rue, 0' passin' by the cogie. Young Will was braw and weel put on, Sae blythe was he and vogie ; And lie got bonnie Mary Don, The flower o' a' Strabogie. Wha wad hae thocht, at wooin' time, He'd e'er forsaken Mary, And ta'en him to the tipplin' trade, Wi' boozin Rob and Harry? Sair Mary wrought, sair Mary grat, She scarce could lift the ladle ; Wi' pithless feet, 'tween ilka greet, She'd rock the borrow'd cradle. * Castle Gloom, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burned by the Marquis of Mon- trose. The castle is situated on a promontory of the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannan- shire, and has long been in the ruinous condition des- cribed in the song. Two hill rivulets, designated Sorrow and Care, flow on each side of the castle promontory. John Knox, the Reformer, for some time resided in Castle Gloom, with Archibald, fourth Earl of Argyll, and here preached the Reformed doctrines. * This is the fourth version adapted to the air, " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen." See article, "Alexander, Duke of Gordon," p. 14. CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. 69 Oh, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud, That hung o'er thy wild wood ! Thou wert like beauty in a shroud, And all was solitude. Oh! mourn the woe, oh! mourn the crime, Frae civil war that flows ; Oh ! mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line, And mourn the great Montrose. THE AULD HOUSE.* Oh, the auld house, the auld house ! What though the rooms were wee ? Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, And bairnies fu' o' glee ! The wild-rose and the jesamine Still hang upon the wa' ; How mony cherish'd memories Do they, sweet flowers, reca' ! Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird ! Sae cauty, kind, and crouse ; How mony did he welcome to His ain wee dear auld house ! And the leddy too, sae genty, There shelter'd Scotland's heir, And clipt a lock wi' her ain hand Frae his lang yellow hair The mavis still doth sweetly sing, The blue bells sweetly blaw, The bonnie Earn's clear winding still, But the auld house is awa'. The auld house, the auld house, Deserted though ye be, There ne'er can be a new house, AY ill seem sae fair to me. Still flourishing the auld pear tree The bairnies liked to see, And oh, how often did they speir When ripe they a' wad be ! The voices sweet, the wee bit feet Aye rinnin' here and there, The merry shout Oh ! whiles we greet To think we'll hear nae mair. For they are a' wide scatter'd now, Some to the Indies gane, And ane, alas ! to her lang hame ; Not here we'll meet again. The kirkyaird, the kirkyaird, Wi' flowers o' every hue, Shelter'd by the holly's shade, An' the dark sombre yew. The setting sun, the setting sun, How glorious it gaed down ; The cloudy splendour raised our hearts To cloudless skies aboon ! * The old mansion of Cask, celebrated in this song, was removed on the erection of the present commodious structure early in the century. The lock of Prince Charles Edward's hair referred to in the song is still preserved in the family. It was, however, not " clipt" by the "leddy," but by John Stewart, the Prince's ser- vant The auld dial, the auld dial, It tauld how time did pass ; The wintry winds ha'e dung it down, Now hid 'mang weeds and grass. FAREWEEL, EDINBURGH. AIR " Fareweel Edinburgh" FAREWEEL, Edinburgh, where happy we hae been, Fareweel, Edinburgh, Caledonia's Queen ! Auld Reekie, fare-ye-weel, and Reekie New beside, Ye're like a chieftain grim and grey, wi' a young bonnie bride. Fareweel, Edinburgh, and your trusty volun- teers, Your Council, a' sae circumspect, your Provost without peers, Your stately College stuff d wi' lear, your rantin' High-Schule yard ; The jib, the lick, the roguish trick, the ghaists o' auld toun-guard. Fareweel, Edinburgh, your philosophic men ; Your scribes that set you a' to richts, and wield the golden pen ; The Session-court, your tlirang resort, bigwigs and lang gowns a' ; And if ye dinna keep the peace, it's no for want o' law. Fareweel, Edinburgh, and a' your glittering wealth ; Your Bernard's Well, your Calton HilL where every breeze is health ; An' spite o' a' your fresh sea-gales should ony chance to dee, It's no for want o' recipe, the doctor, or the fee. Fareweel, Edinburgh, your hospitals and ha's, The rich man's friend, the Cross lang ken'd, auld Ports, and city wa's ; The Kirks that grace their honoured place, now peacet'u' as they stand, AYhere'er they're found, on Scottish ground, the bulwarks of the land. Fareweel, Edinburgh, your sons o' genius fine, That send your name on wings o' fame beyond the burnin' line ; A name that's stood maist since the flood, and just when it's forgot, Your bard will be forgotten too, your ain Sri- Walter Scott. Fareweel, Edinburgh, and a' your daughters fair; Your Palace in the shelter'd glen, your Castle in the air ; Your rocky brows, your grassy knowes, and eke your mountain bauld ; Were I to tell your beauties a', my tale would ne'er be tauld ; Now, fareweel, Edinburgh, where happy we ha'e been; Fareweel, Edinburgh, Caledonia's Queen! Prosperity to Edinburgh wi' every risin' sun, And blessin's be on Edinburgh till time his race has run ! 70 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES. OH, some will tune their mournfu' strains, To tell o' hame-made sorrow, And if they cheat you o' your tears, They'll dry upon the morrow. Oh, some will sing their airy dreams, In verity they're sportin', My sang's o' nae sic thewless themes, But wakin' true misfortune. Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a', For loyalty attainted, A nameless bardie's wae to see Your sorrows unlamented ; For if your fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, Ye're down the day that might ha'e been At the top o' honour's tree a*. For old hereditary right, For conscience' sake they stoutly stood ; And for the crown their valiant sons Themselves have shed their injured blood ; And if their fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, They're down the day that might ha'e been At the top o' honour's tree a'. WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?' AIR " Ailen Aroon." WOULD yon be young again ? So would not I One tear to memory given, Onward I'd hie. Life's dark flood forded o'er, All but at rest on shore, Say, would you plunge once more, With home so nigh ? If you might, would you now Retrace your way ? "Wander through stormy wilds, Faint and astray? Night's gloomy watches fled, Morning all beaming red, Hope's smiles around us shed, Heavenward away. Where, then, are those dear ones, Our joy and delight? Dear and more dear though now Hidden from sight. Where they rejoice to be, There is the land for me ; Fly, time, fly speedily ; Come, life and light. * This song was composed in 1842, when the authoress had attained her seventy-sixth year. GUDE NICHT, AND JOY BE WI' YE A'! < The best o' joys maun ha'e an end, The best o' friends maun part, I trow ; The langest day will wear away, And I maun bid fareweel to you. The tear will tell when hearts are fu', For words, gin they ha'e sense ava', They're broken, faltering, and few : Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a' ! Oh, we ha'e wander'd far and wide, O'er Scotia's lands o' frith and fell ! And mony a simple flower we 've pu'd, And twined it wi' the heather-bell. We've ranged the dingle and the dell, The cot-house, and the baron's ha' ; Now we maun tak' a last farewell : Gude nicht, and joy be wi' you a' ! My harp, fareweel ! thy strains are past, Of gleefu' mirth, and heartfelt care ; The voice of song maun cease at last, And minstrelsy itsel' decay. But, oh ! where sorrow canna win, Nor parting tears are shed ava', May we meet neighbour, kith, and kin, And joy for aye be wi' us a' ! REST IS NOT HERE. WHAT'S this vain world to me ? Rest is not here ; False are the smiles I see, The mirth I hear. Where is youth's joyful glee ? Where all once dear to me? Gone, as the shadows flee Rest is not here. Why did the morning shine Blythely and fair? Why did those tints so fine Vanish in air? Does not the vision say, Faint, lingering heart, away, Why in this desert stay Dark land of care ! Where souls angelic soar, Thither repair ; Let this vain world no more Lull and ensnare. That heaven I love so well Still in my heart shall dwell ; All things around me tell Rest is found there. * Sir Alexander Boswell composed a version of this song. Scejostea. There are other sets, all founded on an old fragment, called "Armstrong's Goodnight." JAMES NICOL. 71 HERE'S TO THEM THAT ARE GANE. AIR "Here's a health to atie I lo'e weel." HERE'S to them, to them that are gane ; Here "s to them, to them that are gane ; ' Here's to them that were here, the faithful and dear, That will never be here again no, never. But where are they now that are gane ? Oh, where are the faithful and true? They're gane to the light that fears not the night, An' their day of rejoicing shall end no, never. Here's to them, to them that were here ; Here's to them, to them that were here ; Here's a tear and a sigh to the bliss that's gane by, But 'twas ne'er like what's coming, to last for ever. Oh, bright was their moruing sun ! Oh, bright was their morning sun ! Yet, lang ere the gloaming, in clouds it gaed down ; But the storm and the cloud are now past for ever. Fareweel, fareweel ! parting silence is sad ; Oh, how sad the last parting tear ! But that silence shall break, where no tear on the cheek Can bedim the bright vision again no never. Then, speed to the wings of old Time, That waft us where pilgrims would be ; To the regions of rest, to the shores of the blest, Where the full tide of glory shall flow for ever. FAREWEEL, FAREWEEL! GALEIC AIR. FAREWEEL, fareweel! My heart it is sair ; Fareweel, fareweel! I'll see him nae mair. Lang, lang was he mine, Lang, lang but nae mair ; I rnaunna repine, But my heart it is sair. His staff's at the wa', Toom, toom is his chair ! His bannet, an' a' ! An' I maun be here ! But oh ! he's at rest, Why sud I complain? Gin my soul be blest, I'll meet him again. Oh, to meet him again, Where hearts ne'er were sair ! Oh, to meet him again, To part never mair ! JAMES NICOL JAMES NICOL was born at Innerleithen, in the county of Peebles, on the 28th of September 1769. Having acquired the elements of classical knowledge under Mr Tate, the parochial schoolmaster, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh, where he pursued his studies with unflinching assiduity and success. On completing his academical career, he was licensed as a probationer by the Presbytery of Peebles. His first professional employment was as assistant to the minister of Traquair, a parish bordering on that of Innerleithen ; and on the death of the incumbent, he succeeded to the living. On the 4th of November 1802, he was ordained to the ministerial office ; and on the 25th of the same month and year, he espoused Agnes Walker, a native of Glasgow, who had for a considerable period possessed a warm place in his affections, and been the heroine of his poetical reveries. He had for some time communicated verses to the Edinburgh Magazine; and he afterwards published " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect " (Edinburgh, 1805, 2 vols. 12mo). This publication contains some lyrical effusions that entitle the author to a respectable rank among the modern cultivators of national poetry ; yet it is to be regretted that a deep admiration of Burns has led him into an imitation, somewhat servile, of that immortal bard. At Traquair Mr Nicol continued to devote himself to mental improvement. He read extensively ; and writing upon the subject of his studies was his daily habit. 72 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Of his prose writings, which were numerous, the greater number still remain in MS. He contributed a number of articles to the " Edinburgh Encyclopaedia." His post- humous work, "An Essay on the Nature and Design of Scripture Sacrifices," was published in 1823. Mr Nicol was much respected for his sound discernment in matters of business : every dispute in the vicinity was submitted to his arbitration. He was regularly consulted as a physician, for he had studied medicine at the University. From his own medicine chest he dispensed gratuitously to the indigent sick ; and without fee he vaccinated all the children of the neighbourhood who were brought to him. After a short illness, he died on the 5th of November 1819. Of a family of three sons and three daughters, the eldest son predeceased him. The elder surviving son, who bears his father's Christian name, is Professor of Natural History in the Univer- sity of Aberdeen, and is known as a geologist. BLAW SAFTLY, YE BREEZES. BLAW saftly, ye breezes, ye streams, smoothly murmur, Ye sweet-scented blossoms, deck every green tree; 'Mong your wild scatter'd flow'rets aft wanders my charmer, The sweet lovely lass wi' the black rollin' e'e. But round me let nature a wilderness seem, Blast each flow'ret that catches the sun's early beam, For pensive I ponder, and languishin* wander, Far frae the sweet rosebud on Quair's windin' stream ! Why, Heaven, wring my heart wi' the hard heart o' anguish? "Why torture my bosom 'tween hope and despair ? When absent frae Nancy, I ever maun languish ! That dear angel smile, shall it charm me nae mair? Since here life's a desert, an' pleasure's a dream, Bear me swift to those banks which are ever my theme, Where, mild as the mornin' at simmer's re- turnin", Blooms the sweet lovely rosebud on Quair's windin' stream. BY YON HOARSE MURMURIN' STREAM. BY yon hoarse xnurmurin' stream, 'neath the moon's chilly beam, Sadly musin' I wander, an' the tear fills my e'e; Recollection, pensive power, brings back the mournfu' hour, When the laddie gaed awa' that is dear, dear to me. The tender words he said, and the faithfu' vows he made, When we parted, to my bosom a mournfu' pleasure gi'e ; An' I lo'e to pass the day where we fondly used to stray, An* repeat the laddie's name that is dear, dear to me. Though the flow'rets gem the vales, an" scent the whisperin' gales, An' the birds fill wi' music the sweetly- bloomin' tree ; Though nature bid rejoice, yet sorrow tunes my voice. For the laddie's far awa' that is dear, dear to me! When the gloamin' brings alang the time o' mirth an' sang, An' the dance kindles joy in ilka youthfu' e'e, My neebours aften speir, why fa's the hidden tear? But they kenna he's awa' that is dear, dear to me. Oh, for the happy hour, when I shall ha'e the power, To the darlin' o' my soul, on wings o' love, to flee! Or that the day wad come, when fortune shall bring home, The laddie to my arms that is dear, dear to me. But if for much I fear that day will ne'er appear, Frae me conceal in darkness the cruel stern decree ; For life wad a' be vain, were I ne'er to meet again, Wi' the laddie far awa' that is dear, dear to me. MY DEAR LITTLE LASSIE. My dear little lassie, why, what's a' the matter? My heart it gangs pittypat winna lie still ; I've waited, and waiterl, an' a' to grow better, Yet, lassie, believe me, I'm aye growin' ill? ANDREW SCOTT. 73 My head's turn'd quite dizzy, an' aft, when I'm speakin', I sigh, an' am breathless, and fearfu' to speak ; I gaze aye for something I fain would be seekin', Yet, lassie, I kenna \veel what I would seek. Thy praise, bonnie lassie, I ever could hear of, And yet, when to ruse ye the neebourlads try Though it's a' true they tell ye, yetneversaefar off I could see 'em ilk ane, an' I canna tell why. "Whenwetedded the hayfield, Irakedilkarig o't, And never grew weary the lang simmer day ; The rucks that ye wrought at were easiest biggit, And I fand sweeter scented around ye the hay. In har'st whan the kirn-supper joys mak' us cheerie, 'Mang the lave o' the lasses I preed yer sweet mou' ; Dear save us ! how queer I felt whan I cam' near ye My breast thrill'd in rapture, I couldna tell how. When we dance at the gloamin', it's you I aye pitch on ; And gin ye gang by me, how dowie I be ! There's something, dear lassie, about ye be- witching, That tells me my happiness centres in thee. ANDREW SCOTT, ANDREW SCOTT was born of humble parentage, in the parish of Bowden, Roxburgh- shire, on the 19th of April 1757.* He was early employed as a cowherd ; and he has recorded, in a sketch, of his own life prefixed to one of his volumes, that he began to compose verses on the hill-sides in his twelfth year. He ascribes this juvenile predilection to the perusal of Ramsay's " Gentle Shepherd," a pamphlet copy of which he had purchased with some spare halfpence. Towards the close of the American war, he joined the army as a recruit, and soon thereafter followed his regiment across the Atlantic. His rhyming propensities continued ; and he occupied his leisure hours in composing verses, which he read for the amusement of his comrades. At the conclusion of the American campaign, he returned with the army to Britain ; and afterwards procuring his discharge, he made a settlement in his native parish. For the period of seventeen years, according to his own narrative, he abandoned the cultivation of poetry, assiduously applying himself to manual labour for the support of his family. An intelligent acquaintance, who had procured copies of some of his verses, now recommended bim to attempt a publication a counsel which induced him to print a small volume by subscription. This appeared in 1805, and was reprinted, with several additions, in 1808. In 1811 he published " Poems, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect" (Kelso, 18mo) ; another duodecimo volume of poems, at Jedburgh, in 1821 ; and his last work, entitled " Poems on Various Subjects," at Edinburgh, in 1826. This last volume was inscribed, with permission, to the Duchess of Roxburghe. The poet's social condition at Bowden was little favourable to the composition of poetry. Situated on the south side of the Eildon Hills, the parish is entirely separated from the busy world, and the inhabitants were formerly proverbial for their rustic simplicity and ignorance. The encouragement desiderated at home, the poet, how- ever, experienced elsewhere. He visited Melrose, at the easy distance of two miles, on the day of the weekly market, and there met with friends and patrons from different parts of the district. The late Duke of Roxburghe, Sir Walter Scott, Mr John Gibson Lockhart, and Mr G. P. R. James, the novelist, who sometimes resided in the neighbourhood, and other persons of rank or literary eminence, extended towards him countenance and assistance. Scott shared the indigent lot of poets. He remained in the condition of an * "John Scott in Bowden, and Rachel Briggs, his wife, had a child, bom April igth, 1757, named Andrew." Bowden Register of Births, 74 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, agricultural labourer, and for many years held the office of church-officer of his parish. He died on the 22d of May 1839, in the eighty-second year of his age ; and his remains were interred in the churchyard of Bowden, where his name is inscribed on a gravestone which he had erected to the memory of his wife. THE MUIRLAND FARMER. AIR" The Rock and the Wee Pickle Tow" I 'm now a gude farmer, I've acres o' land, And my heart aye loups light when I'm view- ing o't, And I ha'e servants at my command, And twa dainty cowts for the plowin' o't. My farm is a snug ane, lies high on a muir, The muircocks and plivers aft skirl at my door, And whan the sky low'rs I'm aye sure o' a show'r, To moisten my land for the plowin' o't. Leeze me on the mailin that's fa'n to my share, It takes sax muckle bowes for the sawin' o't ; I've sax braid acres for pasture, and mair, And a dainty bit bog for the mawin' o't. ^ A spence and a kitchen my mansion-house gi'es, I've a cantie wee wifie to daut whan I please, Twabairnies, twacallans, thatskelpo'er the leas, And they'll soon can assist at the plowin' o't. My biggin' stands sweet on this south slopin' hill, And the sun shines sae bonnily beamin' on't, And past my door trots a clear prattlin' rill, Frae the loch, whar the wild-ducks are swim- min' on't; And on its green banks, on the gay simmer days, My wifie trips barefoot, a-bleachin' her claes, And on the dear creature wi' rapture I gaze, While I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't. To rank amang farmers I ha'e muckle pride, But I mamma speak high when I'm tellin' o't, How brawlie I strut on my shelty to ride, Wi' a sample to show for the sellin' o't. In blue worset boots that my auld mither span, I've aft been fu' vanty sin' I was a man, But now they're flung by, and I've bought cordovan, And my wifie ne'er grudged me a shillin' o't. Sae now, whan to kirk or to market I gae My weelfare what need I be hiddin' o't? In braw leather boots shinin' black as the slae, I dink me to try the ridiu' o't. Last towmond I sell'd off four bowes o' guid bear, And thankfu' I was, for the victual was dear, ( And I cam' hame wi' spurs on my heels shinin' clear, I had sic gude luck at the sellin' o't. Now hairst time is o'er, anda fig for the laird, My rent's now secure for the toilin' o't ; My fields are a' bare, and my crap's in the yard, And I'm nae mair in doubts o' the spoilin' o't. Now welcome gude weather, or wind, or come weet, Or bauld ragin' winter, wi' hail, snaw, or sleet, Nae mair can he draigle my crap ' mang his feet," Nor wraik his mischief, and be spoilin' o't. And on the douf days, whan loud hurricanes blaw, Fu' snug i' the spence I '11 be viewin' o't, And jink the rude blast in my rush-theekit ha', Whan fields are seal'd up from the plowin' o't. My bonnie wee wifie, the bairnies, and me, The peat-stack, and turf - stack our Phoebus shall be, Till day close the scoul o' its angry ee, And we'll rest in gude hopes o' the plowin' o't. And whan the year smiles, andthelavrocks sing, My man Jock and me shall be doin' o 't ; He '11 thrash, and I '11 toil on the fields in the spring, And turn up the soil at the plowin' o 't. And whan the wee flow'rets begin then to blaw, The lavrock, the peasweep, and skirlin' pick- maw, Shall hiss the bleak winter to Lapland awa', Then we'll ply the blythe hours at the sawin' o't. And whan the birds sing on the sweet simmei morn, My new crap I '11 keek at the growin' o 't ; Whan hares niffer love 'mang the green-bairdit corn, And dew draps the tender blade shewin' o't; On my brick o' fallow my labours I '11 ply, And view on their pasture my twa bonnie kye, Till hairst-time again circle round us wi' joy, Wi' the fruits o' the sawin' and plowin' o 't. Nor need I to envy our braw gentle folks, Wha fash na their thumbs wi' the sawin' o't, Nor e'er slip their fine silken hands in the pocks, Nor foul their black shoonwi' the plowin' o't: For, pleased wi' the little that fortune has lent, The seasons row round us in rural content ; We've aye milk and meal, and our laird gets his rent, And I whistle and sing at the plowin' o't. SYMON AND JANET. AIR " Fy, let us a' to the Bridal.'" SURROUNDED wi' bent and wi' heather, Whar muircocks and plivers are rife, For mony lang towmond thegether, There lived an auld man and his wife. ANDREW SCOTT. 75 About the affairs o' the nation, The twasome they seldom were mute ; Bonaparte, the French, and invasion, Did saur in their wizens like soot. In winter, when deep are the gutters, And night's gloomy canopy spread, Auld Symon sat luntin' his cuttie, And lowsin' his buttons for bed. Auld Janet, his wife, out a-gazin', To lock in the door was her care ; She seein' our signals a-blazin', Cam' runnin' in, rivin' her hair. " Symon, the Frenchmen are landit! Gae look man and slip on your shoon ; Our signals I see them extendit, Like red risin' blaze o' the moon ! " ' ' What plague, the French landit ! " quo' Symon, And clash gaed his pipe to the wa', " Faith, then there's be loadin' and primin'," Quo' he, " if they're landit ava'. "Our youngest son's in the militia, Our eldest grandson's volunteer : 0' the French to be fu' o' the flesh o', I too in the ranks shall appear. " His waistcoat pouch fill'd he wi' pouther, And bang'd down his rusty auld gun ; His bullets he put in the other, That he for the purpose had run. Then hnmpled he out in a hurry, While Janet his courage bewails, And cried out, " Dear Symon, be wary ! " And teughly she hang by his tails. "Let be wi' your kindness," quo' Symon, "Nor vex me wi' tears and your cares, For now to be ruled by a woman, Nae laurels shall crown my grey hairs." Quo' Janet, " Oh, keep frae the riot ! Last night, man, I dreamt ye was dead ; This aught days I tentit a pyot Sit chatt'rin' upo' the house-head. " And yesterday, workin' my stockin', And you wi' the sheep on the hill, A muckle black corbie sat croakin' ; I ken'd it foreboded some ill" " Hout, cheer up, dear Janet, be hearty, For ere the next sun may gae down, Wha kens but I'll shoot Bonaparte, And end my auld days in renown?" " Then hear me," quo' Janet, " I pray thee, I'll tend thee, love, living or dead, And if thou should fa' I'll die wi' thee, Or tie up thy wounds if thou bleed." Syne aff in a fury he stumpled, Wi' bullets, and pouther, and gun ; At's curpin auld Janet too humpled, Awa' to the next neighb'rin' toun. There footmen and yeomen paradin', To scour aff in dirdum were seen, Auld wives and young lasses a-sheddin' The briny saut tears frae their een. Then aff wi' his bannet gat Symon, And to the commander he gaes : Quo' he, ' ' Sir, I mean to gae wi' ye, man, And help ye to lounder our faes. " I'm auld, yet I'm teugh as the wire, Sae we'll at the rogues have a dash, And, fegs, if my gun winna fire, I'll turn her butt-end, and I'll thrash." ' ' Well spoken, my hearty old hero, " The captain did smiling reply, But begg'd he wad stay till to-morrow, Till daylight should glint in the sky. What reck ? a' the stour cam' to naething ! Sae Symon, and Janet his dame, Hale skart frae the wars, without skaithing, Gaed bannin' the French again hame. COQUET WATER. AIR " Braw Lads of Gala Water." WHAN winter winds forget to blaw, An' vernal suns revive pale nature, A shepherd lad by chance I saw, Feeding his flocks by Coquet water. Saft, saft he sung in melting lays, His Mary's charms an' matchless feature, While echoes answer'd frae the braes, That skirt the banks of Coquet water. " Oh, were that bonnie lassie mine," Quoth he, " in love's saft wiles I'd daut her ; An' deem mysel' as happy syne, As landit laird on Coquet water. " Let wealthy rakes for pleasure roam, In foreign lands their fortune fritter ; But love's pure joys be mine at home, Wi' my dear lass on Coquet water. " Gi'e fine folks wealth, yet what care I, Gi'e me her smiles whom I lo'e better ; Blest wi' her love an' life's calm joy, Tending my flocks by Coquet water. ' ' Flow fair an' clear, thou bonnie stream, For on thy banks aft hae I met her ; Fair may the bonnie wild flowers gleam, That busk the banks of Coquet water. THE FIDDLER'S WIDOW. THERE was a musician wha play'd a good stick He had a sweet wife and a fiddle, An' in his profession he had right good luck At bridals his elbow to diddle. 7G THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. But ah ! the poor fiddler soon chanced to dee, As a' men to dust must return ; An' the poor widow cried, wi' the tear in her ee, That as lang as she lived she wad mourn. Alane by the hearth she disconsolate sat, Lamenting the day that she saw, An' aye as she look'd on the fiddle she grat, That silent now hung on the wa'. Fair shane the red rose on the young widow's cheek, Sae newly weel washen wi' tears, As in came a younker some comfort to speak, Wha whisper'd fond love in her ears. "Dear lassie," he cried, " I am smit wi' your charms, Consent but to marry me now, I'm as good as ever laid hair upon thairms, An' I'll cheer baith the fiddle an' you." The young widow blush'd, but sweet smiling she said, " Dear sir, to dissemble I hate, If we twa thegether are doorn'd to be wed, Folks needna contend against fate." He took down the fiddle as dowie it hung, An' put a' the thairms in tune, The young widow dighted her cheeks an' she sung, For her heart lap her sorrows aboon. Now sound sleep the dead in his cauld bed o' clay, For death still the dearest maun sever ; For now he's forgot, an' his widow's fu" gay, An his fiddle's as merry as ever. LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF AN IRISH CHIEF. HE'S no more on the green hill, he has left the wide forest, Whom, sad by the lone rill, thou, loved dame, deplorest : We saw in his dim eye the beam of life quiver, Its bright orb to light again no more for ever. Loud twang'd thy bow, mighty youth, in the foray, Dread gleam'd thy brand in the proud field of glory ; And when heroes sat round in the Psalter of Tara, His coxmsel was sage as was fatal his arrow. When in war's loud commotion the hostile Dane landed, Or seen on the ocean with white sail expanded, Like thee, swoll'n stream, down our steep vale that roarest, Fierce was the chieftain that harass'd them sorest. Proud stem of our ancient line, nipt while in budding, Like sweet flowers' too early gem spring-fields bestuding, Our noble pine's fall'n, that wav'd on our mountain, Our mighty rock dash'd from the brink of our fountain. Our lady is lonely, our halls are deserted The mighty is fallen, our hope is departed Loud wail for the fate from our clan that did sever, Whom we shall behold again no more for ever. SIR WALTER SCOTT, SIR WALTER SCOTT, the most chivalrous of Scottish poets, and the most illustrious of British novelists, was born in Edinburgh, on the 15th of August 1771.* His father, Walter Scott, Writer to the Signet, was descended from a younger branch of the baronial house of the Scotts of Harden, of which Lord Polwarth is the present representative. On his mother's side, his progenitors were likewise highly respect- able : his maternal grandfather, Dr John Rutherford, was Professor of the Practice of Physic in the University of Edinburgh, and his mother's brother, Dr Daniel Rutherford, an eminent chemist, afterwards occupied the chair of Botany. His mother was a person of a vigorous and cultivated mind. Of a family of twelve children, born to his parents, six of whom survived infancy, Walter only evinced the possession of genius. He was born a healthy child, but soon after became exposed to serious peril by being some time tended by a consumptive nurse. When scarcely two years old, he was seized with an illness which deprived him of the proper use of * A search in all the Registers of Births and Baptisms at Edinburgh has not revealed any record of the birth or baptism of the great minstrel. SIR WALTER SCOTT. 77 his right limb, a loss which, continued during his life. With the view of retrieving his strength, he was sent to reside with his paternal grandfather, Robert Scott, who rented the farm of Sandyknowe, in the vicinity of Smailholm Tower, Roxburghshire. Shortly after his arrival at Sandyknowe, he narrowly escaped destruction through the frantic desperation of a maniac attendant ; but he had afterwards to congratulate himself on being enabled to form an early acquaintance with rural scenes. No advantage accruing to his lameness, he was, in his fourth year, removed to Bath, where he remained twelve months, but without experiencing any benefit from the mineral waters. During the three following years, he chiefly resided at Sandyknowe. In his eighth year he returned to Edinburgh, with his mind largely stored with border legends, derived from the recitations of his grandmother, a person of romantic inclinations and sprightly intelligence. At this period, Pope's translation of Homer, and the more amusing songs in Ramsay's " Evergreen," were his favourite studies ; and he took delight in reading aloud, with suitable emphasis, the more striking passages to his mother. In 1779 he was sent to the High School, where he pos- sessed the advantage of instruction under Mr Luke Fraser, an able scholar, and Dr Adam, the erudite rector. His progress in scholarship was not equal to his talents : he was a devotee to romance, and experienced greater gratification in retiring with a friend to the country, there to relate or listen to the fictitious tale, than in giving his principal attention to the tasks of the schoolroom. As he became older, his love of miscellaneous literature, especially of the works of the masters of fiction, amounted to a passion ; and as his memory was singularly tenacious, he accumulated a great variety of curious information. On the completion of his attendance at the High School, he was sent to reside with some relations at Kelso ; and in this interesting locality his growing attachment to legendary lore received a fresh impulse. On his return to Edinburgh, he entered the University, in which he matriculated as a student of Latin and Greek, in October 1783. His progress was not more marked than it had been at the High School ; and Mr Dalziel, the Professor of Greek, hesitated not to speak of his hopeless incapacity. The Professor survived to make ample compensation for the rashness of his prediction. The juvenile inclinations of the future poet were directed to a military life ; but his lameness interposed an insuperable difficulty. He was at length induced to adopt a profession suitable to his physical capabilities, entering into indentures with his father in his fourteenth year. To his confinement at the desk, sufficiently irksome to a youth of his aspirations, he was reconciled "by the consideration that his fees as a clerk enabled him to purchase books. Rapid growth in a constitution which continued delicate till he had attained his fifteenth year, led to his bursting a blood-vessel in the second year of his apprentice- ship. "While precluded from active duty, being closely confined to bed, and not allowed to exert himself by speaking, he was yet allowed to read a privilege which accelerated his acquaintance with general literature. To complete his recovery, he was recommended exercise on horseback ; and in obeying the instructions of his physician, he gratified his own peculiar tastes by making himself familiar with localities famous in story. On the restoration of his health, he at length seriously engaged in the study of law. After the requisite examinations, he passed as an advocate on the 10th of July 1792. In his twelfth year, he had composed some verses for his preceptor, Dr Adam ; but he seems not to have extensively indulged, in early life, in the composition of poetry, while his juvenile productions in prose were stiff and formal. On being called to the bar, he at first refrained from claiming the honours of authorship, lest his brethren or the public should suppose that his 78 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. habits were unsuitable to a due attention to professional duties. He wag relieved of entire dependence on his profession by espousing, in December 1797, Miss Carpenter, a young French gentlewoman, possessed of a considerable annuity, whose acquaint- ance he had formed at Gilsland Spa, in Cumberland. In 1800 he was appointed Sheriff of Selkirkshire, with a salary of 300 a-year. While in his father's office, he had studied French and Italian, and made himself familiar with the writings of Tasso and Ariosto. Some years after, he was induced to acquaint himself with the ballad poetry of Germany, then in vogue, through the translations of Mr Lewis, whose friendship he had acquired. In 1796 he made his first adventure as an author by publishing translations of " Lenore," and " The Wild Huntsman," of Burger. The attempt proved unsuccessful ; but, undismayed, he again essayed his skill in trans- lation by publishing, in 1799, an English version of Goethe's " Goetz of Berlichingen." His success as an author was, however, destined to rest on original performances, illustrative of the chivalry of his own land. Towards the recovery and publication of the ancient ballads and songs of the Scottish Borders, preserved by the recitations of the peasantry, Scott had early formed important intentions. The independence, of his circumstances now enabled him to execute his long-cherished scheme. He made periodical excursions into Liddesdale, anciently peopled by the noted Elliots and Armstrongs, in quest of old ballads and traditions ; and the fruits of his research, along with much curious information, he gave to the world, in 1 802, in two volumes octavo, under the title of " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." He added in the following year a third volume, consisting of imitations of ancient ballads, composed by himself and others. These volumes were issued from the printing-press of his early friend and school-fellow, Mr James Ballantyne of Kelso, who had already begun to indicate that skill in typography for which he was afterwards celebrated. In 1804 he published, from the Auchinleck Manuscript in the Advocates' Library, the ancient metrical tale of " Sir Tristrem;" and, in an elaborate introduction, he endeavoured to prove that it was the composition of Thomas of Ercildoune, better known as Thomas the Rhymer. He published, in 1805, " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," an original ballad poem, which, speedily attaining a wide circulation, procured for him an extensive reputation, and the substantial reward of 600. The prosperity of the poet rose with his fame. In the year following that which produced the " Lay," he received his appointment as a principal clerk of the Court of Session, an office which afterwards brought him 1200 a-year. To literary occu- pation he now resolved to dedicate his intervals of leisure. In 1808 he produced " Marmion," his' second great poem, which brought him 1000 from the publisher, and at once established his reputation. During the same year he completed the heavy task of editing the works of Dry den, in eighteen volumes. In 1809 he edited the State papers and letters of Sir Ralph Sadler, and became a contributor to the " Edinburgh Annual Register," conducted by Southey. " The Lady of the Lake," the most happily-conceived and popular of his poetical works, appeared in 1810 ; "Don Roderick," in 1811 ; " Rokeby," in 1813; and "The Lord of the Isles," in 1814. "Harold the Dauntless" and "The Bridal of Triermain" appeared subse- quently, without the author's name. As a poet, Scott had now attained a celebrity unrivalled among his contem- poraries ; and it was in the apprehension of compromising his reputation that, in attempting a new species of composition, he was extremely anxious to conceal the name of the author. The novel of " Waverley," which appeared in 1814, did not suffer from its being anonymous; for, although the sale was somewhat heavy at first, the work soon afterwards reached the extraordinary circulation of twelve WALTER SCOTT. 79 thousand copies. Contrary to reasonable expectation, however, the author of " Waverley" did not avow himself, and, numerous as was the catalogue of prose fictions which during a series of years proceeded from his pen, he continued as desirous of retaining his secret as were his female contemporaries, Lady Nairne and Lady Anne Barnard, to cast a veil over their poetical character. The rapidity with which the " Great Unknown " produced works of fiction, was one of the marvels of the age ; and many attempts were made to withdraw the curtain which concealed the mysterious author. Successive years produced at least one, and often two, novels of a class infinitely superior to the romances of the past age, all having reference to the manners and habits of the most interesting and chivalrous periods of Scottish or British history, which, in these works, were depicted with a power and vivacity unattained by the more graphic historians. Subsequently to the publication of "Guy Mannering" and "The Antiquary," in 1815 and 1816, and as an expedient to sustain the public interest, Scott commenced a new series of novels, under the title of " Tales of my Landlord," these being professedly written by a different author ; but this resort was abandoned as altogether unnecessary for the contemplated object. Each successive romance by the author of "Waverley" awakened renewed ardour and enthusiasm, and commanded a circulation commensurate with the bounds in which the language was understood. In the year 1814 he published an edition of the works of Swift, in nineteen volumes octavo. For some years after his marriage, Scott occupied a cottage at Lasswade, near Edinburgh ; but in 1804 he removed to Ashestiel, an old mansion, beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed, seven miles above Selkirk, where, for several years, he continued to reside during the vacation of the Court. The ruling desire of his life was, that by the proceeds of his intellectual labour he might acquire an ample demesne, and thus realise in his own person, and in those of his repre- sentatives, somewhat of the territorial importance of those old barons, whose wassails and feuds he had experienced delight in celebrating. To attain such dis- tinction, he was prepared to incur many sacrifices ; nor was this desire exceeded by regard for literary reputation. In 1811 he purchased, on the south bank of the Tweed, near Melrose, the first portion of that estate which, under the name of Abbotsford, has become indelibly associated with his history. The soil was then a barren waste, but by extensive improvements the place speedily assumed the aspect of amenity and beauty. The mansion, a curious amalgamation of every species of architecture, was partly built in 1811, and gradually extended with the increasing emoluments of the owner. By successive purchases of adjacent lands, the Abbotsford property became augmented, till the rental amounted to about 700 a-year a return sufficiently limited for an expenditure of upwards of 50,000. At Abbotsford the poet maintained the character of a wealthy country gentleman. He was visited by distinguished persons from the sister kingdom, from the Continent, and from America, all of whom he entertained in a style of sumptuous elegance. Nor did his constant social intercourse with his visitors and friends interfere with the regular prosecution of his literary labours : he rose at six, and engaged in study and composition till eleven o'clock. During the period of his residence in the country, he devoted the remainder of the day to his favourite exercise on horseback, the superintendence of improvements on his property, and the entertainment of his guests. In March 1820, George IV., to whom he was personally known, and who was a warm admirer of his genius, granted him the honour of a baronetcy, being the first conferred by his Majesty after his accession. Prior to this period, besides the works already enumerated, he had given to the world his romances of " The Black Dwarf," " Old Mortality," " Rob Roy," " The Heart of Midlothian," " The Bride of 80 TH-E MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Lammermoor," " A Legend of Montrose," and " Ivanhoe." The attainment of the baronetcy appears to have stimulated him to still greater exertion. In 1820 he produced, besides " Ivanhoe," which appeared in the early part of that year, " The Monastery" and "The Abbot;" and in the beginning of 1821, the romance of " Kenilworth," being twelve volumes published within the same number of months. "The Pirate" and "The Fortunes of Nigel" appeared in 1822; "Peveril of the Peak" and"Quentin Durwajd," in 1823; " St Ronan'sWell" and " Redgauntlet," in 1824 ; and " The Tales of the Crusaders," in 1825. During the visit of George IV. to Scotland, in 1822, Sir Walter undertook the congenial duty of acting as Master of Ceremonies, which he did to the entire satis- faction of his sovereign and of the nation. But while prosperity seemed to smile with increasing brilliancy, adversity was hovering near. In 1826, Archibald Con- stable & Company, the publishers of his works, became insolvent, involving in their bankruptcy the printing firm of the Messrs Ballantyne, of which Sir Walter was a partner. The liabilities amounted to the sum of 102,000, for which Sir Walter was individually responsible. To a mind less balanced by native intrepidity, the apparent wreck of his worldly hopes would have produced irretrievable despond- ency ; but Scott bore his misfortune with a magnanimous resignation. He had been largely indebted to both the establishments which had unfortunately involved him in their fall, and he felt bound in honour, as well as by legal obligation, fully to discharge the debt. He declined an offer of the creditors to be satisfied with a composition ; and claiming only to be allowed time, applied himself with energy to his arduous undertaking, in the full determination, if his life was spared, of cancelling his obligations. At the crisis of his embarrassments he was engaged in the composi- tion of " Woodstock," which shortly afterwards appeared. The " Life of Napoleon," which had for a considerable time occupied his attention, was published in 1827, in nine vols. octavo. In the course of its preparation, he had visited both London and Paris in search of materials. In the same year he produced " Chronicles of the Canongate," first series; and in the year following, the second series of those charming tales, and the first portion of his juvenile history of Scotland, under the title of " Tales of a Grandfather." A second portion of these tales appeared in 1829, and the third and concluding series in 1830, when he also contributed a graver History of Scotland in two volumes to " Lardner's Cabinet Cyclopaedia." In 1829 likewise appeared " Anne of Geierstein," a romance, and in 1830 the " Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft." In 1831 he produced a series of " Tales on French History," uni- form with the " Tales of a Grandfather," and his novels, " Count Robert of Paris," and "Castle Dangerous," as a. fourth series of "Tales of My Landlord." Other productions of inferior mark appeared from his pen : he contributed to the Edinburgh Review, during the first year of its career ; wrote the articles " Chivalry," " Romance," and " Drama," for the sixth edition of the " Encyclopaedia Britannica ;" and during his latter years contributed somewhat copiously to the Quarterly Review. At a public dinner in Edinburgh, for the benefit of the Theatrical Fund, on the 23d of February 1827, Sir Walter made his first avowal as to the authorship of the Waverley Novels an announcement which scarcely took the public by surprise. The physical energies of the illustrious author were now suffering a rapid decline ; and in his increasing infirmities, and liability to sudden and severe attacks of pain, and even of unconsciousness, it became evident to his friends, that, in the praiseworthy effort to pay his debts, he was sacrificing his health and shortening his life. Those apprehensions proved not without foundation. In the autumn of 1831, his health became so lamentably broken, that his medical advisers recommended a residence in Italy, and entire cessation from mantal labour, as the only means of invigorating a SIR WALTER SCOTT. 81 constitution so seriously dilapidated. But the counsel came too late ; the patient proceeded to Naples, and afterwards to Rome, but experiencing no benefit from the change, he was rapidly conveyed homewards in the following summer, in obedience to his express wish, that he might have the satisfaction of closing his eyes at Abbots- ford. The wish was gratified : he arrived at Abbotsford on the llth of July 1832, and survived till the 21st of the ensuing September. According to his own request, his remains were interred in an aisle in Dry burgh Abbey, which had belonged to one of his ancestors, and had been granted to him by the late Earl of Buchan. A heavy block of marble rests upon the grave, in juxtaposition with another which has been laid on that of his affectionate partner in life, who died in May 1826. In stature, Sir Walter Scott was above six feet ; but his personal appearance, which had otherwise been commanding, was marred by the lameness of his right limb, which caused him to walk awkwardly, and ultimately with difficulty. His countenance, so correctly represented in his numerous portraits and busts, was remarkable for depth of forehead ; his features Avere somewhat heavy, and his eyes, covered with thick eyelashes, were dull, unless animated by congenial conversation. He was of a fair complexion ; and his hair, originally sandy, became grey from a severe illness which he suffered in his forty-eighth year. His conversation consisted in the detail of chivalric adventures, and anecdotes of the old times. His memory was so retentive that whatever he had read maintained a place in his recollection. In fertility of imagination he surpassed all his contemporaries. As a poet, if he has not the graceful elegance of Campbell, and the fervid energy of Byron, he excels the latter in purity of sentiment, and the former in vigour of conception. His style was well adapted for the composition of lyric poetry ; but as he had no ear for music, his song compositions are not numerous. Several of these, however, have been set to music, and maintain their popularity. But Scott's reputation as a poet, is inferior to his reputation as a novelist; and while even his best poems may cease to be generally read, the author of the Waverley Novels will only be forgotten with the disuse of the language. A cabinet edition of these novels, with the author's last notes, and illustrated with elegant engravings, appeared in forty-eight volumes a short period before his decease ; several other complete editions have since been published by the late Mr Robert Cadell, and by the Messrs Black of Edinburgh. As a man of amiable dispositions and incorruptible integrity, Sir "Walter Scott shone conspicuous among his contemporaries, the latter quality being eminently exhibited in his resolution to pay the whole of his pecuniary liabilities. To this effort he fell a martyr ; yet it was a source of consolation to his survivors that, by his extraordinary exertions, the policy of life insurance payable at his death, and the sum of ,30,000 paid by Mr Cadell for the copyright of his works, the whole amount of the debt was discharged. It is however painfully to be remarked, that the object of his ambition, in raising a family, has not been realised. His children, consisting of two sons and two daughters, all died young. His eldest daughter, Sophia, married to Mr John Gibson Lockhart, gave birth to several children, all of whom are dead. Her oidy daughter married James Hope, Esq., Q.C., who added to his patronymic the name of Scott, and made Abbotsford his summer residence. Mrs Hope Scott died at Edinburgh on the 26th October 1858, leaving three children. Only one child, a daughter, Mary Monica, survives, the sole living descendant of the author of "Waverley." The memory of Sir Walter Scott has received every honour from his countrymen : monuments have been raised to him in the principal towns that in the capital, a magnificent Gothic cross, being one of the most graceful objects in his native city. Abbotsford has become the resort of every traveller who contemplates with interest a scene hallowed by genius. 82 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. IT WAS AN ENGLISH LAD YE BRIGHT.* IT was an English ladye bright (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all. Blythely they saw the rising sun When he shone fair on Carlisle wall ; But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all. Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall ; Her brother gave but a flask of wine, For ire that Love was lord of all. For she had lands, both meadow and lea, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And he swore her death, ere he would see A Scottish knight the lord of all ! That wine she had not tasted well (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), When dead in her true love's arms she fell, For Love was still the lord of all ! He pierced her brother to the heart, Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall: So perish all would true love part, That Love may still be lord of all ! And then he took the cross divine (Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall), And died for her sake in Palestine, So Love was still the lord of all. Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall) Pray for their souls who died for love, For Love shall still be lord of all ! JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. t AIR "A Border Melody." "WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sail be his bride. And ye sail be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen" But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. different styles of ballad-narrative which prevailed in this island at different periods, or in different conditions of society. The first (the above) is conducted upon the rude and simple model of the old Border ditties, and produces its effect by the direct and concise narrative of a tragical occurrence." t The first stanza of the ballad is ancient. The others were written for Campbell's " Albyn's Anthology." "Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale. His step is first in peacefu' ha', His sword in battle keen" But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. "A chain of gold ye sail not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen" But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, The tapers glimmer'd fair ; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bower and ha', The ladie was not seen ! She 's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. LOCHINVAR* 0, voting Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Loch- invar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late : For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochiuvar. So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all : Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) " Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Loch- invar?" " I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide * This song occurs in the fifth canto of "Marmion." It is founded on a ballad entitled " Katharine Janfarie," in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." SIR WALTER SCOTT. 83 And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, There, through the summer day, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; Cool streams are laving ; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by There, while the tempests sway, far, Scarce are boughs waving ; That would gladly be bride to the young Loch- There, thy rest shalt thou take, invar. Parted for ever ; Never again to wake, The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took Never, never! it up, Eleu loro, etc. He quatf'd off the wine, and he threw down Never, never ! the cup ; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up Where shall the traitor rest, to sigh, He, the deceiver, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her? bar In the lost battle, " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Loch- invar. Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; Eleu loro, etc. There shall he be lying. While her mother did fret, and her father did Her wing shall the eagle flap fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume ; And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "Twere O'er the false-hearted ; His warm blood the wolf shall lap Ere life be parted. Shame and dishonour sit better, by far, To have match'd our fair cousin with young By his grave ever ; Blessing shall hallow it, LjOcninvar. Never, never ! One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, Eleu loro, etc. Never, never ! "When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! SOLDIER, REST! THY WARFARE O'ER,* ' ' She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, SOLDIER rest ! thy warfare o'er, and scaur ; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth Dream of battled fields no more, young Lochinvar. Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Netherby clan ; Fairy strains of music fall, Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode Every sense in slumber dewing. and they ran : Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Dream of fighting-fields no more ; Lea, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they Morn of toil, nor night of waking. see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch- invar ? No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armour's clang, or war-steed champing ; Trump nor pibroch summon here, Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. i et the lark s shrill nie may come At the daybreak from the fallow ; WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.* And the bittern sound his drum, WHERE shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near, Guards nor warders challenge here ; Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping. Sounds the far billow ; Huntsman rest ! thy chase is done, Where early violets die While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Under the willow. Dream not, with the rising sun, Eleu loro, etc. Soft shall be his pillow. Bugles here shall sound reveille. * The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of * From the third canto of " Marmion." "The Lady of the Lake." THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen, How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveil!6. HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES ! * HAIL to the chief who in triumph advances ! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green Pine ! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her shade; Moor'd in the rifted rock Proof to the tempest shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan re- plied ; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side, Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan -Alpine with fear and with woe ; Lennox and Leven-Glen Shake when they hear agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the High- lands ! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green Pine ! 0, that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine ! that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow ! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! * The " boat song" in the second canto of "The Lady of the Lake." It may be sung to the air of "The Banks oi the Devon." PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.* AIR ' ' Piobair of Donuil Dhuidh. " PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons. Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Innerlocky. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one ; Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter ; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar ; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges ; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended ; Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded : Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather ; Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set ! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset ! THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED.f THE heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary ! To-morrow-eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my bloody plaid, My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! It will not waken me, Mary ! * Was written for Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology," 1816. t Song of Norman in "The Lady of the Lake," canto third. SIR WALTER SCOTT. I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know ; When bursts Clan- Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught, For if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if return'd from conquer'd foes, How blythely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose To my young bride and me, Mary ! THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.* MY hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall ; I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forest green, With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that's the life is meet for me. I hate to learn the ebb of time From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall The lark was wont my matins ring, The sable rook my vespers sing : These towers, although a king's they be, Have not a hall of joy for me. No more at dawning morn I rise And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, Drive the fleet deer the forest through, And homeward wend with evening dew; A blythesome welcome blythely meet, And lay my trophies at her feet, While fled the eve on wing of glee That life is lost to love and me ! HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN, t HE is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow ; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. " The Lady of the Lake," canto sixth, t " The Lady of the Lake," canto third. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the come, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber ! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever. A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID/ "A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me you knew, my love ! No more of me ye knew. " This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain ; But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again." He turn'd his charger as he spake, Upon the river shore, He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said, "Adieu for evermore, my love! And adieu for evermore. " ALLEN-A-DALE.t ALLEN-A-DALE has no faggot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, AUen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning ; Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken mv tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale. Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright ; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word ; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen- a-Dale. * " Rokeby," canto third. f Ibid. 86 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINST&EL. Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; The mother she asked of his household and home ; "Though the castle of Eichmond stand fair on the hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still ; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles, " said Allen- a-dale. The father was steel and the mother was stone, They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry, He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonnie black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale. THE CYPRESS WREATH.* 0, lady twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! Too lively glow the lilies light, The varnish'd holly's all too bright, The mayflower and the eglantine May shade a brow less sad than mine ; But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree ! Let dimpled mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine ; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due ; The myrtle bough bids lovers live, But that Matilda will not give ; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear ; Let Albin bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew. On favour'd Erin's crest be seen The flower she loves of emerald green ; But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! Strike the wild harp while maids prepare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair ; And, while his crown of laurel-leaves, With bloody hand the victor weaves, Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; But when you hear the passing-bell, Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, And twine it of the cypress-tree ! Yes, twine for me the cypress bough ; But, Matilda, twine not now ! Stay till a few brief months are past And I have look'd and loved my last ! * "Rokeby," canto fifth. When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue, Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress-tree ! THE CAVALIER.* WHILE the dawn on the mountain was misty and grey, My true love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, overvalley, o'erdale, ando'erdown ; Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown ! He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown ! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws, Her king is his leader, her church is his cause, His watchword is honour, his pay is renown, God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown ! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall ; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the north have encircled the There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose ! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the barons of England that fight for the crown ? Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier, Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown ! HUNTING SONG.t WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear! " Rokeby," canto fifth. t First published in the continuation of Strutt's Queen- hoohall, 1808, inserted in the Edinburgh. Annual Regis- ter, of the same year, and set to a Welsh air in Thom- son's " Select Melodies," vol. iii., 1817. JAMES HOGG. 87 Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily, mingle they " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain grey, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chant our lay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the green -wood haste away ; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size ; We can show the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd ; You shall see him brought to bay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay." Louder, louder chant the lay, " Waken, lords and ladies gay ! " Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Run a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ? Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay ! OH, SAY NOT, MY LOVE, WITH THAT MORTIFIED AIR. OH, say not, my love, -with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown ; Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, For those raptures that still are thine own. Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd ; 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world. Though thy form, that was fashiou'd as light as a fay's, Has assumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground Enough, after absence to meet me again, Thy steps still with ecstacy move ; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain For me the kind language of love. JAMES HOGG, THE last echoes of the Border Minstrelsy were dying from the memory of the aged, and the spirit which, awakened the strains seemed to have sighed an eternal farewell, when, arousing from a long slumber, it threw the mantle of inspiration, at the close of the last century, over several sons of song, worthy to bear the lyre of their minstrel sires. Of these, the most remarkable was James Hogg, commonly designated " The Ettrick Shepherd." This distinguished individual was born in the bosom of the romantic vale of Ettrick, Selkirkshire, one of the most picturesque districts of Scot- land. The poet's paternal ancestors possessed the lands of Fauldshope in Ettrick Forest, and were followers of the Knights of Harden. For several generations they followed the simple occupation of shepherds. On the mother's side, the poet was descended from the respectable family of Laidlaw-^-one of the oldest in Tweeddale, and of which, the representatives bore the reputation of excelling either in intellectual vigour or physical energy ; they generally devoted themselves to the pastoral life. Robert Hogg, the poet's father, was a person of very ordinary sagacity, presenting in this respect a decided contrast to his wife, Margaret Laidlaw, a woman of superior energy and cultivated mind. Their family consisted of four sons, of whom the second was James, the subject of this Memoir. The precise date of his birth is unknown : he was baptized, according to the Baptismal Eegister of Ettrick, his native parish, on the 9th of December 1770.* At the period of his marriage, Robert Hogg was in circumstances of affluence. He had saved money as a shepherd, and, taking on lease the two adjoining pastoral * The Shepherd entertained the belief that he was born on the 25th of January 1772. 88 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. farms of Ettrick-hall and Ettrick-house, he stocked them with sheep adapted both for the Scottish and English markets. During several years he continued to prosper ; but a sudden depression in the market exhausted his finances, and involved him in bank- ruptcy. The future poet was then in his sixth year. In this destitute condition, the family experienced the friendship and assistance of Mr Brydon, tenant of the neigh- bouring farm of Crosslee, who, leasing Ettrick-house, employed Kobert Hogg as his shepherd. But the circumstances of the family were much straitened by recent reverses ; and the second son, young as he was, and though he had only been three months at school, was engaged as a cow-herd, his wages for six months being a ewe- lamb and a pair of shoes. Three months' further attendance at school, on the expiry of his engagement, completed the future bard's scholastic instructions. It was his lot, with the exception of these six months' schooling, to receive his education among the solitudes of Nature. First as a cow-herd, and subsequently through the various gradations of shepherd-life, his days, till advanced manhood, were passed upon the hills. And such hills ! The mountains of Ettrick and Yarrow are impressed with every feature of Highland scenery, in its wildest and most striking aspects. There are stern summits, enveloped in cloud, and stretching heavenwards; huge broad crests torn by fissures and broken by the storms; deep ravines, jagged, precipitate, and darksome; and valleys reposing amidst the sublimity of an awful solitude. There are dark mountains around the Grey-Mare's-Tail, echoing to the roar of its stupendous cataract; and green hills, and inaccessible heights, surrounding and towering over St Mary's Loch, and the Loch of the Lowes. To the sublimity of that vast academy, in which he had learned to invoke the Muse, the poet has referred in - the "Queen's Wake:" " The bard on Ettrick's mountain green, In Nature's bosom nursed had been ; And oft had mark'd in forest lone The beauties on her mountain throne ; Had seen her deck the wildwood tree, And star with snowy gems the lea ; In loveliest colours paint the plain, And sow the moor with purple grain ; By golden mead and mountain sheer, Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear, "When shadowy flocks of purest snow Seem'd grazing in a world below. " Glorious as was his academy, the genius of the poet was not precocious. Forgetting everything he had learned at school, he spent his intervals of toil in desultory amusements, or in pursuing his own shadow upon the hills. As he grew older, he discovered the possession of a musical ear ; and saving five shillings of his earnings, he purchased an old violin, upon which he began to play his favourite tunes. He had now attained his fourteenth year, and in the constant hope of improving his circumstances, had served twelve masters. The life of a cow-herd affords limited opportunities for mental improvement. And the early servitude of the Ettrick Shepherd was spent in excessive toil, which his propensities to fun and frolic served just to render tolerable. When he reached the respectable and comparatively easy position of a shepherd, he began to think of teaching himself to read. From Mrs Laid! aw, wife of the farmer at Willinslee, he was privileged with the loan of two works, of which the reputation had been familiar to him from childhood. These were Henry the Minstrel's " Life and Adventures of Sir William Wallace," and the "Gentle Shepherd" of Allan Ramsay. On these the future poet learned to read, in his eighteenth year. He afterwards read a number of theological works; and among others of a speculative cast, "Burnet's Theory of the JAMES HOGG. 89 Conflagration of the Earth," the perusal of which, he has written, " nearly overturned his brain." At Whitsunday 1790, in his twentieth year, Hogg entered the sendee, as shepherd, of Mr James Laidlaw, tenant of Blackhouse, a farm situate on the Douglas-burn in Yarrow. This proved the most fortunate step he had yet taken. Mr Laidlaw was a man of superior culture : he perceived his shepherd's aptitude for learning, and gave him the use of his library. But the poet's connection with Blackhouse was especially valuable in enabling him to form the intimacy of Mr "William Laidlaw, his master's son, the future factor and amanuensis of Sir Walter Scott. Though ten years his junior, and consequently a mere youth at the period of his coming to Blackhouse, young Laidlaw began to sympathise with the Shepherd's predilections, and after- wards devoted a large portion of time to his society. The friendship which ensued proved useful to both. A MS. narrative of the poet's life by this unfailing friend, which has been made available in the preparation of this Memoir, enables us to supply an authentic account of this portion of his career. " He was not long," writes Mr Laidlaw, " in going through all the books belonging to my father ; and learning from me that Mr Elder, bookseller, Peebles, had a large collection of books which he used as a circulating library, he forthwith became a subscriber, and by that means read Smollett and Fielding's novels, and those voyages and travels which were pub- lished at the time, including those of Cook, Carteret, and others." The literary progress of the Shepherd was singularly tardy. He was familiar with the more esteemed writers in English literature ere he attempted penmanship. He acquired the art upon the hill-side by copying the Italian alphabet, using his knees as his desk, and having his ink-bottle suspended from his button. In his twenty-sixth year he first essayed to write verses an effort attended, in the manual department, with much difficulty, for he stripped himself of his coat and vest to the undertaking, yet could record only a few lines at a sitting ! But he was satisfied with the fame derived from his verses, as compensation for the toil of their produc- tion. He wrote for the amusement of the shepherd maidens, who sung them to their favourite tunes, and bestowed on him the prized designation of " Jamie the Poeter." At the gatherings of lads and lasses in the different homesteads, he never failed to present himself, and had golden opportunities of winning the chaplet of applause, both for the strains of his minstrelsy, and the music of his violin. These reunions were not without their influence in stimulating him to more ambitious efforts. The Shepherd's popularity while tending the flocks of Mr Laidlaw at Blackhouse, was not wholly derived from his skill as a versifier, and capabilities as a musician : among the fairer portion of the creation he was held in esteem alike for his amiable qualities and the handsomeness of his person. As a candidate for the honour of feminine approbation, he was successful alike in the hall and on the green : the rumour of his approach at any rural assemblage was the watchword for increased mirth and happiness. His personal appearance at this early period is thus described by Mr William Laidlaw : " About nineteen years of age, Hogg was rather above the middle height, of faultless symmetry of form ; he was of almost unequalled agility and swiftness. His face was then round and full, and of a ruddy complexion, with bright blue eyes that beamed with gaiety, glee, and good-humour. His head was covered with a singular profusion of light-brown hair, which he was obliged to wear coiled up under his hat. On entering church on a Sunday he used, on lifting his hat, to raise his right hand to assist a graceful shake of his head in laying back his long hair, which rolled down his back. And every female eye was upon "him, as, with light step, he ascended the stair to the gallery where he sat." As the committing of his thoughts to paper became a less irksome occupation, 90 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Hogg began, with commendable prudence, to attempt composition in prose ; and in evidence of his success, he had the satisfaction to find short essays which he sent to the Scots Magazine regularly inserted in that periodical. Poetry was cultivated at the same time with unabated ardour, though the bard did not yet venture to expose his verses beyond the friendly circle of his associates in Ettrick Forest. Of these, the most judicious was young Laidlaw; who, predicting his success, urged him to greater carefulness in composition. There was another stimulus to his improvement. Along with several shepherds in the forest, who were of studious inclinations, he formed a literary society, which proposed subjects for competition in verse, and adjudged encomiums of approbation to the successful competitors. Two spirited members of this literary conclave were Alexander Laidlaw, a shepherd, and afterwards tenant of Bowerhope, on the border of St Mary's Lake, and the poet's elder brother, William, a man of superior talent. Both subsequently acquired distinction as intelligent contributors to the agricultural journals. For some years, William Hogg had rented the sheep-farm of Ettrick House, and afforded shelter to his aged parents. In the year 1800, he resigned his lease to the poet, having taken another farm on the occasion of his marriage. James now established himself, along with his parents, at Ettrick House, the place of his nativity, after a period of ten years' connection with Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse, whose conduct towards him, to use his own words, had proved " much more like that of a father than a master." It was during the course of a visit to Edinburgh in the same year, that an accidental circumstance gave a wider range to his poetical reputation. Spending an evening with a party of friends in the Crown Tavern, he was solicited for a song. He sung the last which he had composed : it was " Donald Macdonald." The reception was a roar of applause, and one of the party offered to get it set to music and published. The song was issued anonymously from the music establishment of Mr John Hamilton of Edinburgh. Within a few months it was sung in every district of the kingdom ; and, at a period when the apprehended invasion of Napoleon filled the hearts of the nation with anxiety, it was hailed as an admirable stimulus to patriotism. In the preparation of the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," Scott had been largely indebted to the intelligent peasantry of the south. He was now engaged in making collections for his third volume, and had resolved to examine the pastoral inhabitants of Ettrick and Yarrow. Procuring ' a note of introduction from his friend Leyden to young Laidlaw, Scott arrived at Blackhouse during the summer of 1801, and in his native home formed the acquaint- ance of his future steward. To his visitor, Laidlaw commended Hogg as the best qualified in the Forest to assist him in his researches; and Scott, who forthwith accompanied Laidlaw to Ettrick House, was more than gratified by an interview with the shepherd-bard. " He found," writes his biographer, " a brother poet, a true son of nature and genius, hardly conscious of his powers As yet, his naturally kind and simple character had not been exposed to any of the dangerous flatteries of the world : his heart was pure ; his enthusiasm buoyant as that of a happy child ; and well as Scott knew that reflection, sagacity, wit, and wisdom, were scattered abundantly among the humblest rangers of these pastoral solitudes, there was here a depth and a brightness that filled him with wonder, combined with a quaintness of humour, and a thousand little touches of absurdity, which afforded him more enter- tainment, as I have often heard him say, than the best comedy that ever set the pit in a roar." Scott remained several days in the Forest, daily accompanied in his excursions by Hogg and Laidlaw, both of whom rapidly warmed in his regard. From the recitation of the Shepherd's mother, he obtained important and interesting accessions to his Minstrelsy. With the exception of the song of " Donald Macdonald," Hogg had not jet pub- JAMES HOGG. 91 lished verses. His debut as an author was sufficiently unpropitious. Shortly after Scott's visit, he had been attending the Monday sheep-market in Edinburgh, and being unable to dispose of his entire stock, was necessitated to remain in the city till the following Wednesday. Having no acquaintances, he resolved to employ the interval in writing from recollection several of his poems for the press. Before his departure, he gave the pieces to a printer ; and shortly after, he received intimation that a thousand copies were ready for delivery. On comparing the printed sheets with his MSS. at Ettrick, he had the mortification to discover that many of the stanzas were omitted, that others were misplaced, and that typographical errors abounded in every page. The little brochure, imperfect as it was, sold rapidly in the district ; for the Shepherd had now a considerable circle of admirers, and those who had ridiculed his verse-making kept silent since Scott's visit to him. A copy of the pamphlet is preserved in the Advocates' Library : it consists of sixty-two pages octavo, and is entitled " Scottish Pastorals, Poems, Songs, &c., mostly written in the Dialect of the South, by James Hogg. Edinburgh : Printed by John Taylor, Grass- market, 1801. Price One Shilling." One of the longer ballads, " Willie and Keatie," supposed to be a narrative of one of his early amours, obtained a temporary popularity, and was copied into the periodicals. It is described by Allan Cunning- ham as a " plain, rough-spun pastoral, with some fine touches in it, to mark that better was coming." The domestic circumstances of the Shepherd were meanwhile not prosperous : he was compelled to abandon the farm of Ettrick House, which had been especially valuable to him, as affording a comfortable home to his venerated parents. In the hope of procuring a situation as an overseer of some extensive sheep-farm, he made several excursions into the northern Highlands, waiting upon many influential persons, to whom he had letters of recommendation. These journeys were advan- tageous in rendering him acquainted with many interesting scenes, and in storing his mind with images drawn from the sublimities of nature, but were of no account as concerned the object for which they were undertaken. Without procuring employ- ment, he returned, with reduced finances, to Ettrick Forest. He published a narra- tive of his travels in the Scots Magazine ; and composed two essays on the rearing and management of sheep, for the Highland Society, which were acknowledged with premiums. Frustrated in an attempt to procure a farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, he was led to indulge in the scheme of settling in the island of Harris. It was in the expectation of being speedily separated from the loved haunts of his youth, that he composed his " Farewell to Ettrick," one of the most pathetic ballads in the language. The Harris enterprise was not carried out ; and the poet, " to avoid a great many disagreeable questions and explanations," went for several months to England. Fortune still frowned, and the ambitious but unsuccessful son of genius had to return to his former subordinate occupation as a shepherd. He entered the employment of Mr Harkness of Mitchel- Slack, in Nithsdale. Dissatisfied with the imitations of ancient ballads in the third volume of " The Border Minstrelsy," Hogg proceeded to embody some curious traditions in this kind of composition. He transmitted specimens to Scott, who warmly commended them, and suggested their publication. The result appeared in the " Mountain Bard," a collection of poems and ballads, which he published in 1803, prefixed with an account of his life. From the profits of this volume, with the sum of eighty-six pounds paid him by Constable for the copyright of his two treatises on sheep, he became master of three hundred pounds. With this somewhat startling acquisition, visions of prosperity arose in his ardent and enthusiastic mind. He hastily look in lease the pastoral farm of Corfardin, in the Parish of Tynron, Dumfriesshire, to which he afterwards added 92 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. the lease of another large farm in the same neighbourhood. But misfortune still pursued him : he rented one of the farms at a sum exceeding its value, and his capital was much too limited for stocking the other, while a disastrous murrain decimated his flock. Within the space of three years, he was again a penniless adventurer. Removing from the farm-homestead of Corfardin, he accepted the generous invitation of his hospitable neighbour, Mr James Macturk of Stenhouse, to reside in his house till some suitable employment might occur. At Stenhouse he remained three months ; and he subsequently acknowledged the generosity of his friend, by honourably Celebrating him in the " Queen's "Wake." Writing to Mr Macturk, in 1814, he remarks, in reference to his fanning at Corfardin : " It pleased God to take away all my ewes and my lambs, and my long-horned cow, and my spotted bull ; for if they had lived, and if I had kept the farm of Corfardin, I had been a lost man to the world, and mankind should never have known the half that was in me. Indeed, I can never see the design of Providence in taking me to your district at all, if it was not to breed my acquaintance with you and yours, which I hope will be one source of happiness to me as long as I live. Perhaps the very circumstance of being initiated into the mysteries of your character,* is of itself a sufficient compensation for all that I suffered in your country." Disappointed in obtaining an ensigncy in a militia regiment, and frustrated in every other attempt to repair his circumstances, he returned to Ettrick, once more to seek employment as a shepherd. But if friendship had somewhat failed him on his proving unsuccessful at Ettrick House, his prestige was now completely gone : old friends received him coldly, and former employers declined his services. He found that, till he should redeem his reputation for business and good management, there was no home for him in Ettrick Forest. Hogg was not a man who would tamely surrender to the pressure of misfortune : amidst his losses he could claim the strictest honesty of intention, and he was not unconscious of his powers. With his plaid upon his shoulder, he reached Edinburgh in the month of February 1810, to begin, in his fortieth year, the career of a man of letters. The scheme was most adventurous, but the die was cast : he was in the position of the man on the tread-wheel, and felt that he must write or perish. It affords no matter of surprise that the Shepherd was received coldly by the booksellers, and that his offers of contributing to their periodicals were respectfully declined. His volume, " The Mountain Bard," had been forgotten ; and though his literary fitness had been undisputed, his want of success in life conveyed a doubt as to his general steadiness. Mr Constable, his former publisher, proved the most friendly : he consented to publish a collection of songs and ballads, which he had prepared, two-thirds being his own composition, and the remainder that of his ingenious friends. This publication, known as " The Forest Minstrel," had a slow sale, and conferred no benefit on the author. What the booksellers would not do for him, Hogg resolved to do for himself: he originated a periodical, which he designated The Spy, acting as his own publisher. The first number of this publication a quarto weekly sheet, price fourpence was issued on the first of September 1810. With varied popularity, this paper existed during the space of a year ; and owing to the perseverance of the conductor, might have subsisted a longer period, but for a certain ruggedness which disfigured it. As a whole, being chiefly the composition of a shepherd, who could only read at eighteen, and write at twenty-six, and who, to use his own words, " knew no more of human life or manners than a child," the work presented a remarkable record in the annals of literature. As a business concern, it * Mr Macturk is well remembered in Dumfriesshire as a person of remarkable shrewdness and unbounded generosity. JAMES HOGG. 93 did not much avail the projector, but it served indirectly towards improving his condition, by enabling him to acquire the habit of composing readily. From his literary exertions at Edinburgh, Hogg was long in deriving any sub- stantial emolument. In these circumstances, he was fortunate in possessing the friendship of Mr John Grieve, and his partner, Mr Henry Scott, hat manufacturers in the city, who, fully appreciating his genius, aided him with money as long as he required their assistance. These are his own words : " They suffered me to want for nothing, either in money or clothes, and I did not even need to ask these." To Mr Grieve, Hogg was especially indebted : six months he was an inmate of his house, and afterwards he occupied comfortable lodgings, secured him by his friend's benefi- cence. Besides these two invaluable benefactors, the Shepherd soon acquired the regard and friendship of several respectable men of letters, both in Edinburgh and elsewhere. As contributors to The Spy he could record the names of James Gray of the High School, and his accomplished wife ; Thomas Gillespie, afterwards Pro- fessor of Humanity at St Andrews; J. Black, subsequently of the Morning Chronicle; William Gillespie, minister of Kells; and John Sym, the renowned Timothy Tickler of the " Noctes." Of these literary friends, Mr James Gray, was the most devoted. This excellent individual, the friend of so many literary aspirants, was a native of Dunse, and had the merit of raising himself from humble circumstances to the office of a master in the High School of Edinburgh. Possessed of refined tastes, an enthu- siastic admirer of genius, and a poet himself,* Mr Gray entertained at his table the more esteemed wits of the capital ; he had extended the hand of hospitality to Burns, and he received with equal warmth the author of " The Forest Minstrel." In the exercise of disinterested hospitality, he was aided by his second wife, formerly Miss Peacock, who sympathised in the tastes of her husband, and took delight in literary society. They together made annual pedestrian excursions into the Highlands, and the narrative of their adventures proved a source of delightful instruction to their friends. Mr Gray, after a lengthened period of residence in Edinburgh, accepted, in the year 1821, the Professorship of Latin at Belfast. He subsequently took orders in the Church of England, and proceeded to India as a chaplain. In addition to his chaplaincy, he held the office of preceptor to one of the native princes of Hindostan. He died at Bhoog, in the kingdom of Cutch, on the 25th of September 1830; and if we add that he was a man of varied scholarship, his elegy may be transcribed from the " Queen's Wake : " " Alike to him the south and north, So high he held the minstrel worth ; So high his ardent mind was wrought, Once of himself he never thought. " As the circle of the poet's friends increased, a scheme was originated among thera of establishing a debating society for mutual improvement. This institution became known as the Forum; meetings were held weekly in a public hall of the city, and on a small payment strangers were admitted to the discussions. The meetings were uniformly crowded ; and the Shepherd, who held the office of secretary, made a point of taking a prominent lead in the discussions. He spoke once, and sometimes more frequently, at every meeting, making speeches, both studied and extemporaneous, on every variety of theme ; and especially contributed, by his rough-spun eloquence, to the popularity of the institution. The society existed three years; and though yielding the secretary no pecuniary emolument, proved an effective mean of adding to his general knowledge. * Mr Gray was the author of " Cona, or the Vale of the Clywyd," "A Sabbath among the Mountains," and other poems. 91 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Hogg now took an interest in theatricals, and produced two dramas, one of which, a sort of musical farce, was intended as a burlesque on the prominent members of the Forum, himself included. This he was induced, on account of the marked personali- ties, to confine to his repositories ; he submitted the other to Mr Siddons, who com- mended it, but it never was brought upon the stage. He was about to appear before the world in his happiest literary effort, " The Queen's Wake," a composition sug- gested by Mr Grieve. This ingenious individual had conceived the opinion that a republication of several of the Shepherd's ballads in The Spy, in connection with an original narrative poem, would arrest public attention ; while a narrative having reference to the landing of the beautiful and unfortunate Queen Mary, seemed likely to induce a general interest in the poem. _ The proposal, submitted to Allan Cun- ningham and Mr Gray, received their warm approbation ; and in a few months the composition was ready for the press. Mr Constable undertook the publication ; but a more advantageous offer being made by Mr George Goldie, a young bookseller, " The Queen's Wake" issued from his establishment in the spring of 1813. Its suc- cess was complete ; two editions were speedily circulated, and the fame of the author was established. With the exception of the Eclectic Review, every periodical accorded a warm approbation to the performance ; and vacillating friends, who began to doubt the Shepherd's power of sustaining the character he had assumed as a poet and a man of letters, ceased to entertain their misgivings, and accorded the warmest tributes to his genius. A commendatory article in the Edinburgh Review, in November 1814, hailed the advent of a third edition. By the unexpected insolvency of his publisher, while the third edition was in process of sale, Hogg had nearly sustained a recurrence of pecuniary loss. This was, however, fortunately prevented by the considerate beneficence of Mr Goldie's trustees, who, on receiving payment of the printing expenses, made over the remainder of the impression to the author. One of the trustees was Mr Blackwood, afterwards the publisher of Blackwood' s Edinburgh Magazine. Hogg had now attained the un- enviable reputation of a literary prodigy, and his studies were subject to constant interruption from admirers, and the curious who visited the capital. He gave all a cordial reception, and was never less accessible amidst the most arduous literary occiipation. There was one individual whose acquaintance he was especially desirous of forming ; this was John Wilson, whose poem, " The Isle of Palms," published in 1812, he warmly admired. Wilson had come to reside in Edinburgh during a portion of the year, but as yet had few acquaintances in the city. He was slightly known to Scott ; but a peculiarity of his M r as a hesitation in granting letters of introduction. In despair of otherwise meeting him, Hogg, who had reviewed his poem in the Scots Magazine, sent him an invitation to dinner, which the Lake-poet was pleased cordially to accept. That dinner began one of the most interesting of the Shepherd's f riendships : both the poets were pleased with each other, and the closest intimacy ensued. It was on his way to visit Wilson, at Elleray, his seat in Cumberland, during the autumn of 1814, that the Shepherd formed the acquaintance of the Poet- laureate. He had notified to Southey his arrival at one of the hotels in Keswiek, and begged the privilege of a visit. Southey promptly acknowledged his summons, and insisted on his remaining a couple of days at Greta Hall to share his hospitality. Two years could not have more firmly riveted their friendship. As a mark of his regard, on returning to Edinburgh, Hcgg sent the Laureate the third edition of " The Queen's Wake," then newly published, along with a copy of The Spy. In acknow- ledging the receipt of these volumes, Southey addressed the following letter to the Shepherd, published for the first time in the present work: JAMES HOGG. 95 " KESWICK, December 1, 1814. " DEAR HOGG, Thank you for your books. I will not say that ' The Queen's Wake ' has exceeded my expectations, because I have ever expected great things from you, since, in 1805, I heard Walter Scott, by his own fireside at Ashestiel, repeat ' Gilmanscleuch. ' * When he came to that line ' I ga'e him a' my goud, father' the look and the tone with which he gave it were not needed to make it go through me. But ' The Wake ' has equalled all that I expected. The improvements in the new edition are very great, and they are in the two poems which were most deserving of improvement, as being the most impressive and the most original. Each is excellent in its way, but ' Kilmeny ' is of the highest character; 'The Witch of Fife' is a real work of fancy 'Kilmeny' a fine one of imagination, which is a higher and rarer gift. These poems have given general pleasure throughout the house ; my eldest girl often comes out with a stanza or two of ' The Witch, ' but she wishes sometimes that you always wrote in English. The Spy I shall go through more at leisure. " I like your praise both of myself and my poem, because it conies from a good quarter. You saw me where and how a man is best seen at home, and in his every-day wear and tear mind and manners : I have no holiday suit, and never seek to shine : such as it is, my light is always burning. Somewhat of my character you may find in Chaucer's Clerk of ' Oxenford ; and the concluding line of that description might be written, as the fittest motto under my portrait ' Gladly would he learn, and gladly teach. ' I have sinned enough to make me humble in myself, and indulgent toward others. I have suffered enough to find in religion not merely consolation, but hope and joy ; and I have seen enough to be con- tented in, and thankful for, the state of life in which it has pleased God to place me. ' ' \Ye hoped to have seen you on your way back from Elleray. I believe you did not get the ballad of the ' Devil and the Bishop," which Hartley transcribed for you. I am re- printing my miscellaneous poems, collected into three volumes. Your projected publica- tiont will have the start of it greatly, for the first volume is not nearly through the press, and there is a corrected copy of the ballad, with its introduction, in Ballantyne's hands, which you can make use of before it will be wanted in its place. " You ask me why I am not intimate with Wilson. There is a sufficient reason in the distance between our respective abodes. I seldom go even to Wordsworth's or Lloyd's ; and Elleray is far enough from either of their houses, to make a visit the main business of a day. So it happens that, except dining in his company once at Lloyd's many years ago, and breakfasting with him here not long afterwards, I have barely exchanged salutations once or twice when we met upon the road. Perhaps, however, I might have sought him had it not been for his passion for cock-fighting. But this is a thing which I regard with abhorrence. " Would that 'Roderick' were in your hands for reviewing; I should desire no fairer nor more competent critic. But it is of little consequence what friends or enemies may do for it now ; it will find its due place in time, which is slow but sure in its decisions. From the nature of my studies, I may almost be said to live in the past ; it is to the future that I look for my reward, and it would be difficult to make any person who is not thoroughly intimate with me, understand how completely indifferent I am to the praiss or censure of the present generation, farther than as it may affect my means of subsistence, which, thank God ! it can no longer essentially do. There was a time when I was materially injured by unjust criticism ; but even then I despised it, from a confidence in myself, and a natural buoyancy of spirit. It cannot injure me now; but I cannot hold it in more thorough contempt. "Come and visit me when the warm weather returns. You can go nowhere that you will be more sincerely welcomed. And may God bless you. "EGBERT SOUTHEY." In -waging war with the Lake school of poetry, the Edinburgh Review had dealt harshly with Southey. His poems of " Madoc" and " The Curse of Kehama" had been rigorously censured ; and very shortly before the appearance of " Roderick," his " Triumphal Ode" for 1814, which was published separately, had been assailed with the same unmitigated severity. The Shepherd, who knew, notwithstanding the Laureate's professions of indifference to criticism, that his nature was sensitive, and who feared that the Review would treat " Roderick" as it had done Souther's previous productions, ventured to recommend him to evince a less avowed hostility to Jeffrey, in the hope of subduing the bitterness of his censure. The letter of Southey, in answer to this counsel, will prove interesting, in connection with the literary history * The ballad of "Gilmanscleuch" appeared in "The Mountain Bard." See "The Ettrick Shepherd's Poems," vol. ii., p. 203. Blackie & Son. t " The Poetic Mirror," for which the Shepherd had begun to collect contributions. 96 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. of the period. The Bard of Keswick had hardly advanced to that happy condition which he fancied he had reached, of being " indulgent toward others," at least under strong provocation : "KESWICK, ZithDec. 1814. " DEAR HOGG, I am truly obliged to you for the solicitude which you express con- cerning the treatment 'Roderick' may experience in the Edinburgh Review, and truly gratified by it, notwithstanding my perfect indifference as to the object in question. But you little know me, if you imagine that any thoughts of fear or favour would make me abstain from speaking publicly of Jeffrey as I think, and as he deserves. I despise his commendation, and I defy his malice. He crush the 'Excursion'!!!* Tell him that he might as easily crush Skiddaw. For myself, popularity is not the mark I shoot at ; if it were, I should not write such poems as ' Roderick ; ' and Jeffrey can no more stand in my way to fame than Tom Thumb could stand in my way in the street. He knows that he has dealt unfairly and maliciously by me ; he knows that the world knows it, that his very friends know it, and that if he attacks 'Roderick' as he did 'Madoc' and 'Kehama,' it will be universally imputed to personal ill-will. On the other hand, he cannot commend this poem without the most flagrant inconsistency. This would be confessing that he has wronged me in the former instances ; for no man will pretend to say that ' Madoc ' does not bear marks of the same hand as ' Roderick ;' it has the same character of language, thought, and feeling ; it is of the same ore and mint ; and if the one poem be bad, the other cannot possibly be otherwise. The irritation of the nettling (as you term it), which he has already received [a portion of the letter is torn off and lost]. . . . Whatever part he may take, my conduct, towards him will be the same. I consider him a public nuisance, and shall deal with him accordingly. " Nettling is a gentle term for what he has to undergo. In due season he shall be scorpioned and rattlesnaked. When I take him in hand it shall be to dissect him alive, and make a preparation of him to be exhibited in terrorem, an example to all future pretenders to criticism. He has a forehead of native brass, and I will write upon it with aqua-fortis. I will serve him up to the public like a turkey's gizzard, sliced, scored, peppered, salted, cayenned, grilled, and bedevilled. I will bring him to justice ; he shall be executed in prose, and gibbeted in verse. f . . . . . . ' . " ' Roderick ' has made good speed in the world, and ere long I shall send you the poem in a more commodious shape,! for Ballantyne is at this time reprinting it. I finished my official ode a few days ago. It is without rhyme, and as unlike other official odes in matter as in form ; for its object fs to recommend, as the two great objects of policy, general education and extensive colonization. At present I am chiefly occupied upon ' The History of Brazil,' which is in the press a work of great labour. "The ladies here all desire to be kindly remembered to you. I have ordered ' The Pilgrims of the Sun, ' and we look for it with expectation, which, I am sure, will not be disappointed. Gud bless you. Yours very truly, "ROBERT SOUTHEY." A review of " Roderick" appeared in the Edinburgh Review for June 1815, wliich, on the whole was favourable, so that the wrath of the Laureate was appeased. During the earlier period of his Edinburgh career, Hogg had formed the acquaint- ance of an estimable family in Athole, Mr and Mrs Izett, of Kinnaird House, and he had been in the habit of spending a portion of his time every summer at their hospitable residence. In the summer of 1814, while visiting there, he was seized with a severe cold, which compelled him to prolong his stay with his friends ; and Mrs Izett, who took a warm interest in his welfare, suggested that he might turn his * Jeffrey reviewed Wordsworth's " Excursion " in the Edinburgh. Review for November 1814, and had been extremely harsh in his criticism. t In a letter to Mr Grosvenor C. Bedford, dated Keswick, December 22, 1814, Southey thus writes : " Had you not better wait for Jeffrey's attack upon ' Roderick.' I have a most curious letter upon this subject from Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, a worthy fellow, and a man of very extraordinary powers. Living in Edin- burgh, he thinks Jeffrey the greatest man in the world an intellectual Bonaparte, whom nobody and nothing can resist. But Hogg, notwithstanding this, has fallen in liking with me, and is a great admirer of ' Roderick.' And this letter is to request that I will not do anything to nettle Jeffrey while he is deliberating concerning ' Roderick,' for he seems favourably disposed towards me ! Morbleu ! it is a rich letter ! Hogg requested that he himself might review it, and gives me an extract from Jeffrey's answer, refusing him. ' I have, as well as you, a great respect for Southey,' he says, ' but he is a most provoking fellow, and at least as conceited as his neighbour Wordsworth.' But he shall be happy to talk to Hogg upon this and other kindred subjects, and he should be very glad to give me a lavish allowance of praise, if I would afford him occasion, etc ; but he must do what he thinks his duty, etc. ! I laugh to think of the effect my reply will produce upon Hogg. How it will make every bristle to stand on end like quills upon the fretful porcupine ! " Life and Correspondence of Robert Southey, edited by his Son, vol. iv., p. 93. London : 6 vols. 8vo. t The first edition of " Roderick " was in quarto, a shape which the Shepherd deemed unsuitable for poetry. JAMES HOGG. 97 illness to account, by composing a poem, descriptive of the beauties of the surrounding scenery. The hint was sufficient : he commenced a descriptive poem in the Spenserian stanza, which was speedily completed, and given to the world under the title of " Mador of the Moor." It was well received ; and the author is correct in asserting that it contains " some of his highest and most fortunate efforts in rhyme." " The Pilgrims of the Sun" was his next poem ; it was originally intended as one of a series, to be contained in a poetical work, which he proposed to entitle " Midsummer Night Dreams," but which, on the advice of his friend, Mr James Park of Greenock, he was induced to abandon. From its peculiar strain, this poem had some difficulty in finding a publisher. It was ultimately published by Mr John Murray of London, who liberally recompensed the author. It was well received by the press. The circle of the Shepherd's literary friends rapidly extended. Lord Byron opened a correspondence with him, and continued to address him in familiar letters, such as were likely to interest a shepherd-bard. Unfortunately, these letters have been lost. Hogg became acquainted with Wordsworth in the summer of 1815, when that poet was on his first visit to Edinburgh. They met at the house, in Queen Street, of the mother of his friend Wilson ; and the Shepherd was at once interested and gratified by the intelligent conversation and agreeable manners of the great Lake- poet. They saw much of each other in the city, and afterwards journeyed together to St Mary's Loch ; and the Shepherd had the satisfaction of entertaining his dis- tinguished brother-bard with the homely fare of cakes and milk in his father's cottage at Ettrick. Wordsworth afterwards made the journey memorable in his poem of " Yarrow Visited." The poets temporarily separated at Selkirk Words- worth having secured the promise of a visit from his friend, at Mount Eydal, prior to his return to Edinburgh. The promise was fulfilled, and the Shepherd had the pleasure of meeting Lloyd, and De Quincey, and his friend Wilson. A portion of the autumn of 1815 was spent by the Shepherd at Elleray. In the letter inviting his visit (dated September 1815), the author of " The Isle of Palms" indicates his opinion of Hogg's literary influence by writing as follows : " If you have occasion soon to write to Murray,* pray introduce something about ' The City of the Plague,' as I shall probably offer him that poem in about a fortnight, or sooner. Of course, I do not wish you to say that the poem is utterly worthless. I think that a bold eulogy from you (if immediately administered), would be of service to me ; but if you do write about it, do not tell him that I have any intention of offering it to him, but you may say, you hear I am going to offer it to a London bookseller." The Shepherd's intimacy with the poets had induced him to entertain a somewhat plausible scheme of bettering his finances. He proposed to publish, in a handsome volume, a poem by each of the living bards of Great Britain. For this purpose, he had secured compositions from Southey, Wilson, Wordsworth, Lloyd, Morehead, Pringle, and some others; and had received promises of contributions from Lord Byron and Samuel Rogers. The plan was frustrated by Scott. He was opposed to his appearing to seek fresh laurels from the labours of others, and positively refused to make a contribution. This sadly mortified the Shepherd, f and entirely altered his plans. He now had recourse to a peculiar method of realising his original inten- tion. In the short period of four weeks, he produced imitations of the more con- spicuous bards, which appeared in a volume entitled " The Poetic Mirror." This work was eminently successful, the first edition disappearing in six weeks. The * Murray of Albemarle Street, the famous publisher. t Hogg evinced his strong displeasure with Sir Walter for his refusal, by writing him a violent letter, and withdrawing from his society for several months. The kind inquiries which his old benefactor had made regard- ing him during a severe illness, afterwards led to a complete reconciliation, the Shepherd apologising by letter for his former rashness, and his illustrious friend telling him " to think no more of the business, and come to breakfast next morning." 98 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. imitations of the bards were pronounced perfect, only that of Wordsworth was intentionally a caricature. The Shepherd had been provoked to it by a conceived slight of the Lake-poet, during his visit at Mount Eydal.* " The Poetic Mirror" appeared in 1816; and in the following year the Shepherd struck out a new path, by publishing two duodecimo volumes of " Dramatic Tales. ' ; This work was unsuccessful. In. 1813 he had dedicated his " Forest Minstrel" to the Countess of Dalkeith ; and this excellent woman, afterwards better known as Harriet Duchess of Buccleuch, had acknowledged the compliment by a gift of a hundred guineas. The Shepherd was, however, desirous of procuring the means of comfortable self-support, independently of his literary exertions, and had modestly preferred the request that he might receive a small farm in lease on the Buccleuch estates. The request was responded to. The Duchess, who took a deep interest in him, made a request to the Duke, on her death-bed, that something might be done for her proteg6. After her decease, the late Charles Duke of Buccleuch gave the Shepherd a life-lease of the farm of Altrive Lake, in Yarrow, at a nominal rent, no portion of which was ever exacted. The Duke subsequently honoured him with his personal friendship, and made him frequently share of his hospitality. From the time of his abandoning The Spy, Hogg had contemplated the publi- cation of a periodical on an extended scale. At length, finding a coadjutor in Mr Thomas Pringle, he explained their united proposal to his friend, Mr Blackwood, the publisher, who approved of the design. Preliminaries were arranged, and the after- wards celebrated Blackwood' s Magazine took its origin. Hogg was now resident at Altrive, and the editorship was entrusted to Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn. The vessel had scarcely been launched on the ocean of letters when storms arose ; hot disputes occurred between the publisher and the editors, which terminated in the withdrawal of the latter from the concern, and their forming a connection with the Edinburgh Magazine, an opposition periodical established by Mr Constable. The combating parties had referred to the Shepherd, who was led to accord his support to Mr Blackwood. He conceived the idea of the " Chaldee Manuscript," as a means of ridiculing the oppositionists. Of this famous satire, the first thirty-seven verses of the first chapter were his own composition, the remaining portion being the joint fabrication of his friends Wilson and Lockhart.f This singular production produced a profound sensation ; and though, from the evident personalities and the keenness of the satire, it had to be cancelled, so that a copy in the pages of the magazine is now a rarity, it sufficiently attained the purpose of directing public attention to the new periodical. The " Chaldee Manuscript " appeared in the seventh number of Black- wood's Magazine, published in October 1817. To the magazine Hogg continued to be a regular contributor ; and, among other interesting compositions, both in prose and verse, he produced in its pages his " Shepherd's Calendar." His connection with this popular periodical is more generally known from the position assigned him in the " Noctes Ambrosianee" of Professor Wilson. In those interesting dialogues, the Shepherd is represented as a character of marvellous shrewdness and sagacity, whose observations on men and manners, life and literature, uttered, as they are, in the homeliest phrases, contain a deep philosophy and most vigorous criticism. " In wisdom," writes Professor Ferrier, " the Shepherd equals the Socrates of Plato ; in humour, he surpasses the Falstaff of Shakespeare ; clear and prompt, he might have stood up against Dr Johnson in close and peremptory argument ; fertile and copious, he might have rivalled Burke in amplitude of declamation; while his opulent imagination and powers of comical description invest all that he utters, either with a * See Hogg's autobiography, prefixed to the fifth volume of Blackie's izmo edition of his poems, p. 107. t See the works of Professor Wilson, edited by his son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, vol. i., p. xvi. Edinburgh : 1855. 8vo. JAMES HOGG. 99 picturesque mildness or a graphic quaintness peculiarly bis own." These remarks, applicable to the Shepherd of the " Noctes," would indeed be much overstrained if applied to their prototype ; yet it is equally certain that the leading features of the ideal Shepherd were depicted from those of the living Shepherd of Ettrick, by one who knew well how to estimate and appreciate human nature. On taking possession of his farm of Altrive Lake, which extended to about seventy acres, Hogg built a small cottage on the place, in which he sheltered his aged father, his mother having been called to her rest. In the stocking of the farm, he received very considerable assistance from the profits of a guinea edition of " The Queen's Wake," of which the subscription-list was zealously promoted by Sir Walter Scott. At Altrive he continued literary composition with unabated ardour. In 1817, he published " The Brownie of Bodsbeck," a tale of the period of the Covenant, which attained a considerable measure of popularity. In 1819, he gave to the world the first volume of his " Jacobite Relics," the second volume not appearing till 1821. This work, which bears evidence of extensive research, was favourably received ; the notes are very copious, and many of the pieces, which are set to music, have long been popular. His " Winter Evening Tales" appeared in 1820 : several of them were composed on the hills in early life. The worldly circumstances of the Shepherd were such as rendered him abundantly justifiable in entering into the married state. On the 28th April 1820, he espoused Miss Margaret Phillips, the youngest daughter of Mr Phillips, late of Longbridgemoor, in Annandale. By this union he became brother-in-law of his friend Mr James Gray, whose first wife was a sister of Mrs Hogg. At the period of his marriage, from the profits of his writings and his wife's dowry, he was master of nearly a thousand pounds and a -well-stocked farm ; and increasing annual gains by his writings seemed to augur future independence. But the Shepherd, not perceiving that literature was his forte, resolved to embark further in farming speculations : he took in lease the extensive farm of Mount Benger, adjoining Altrive Lake, expending his entire capital in the stocking. The adventure proved almost ruinous. The coronation of George IV. was fixed to take place on the 19th of July 1821 ; and Sir Walter Scott, having resolved to be among the spectators, invited the Shepherd to accompany him to London on the occasion. Through Lord Sidmouth, the Secre- tary of State, he had procured accommodation for Hogg at the pageant, which his lordship had granted, with the additional favour of inviting both of them to dinner, to meet the Duke of York on the following day. The Shepherd had, however, begun to feel enthusiastic as a farmer, and preferred to attend the sheep-market at St Boswells. For this seeming lack of loyalty, he afterwards made ample compensation : he celebrated the King's visit to Scotland, in August 1822, in " A Masque or Drama," which was published in a separate form. A copy of this production being laid before the King by Sir Walter Scott, Sir Robert Peel, then Secretary of State, received his Majesty's gracious command suitably to acknowledge it. In his official communica- tion, Sir Robert thanked the Shepherd, in the King's name, " for the gratifying proof of h.is genius and loyalty." It had been Scott's desire to obtain a Civil List pension for the Shepherd, to aid him in his struggles at Mount Benger ; and it was with something like hope that he informed him that Sir Robert Peel had expressed him- self pleased with his writings. But the pension was never obtained. Harassed by pecuniary difficulties, Hogg wrote rapidly, with the view of relieving himself. In 1822, he published a new edition of his best poems, in four volumes, for which he received the sum of .200 ; and in this and the following year, he produced two works of fiction, entitled " The Three Perils of Man" and " The Three Perils of Women," which together yielded him 300. In 1824, he published " The Confes- 100 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. sions of a Fanatic ;" and, in 1826, he gave to the world iis long narrative poem of " Queen Hynde." The last proved unequal to his former poetical efforts. In 1826, Mr J. G. Lockhart proceeded to London to edit the Quarterly Review, taking along with him, as his assistant, Robert Hogg, a son of the Shepherd's elder brother. The occasion afforded the poet an opportunity of renewing his correspondence with his old friend, Allan Cunningham. Allan wrote to him as follows : "27 LOWER BELGRAVE PLACE, 16th Feb. 1826. "MY DEAR JAMES, It required neither present of book, nor friend, nor the recalling of old scenes, to render your letter a most welcome one. You are often present to my heart and fancy, for your genius and your friendliness have secured you a place in both. Your nephew- is a fine, modest, and intelligent young man, and is welcome to my house for his own sake as well as yours. Your ' Queen Hynde/ for which I thank you, carries all the vivid marks of your own peculiar cast of genius about her. One of your very happiest little things is in the Souvenir of this season it is pure and graceful, warm, yet delicate ; and we have nought in the language to compare to it, save everybody's ' Kilmeny.' In other portions of verse you have been equalled, and sometimes surpassed ; but in scenes which are neither on earth, nor wholly removed from it where fairies speak, and spiritual creatures act, you are unrivalled. " Often do I tread back to the foot of old Queensberry,* and meet you coming down amid the sunny rain, as I did some twenty years ago. The little sodded shealing where we sought shelter rises now on my sight your two dogs (old Hector was one) lie at my feet the ' Lay of the Last Minstrel ' is in my hand, for the first time, to be twice read over after sermon, as it really was poetry, nothing but poetry, is our talk, and we are supremely happy. Or, I shift the scene to Thornhill, and there, whilst the glass goes round, and lads sing and lasses laugh, we turn our discourse on verse, and still our speech is song. Pqetry had then a charm for us, which has since been sobered down. I can now meditate without the fever of enthusiasm upon me ; yet age to youth owes all or most of its happiest aspirations, and con- tents itself with purifying and completing the conceptions of early years. " We are both a little older and a little graver than we were some twenty years ago, when we walked in glory and joy on the side of old Queensberry. My wife is much the same in look as when you saw her in Edinburgh at least so she seems to me, though five boys and a girl might admonish me of change of loss of bloom, and abatement of activity. My oldest boy resolves to be a soldier ; he is a clever scholar, and his head has been turned by Ctesar. My second and third boys are in Christ's School, and are distinguished in their classes ; they climb to the head, and keep their places. The other three are at their mother's knee at home, and have a strong capacity for mirth and mischief. "I have not destroyed my Scottish poem. I mean to remodel it, and infuse into it something more of the spark of living life. But my pen has of late strayed into the regions of prose. Poetry is too much its own reward ; and one cannot always write for a barren smile, and a thriftless clap on the back. We must live ; and the white bread and the brown can only be obtained by gross payment. There is no poet and a wife and six children fed now like the prophet Elijah they are more likely to be devoured by critics than fed by ravens. I cannot hope that Heaven will feed me and mine while I sing. So farewell to song for a season. " My brother's + want of success has surprised me too. He had a fair share of talent ; and, had he cultivated his powers with care, and given himself fair play, his fate would have been different. But he sees nature rather through a curious medium than with the tasteful eye of poetry, and must please himself with the praise of those who love singular and curious things. I have said nothing all this while of Mrs Hogg, though I might have said much, for we hear her household prudence and her good taste often commended. She comes, too, from my own dear country a good assurance of a capital wife and an affectionate mother. My wife and I send her and you most friendly greetings. We hope to see you both in Lon- don during the summer. " You nave written much, but you must write more yet. What say you to a series of poems in your own original way, steeped from end to end in Scottish superstition, but purified from its grossness by your own genius and taste ? Do write me soon. I have a good mind to come and commence shepherd beside you, and aid you in making a yearly pastoral Gazette in prose and verse for our ain native Lowlands. The thing would take. "The evil news of Sir Walter's losses came on me like an invasion. I wish the world would do for him now w^hat it will do in fifty years, when it puts up his statue in every town let it lay out its money in purchasing an estate, as the nation did to the Duke of Welling- ton, and money could never be laid out more worthily. I remain, dear James, your very faithful friend, " ALLAN CUNNINGHAM." * When the Shepherd was tending the flocks of Mr Harkness of Mitchelslack, on the great hill of Queens- berry, in Nithsdale. he was visited by Allan Cunningham, then a lad of eighteen, who came to see him, moved with admiration for his genius. (See Memoir of Allan Cunningham, posted). t Thomas Mouncey Cunningham. See postea. JAMES HOGG. 10.1 One of the parties chiefly aggrieved in the matter of the Chaldee MS. was Thomas Pringle, one of the original editors of Blackivood. This ingenious person had lately returned from a period of residence in Southern Africa, and established himself in London as secretary to the Slave Abolition Society, and as a man of letters. For- getting past differences, he invited the Shepherd, in the following letter, to aid him in certain literary enterprises : "LONDON, May 19, 1827. " MY DEAR SIR, I wrote you a hasty note some time ago, to solicit your literary aid for the projected work of Mr Fraser. I now address you on behalf of two other friends of mine, who are about to start a new weekly publication, something in the shape of the Literary Gazette, to be entitled The London Review. The editors are Mr D. L. Richardson, the author of a volume of poems chiefly written in India, and a Mr St John, a young gentleman of very superior talents, whose name has not yet been (so far as I know) before the public, though he has been a contributor to several of the first-rate periodicals. I have no other interest in the work myself than that of a friend and contributor. The editors, knowing that I have the pleasure of your acquaintance, have requested me to solicit your aid to their work, either in verse or prose, and they will consider themselves pledged to pay for any contribution with which you may honour them at the same rate as Blackwood. May I hope, my dear sir, that you will, at all events, stretch a point to send them something for their first miniber, which is to appear in the beginning of June ?..'.. "I always read your 'Nodes,' and have had many a hearty laugh with them in the interior of Southern Africa ; for though I detest Blackwood's politics, and regret to see often such fine talents so sadly misapplied (as I see the matter), yet I have never permitted my own political predilections, far less any reminiscences of old magazine squabbles, to blind me to the exuberant flow of genius which pervades and beautifies so many delightful articles in that magazine Believe me always, dear Hogg, yours very truly, " THO. PRINGLE." A similar request for contributions was made the year following by William Howitt. His letter is interesting, as exhibiting the epistolary style of a popular writer. Howitt, it will be perceived, is a member of the Society of Friends. "NOTTINGHAM, 12th mo., 20th, 1828. "RESPECTED FRIEND, Herewith I forward, for thy acceptance, two small volumes, as a trifling testimony of the high estimation in which we have long held thy writings. So great was our desire to see thee when my wife and I were, a few springs ago, making a ramble on foot throiTgh some parts of your beautiful country, that nothing but the most contrary winds of circumstance prevented us. ' ' I am now preparing for the press ' The Book of the Seasons, ' a volume of prose and poetry, intended to furnish the lover of nature with a remembrancer, to put him in mind, on the opening of each month, of what he may look for in his garden, or his country walks ; a notice of all remarkable in the round of the seasons, and the beautiful in scenery, of all that is pleasant in rural sights, sounds, customs, and occupations. I hope to make it, if I am favoured with health, in a little time, both a pleasant and original volume, and one which may do its mite towards strengthening and diffusing that healthful love of nature which is so desirable in a great commercial country like this, where our manufacturing population are daily spreading over its face, and cut off themselves from the animating and heart-preserving influence of nature, are also swallowing up our forests and heaths, those free, and solitary, and picturesque places, which have fostered the soul of poetry in so many of our noble spirits. I quite envy thy residence in so bold and beautiful a region, where the eye and the foot may wander, without being continually offended and obstructed by monotonous hedge-rows, and abominable factories. If thou couldst give, from the ample stores of thy observant mind, a slight sketch or two of anything characteristic of the seasons, in mountainous scenery especially, I shall regard them as apples of gold. I am very anxious to learn whether any particular customs or festivities are kept up in the sheep- districts of Scotland at sheep-shearing time, as were wont of old all over England; and where is there a man who could solve such a problem like thyself? I am sensible of the great boldness of my request ; but as my object is to promote the love of nature, I am willing to believe that I am not more influenced by such a feeling than thou art. I intend to have the book got out in a handsome manner, and to have it illustrated with woodcuts, by the best artists ; being more desirous to give to others that ardent attachment to the beauties of the country that has clung to me from a boy, and for the promotion of which all our real poets are so distinguished, than to realise much profit. Anything that thou couldst send me aboxit your country life, or the impression which the scenery makes upon a poetical mind at different seasons, on your heaths and among your hills, I should be proud to 102 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. . ,_. acknowledge, and should regard as the gems of my book. "Whether or not, however, it be practicable or agreeable to thee, I hope to have the pleasure of presenting thee a copy of the work when it is out. Mary requests me to present to thee her respectful regards ; and allow me to subscribe myself, with great respect, thy friend, "W. HOWITT." In 1829, on the expiry of his lease, Hogg relinquished the farm of Mount Benger, and returned to his former residence at Altrive. Rumour, ever ready to propagate tales of misfortune, had busily circulated the report that, a completely ruined man, he had again betaken himself to literary labours in the capital. In this belief, Mr Tennant, author of " Anster Fair," addressed to him the following characteristic letter, intended, by its good-humoured pleasantries, to soothe him in his contendings with adversity : " DEVON-GROVE, 27th June 1829. " MY DEAR FRIEND JAMES HOGG, I have never seen, spoken, whispered to, handled, or smelt you. since the King's visit in 1822, when I met you in Edinburgh streets, and inhaled, by juxtaposition, your sweet fraternal breath. How the Fates have since sundered us ! How have you been going on, fattening and beautifying from one degree to another of poetical perfection, while 1 have, under the chilling shade of the Oehil Hills, been dwindling down from one degree of poetical extenuation to another, till at length I am become the very shadow and ghost of literary leanness ! I should now wish to see you, and compare you as you are now with what you were in your ' Queen's Wake ' days. For this purpose, I would be very fain you would condescend to pay us a visit. I see you, indeed, at times, in the Literary Journal; I see you in Blackwood, lighting, and reaping a harvest of beautiful black eyes from the fists of Professor John Wilson. I see you in songs, in ballads, in calendars. I see you in the postern of time long elapsed. I see you in the looking-glass of my own facetious and song-recalling memory but I should wish to see you in the real, visible, palpable, smellable beauty of your own person, standing before me in my own house, at my own fireside, in all the halo of your poetical radiance ! Come over, then, if possible, my dear Shepherd, and stay a night or two with us. You may tarry with your friend, Mr Bald, one afternoon or so by the way, and explore the half-forgotten treasures of the Shakespeare cellars* but you may rest yourself under the shadow of the Ochil Hills a longer space, and enjoy the beauties of our scenery, and, such as it is, the fulness of our hospitality, which, believe me, will be spouted out upon you freely and rejoicingly. "To be serious in speech, I really wish you would take a trip up this way some time during the summer. I understand you are settled in Edinburgh, and in that thought have now addressed you. If I am wrong, write me. Indeed, write me at any rate, as I would wish again to see your fist at least, though the Fates should forbid my seeing your person here. But I think you would find some pleasure in visiting again your Alloa friends, to say nothing of the happiness we should have in seeing you at Devongrove Be sure to write to me now, James, in answer to this ; and believe me to be, ever most sincerely yours, "Wit. TKXXANT." The Shepherd's next literary undertaking was an edition of Burns, published at Glasgow. In this task he had an able coadjutor in the poet Motherwell. In 1831, he published a collected edition of his 1 songs, which received a wide circulation. On account of some difference with Blackwood, he proceeded in December of that year to London, with the view of effecting an arrangement for the republication of his whole works. His reception in the metropolis was worthy of his fame : he was courted by all the literary circles, and feted at the tables of the nobility. A great festival, attended by nearly two hundred persons, including noblemen, members of Parliament, and men of letters, was given him in Freemason's Hall, on the anniversary of the birthday of Burns. The duties of chairman were discharged by Sir John Malcolm, who had the Shepherd on his right hand, and two sons of Burns on his left. After dinner, the Shepherd brewed punch in the punch-bowl of Burns, which was brought to the banquet by its owner, Mr Archibald Hastie, M.P. for Paisley. He obtained a * The Shakespeare Club of Alloa, which is here referred to, took its origin early in the century being composed of admirers of the illustrious dramatist, and lovers of general literature in that place. The anni- versary meeting was usually held on the 23d April, generally supposed to be the birthday of the poet. The Shepherd was laureate of the club, and was present at many of the meetings. On these occasions he shared the hospitality of Mr Alexander Bald of Craigward Cottage " the Father of the Club," and one of his own attached literary friends JAMES HOGG. 103 publisher for his works in the person of Mr James Cochrane, an enterprising book- seller in Pall Mall, who issued the first volume of the series on the 31st of March 1832, under the designation of the " Altrive Tales." By the unexpected failure of the publisher, the series did not proceed, so that the Shepherd derived no substantial advantage from his London visit. Recent reverses had somewhat depressed his literary ardour ; and, though his immediate embarrassments were handsomely relieved by private subscriptions and a donation from the Literary Fund, he felt indisposed vigorously to renew his literary labours. He did not reappear as an author till 1834, when he published a volume of essays on religion and morals, under the title of " Lay Sermons on Good Principles and Good Breeding." This work was issued from the establishment of Mr James Fraser, of Regent Street. In the May number of Blackwood's Magazine for 1834, he again appeared before the public in the celebrated Noctes, which had been discontinued for upwards of two years, owing to his misunderstanding with Mr Blackwood. On this subject we are privileged to publish the following letter, addressed to him by Professor Wilson : " 30th April. "MY DEAR MR HOGG, After frequent reflection on the estrangement that has so long subsisted between those who used to be such good friends, I have felt convinced that I ought to put an end to it on my own responsibility. Without, therefore, asking either you or Mr Blackwood, I have written a 'Nodes,' in which my dear Shepherd again appears. I hope you will think I have done right. I intend to write six within the year ; and it is just, and no more than just, that you should receive five guineas a sheet. Enclosed is that sum for No. I. of the new series. " If you will, instead of writing long tales, for which at present there is no room, write a ' Series of Letters to Christopher North,' or, ' Flowers and Weeds from the Forest,' or, ' My Life at Altrive,' embodying your opinions and sentiments on all things, angling, shooting, curling, &c., &c., in an easy characteristic style, it will be easy for you to add 50 per annum to the 50 which you will receive for your Noctes.' I hope you will do so. ' ' I have taken upon myself a responsibility which nothing but the sincerest friendship could have induced me to do. You may be angry ; you may misjudge my motives ; yet hardly can I think it. Let the painful in the past be forgotten, and no allusion ever made " to it ; and for the future, I shall do all I can to prevent anything happening that can be disagreeable to your feelings. With kind regards to Mrs Hogg and family, I am ever most sincerely and affectionately yours, "JOHN WILSON." During the summer after his return from London, Hogg received what he accounted his greatest literary honour. He was entertained at a public dinner, attended by many of the distinguished literary characters both of Scotland and the sister king- dom. The dinner took place at Peebles, the chair being occupied by Professor Wilson. In reply to the toast of his health, he pleasantly remarked, that he had courted fame on the hill-side and in the city ; and now, when he looked around and saw so many distinguished individuals met together on his account, he could exclaim, that surely he had found it at last ! The career of the Bard of Ettrick was drawing to a close. His firm and well-built frame was beginning to surrender under the load of anxiety, as well as the pressure of years. Subsequent to his return from London, a perceptible change had occurred in his constitution, yet he seldom complained ; and, even as late as April 1835, he gave to the world evidence of mental vigour, by publishing a work in three volumes, under the title of " Montrose Tales." This proved to be his last publication. The symptoms of decline rapidly increased; and, though he ventured to proceed, as was his usual habit, to the moors in the month of August, he coxild hardly enjoy the pleasures of a sportsman. He became decidedly worse in the month of October, and was at length obliged to confine himself to bed. After a severe illness of four weeks, he died on the 21st of November, " departing this life," writes William Laidlaw, "as 104 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. calmly, and, to appearance, with as little pain, as if he had fallen asleep, in his grey plaid, on the side of the moorland rill." He had attained his sixty-fifth year. The funeral was numerously attended. Professor Wilson stood uncovered at the grave after the rest of the company had retired, and consecrated by his tears the green sod of his friend's last resting-place. With the exception of Bums and Sir Walter Scott, never did Scottish bard receive more tributes to his memory. He had had some variance with Wordsworth ; but this venerable poet, forgetting the past, became the first to lament his departure. The following verses from his pen appeared in the Athenaeum of the 12th of December : "When first descending from the moorlands, I saw the stream of Yarrow glide, Along a bare and open valley, The Ettrick Shepherd was my guide. " When last along its banks I wander 'd, Through groves that had begun to shed Their golden leaves upon the pathway, My steps the Border Minstrel led. " The mighty minstrel breathes no longer, 'Mid mouldering ruins low he lies ; And death, upon the braes of Yarrow, Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes. * * * * * " No more of old romantic sorrows, For slaughter'd youth or love-lorn maid, With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, And Ettrick mourns with her their Shepherd dead ! " Within two bow-shots of the place where lately stood the cottage of his birth, the remains of James Hogg are interred in the churchyard of Ettrick. At the grave a plain tombstone to his memory was erected by his widow. " When the dark clouds of winter," writes Mr Scott Biddell, " pass away from the crest of Ettrick-pen, and the summits of the nearer-lying mountains, which surround the scene of his repose, and the yellow gowan opens its bosom by the banks of the mountain stream, to welcome the lights and shadows of the spring returning over the land, many are the wild daisies which adorn the turf that covers the remains of THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. And a verse of one of the songs of his early days, bright and blissful as they were, is thus strikingly verified, when he says : 1 Flow my Ettrick ! it was thee Into my life that first did drop me ; Thee I'll sing, and when I dee, Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me. Pausing swains will say, and weep, Here our Shepherd lies asleep. ' " In 1858, it occurred to the editor of this work to propose the erection of a public monument to the great Shepherd, in the Forest of Ettrick. The proposal being cordially entertained, the sum of 400 was subscribed. The amount was sufficient to raise an elegant monumental statue of the poet, on a beautiful site, by the margin of St Mary's Lake. The monument was inaugurated on the 28th of June 1860, in the presence of a vast concourse of spectators. At a banquet provided on the occa- sion to the subscribers and their friends by the owner of the site, the merits of the Shepherd were portrayed by those who had enjoyed his personal intimacy, and were familiar with his writings. The poet's statue, elegantly sculptured by Mr Andrew JAMES HOGG. Currie, a native of Ettrick Forest, represents the bard seated on an oak root, and iti the attitude of contemplation. The figure rests on a pedestal, about ten feet in height, adorned with appropriate inscriptions and emblems. Hogg was, in youth, particularly good-looking. A severe illness somewhat changed the form of his features. His countenance* presented the peculiarity of a straight cheek-bone ; his forehead was capacious and elevated, and his eye remarkable for its vivacity. His hair, in advanced life, became dark brown, mixed with grey. He was rather above the middle height, and was well built ; his chest was broad, his shoulders square, and his limbs well rounded. He disliked foppery, but was always neat in his apparel : on holidays he wore a suit of black. Forty years old ere he began to mix in the circles of polished life, he never attained a knowledge of the world and its ways : in all his transactions he retained the simplicity of the pastoral character. His Autobiography is the most amusing in the language : never before did man of letters so minutely reveal the history of his foibles. He was benevolent ; the homeless wanderer was sure of shelter under his roof, and the poor of some provision by the way. Towards his aged parents his affection was of the most devoted kind. Hospitable even to a fault, every visitor received his kindly welcome, and his visitors were more numerous than those of any other man of letters in the land.t Fond of conviviality, he loved the intercourse of congenial minds: the voice of friendship was always more precious to him than the claims of business. He was possessed of a good musical ear, and loved to sing the ballads of his youth, with several of his own songs ; and the enthusiasm with which he sung compensated for the somewhat discordant nature of his voice. A night with the Shepherd was an event to be remembered. He was zealous in the cause of education : he built a school at Altrive, and partly endowed a schoolmaster, for the benefit of the district. A Jacobite as respected the past, he was in the present a devoted loyalist; he had shuddered at the atrocities of the French Revolution, and apprehended danger from precipitate reform; his politics were strictly conservative. He was earnest on the subject of religion, and regular in his attendance upon Divine ordinances. When a shepherd, he had been in the habit of conducting worship in the family during the absence or indisposition of his employer, and he was careful in impressing the sacredness of the duty upon his own children. During his London visit, he prepared and printed a small book of prayers and hymns for the use of his family, which he dedicated to them as a New Year's gift. These prayers are eminently devotional, and all his hymns breathe the language of fervency and faith. It is the lot of men of genius to suffer from the shafts of calumny and detraction. The reputation of James Hogg has thus bled. Much has been said to his prejudice by those who understood not the simple nature of his character, and were incapable of forming an estimate of the principles of his life. He has been accused J of doing an injury to the memory of Sir Walter Scott, one of his best benefactors ; to which it might be a sufficient reply, that he was incapable of perpetrating an ungenerous act. But how stands the fact? Hogg strained his utmost efforts to do honour to the dust of his illustrious friend ! He published reminiscences of him in a small volume, and in such terms as the following did he pronounce his eulogy : " He had a clear head as well as a benevolent heart ; was a good man, an anxiously kind husband, an indulgent parent, and a sincere, forgiving friend; a just judge, and a punctual correspondent. fafle Mr Blackwood; the third by a London artist for Allan Cunningham; and the fourth by Mr James Scott of Edinburgh, for the poet himself. t See " Memoir and Correspondence of Mrs Grant of Laggan." 1844. J See Lockhart's " Life of Sir Walter Scott." 106 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Such is the man we have lost, and such a man we shall never see again. He was truly an extraordinary man, the greatest man in the world."* Was ever more panegyrical language used in biography ? But Hogg ventured to publish his recollections of his friend, instead of supplying them for the larger biography ; per- haps some connexion may be traced between this fact and the indignation of Scott's literary executor ! Possessed, withal, of a genial temper, he was sensitive of affront, and keen in his expressions of displeasure ; he had his hot outbursts of anger with Wilson and Wordsworth, and even with Scott, on account of supposed slights, but his resentment speedily subsided, and each readily forgave him. He was somewhat vain of his celebrity, but what shepherd had not been vain of such achievements? Next to Robert Burns, the Ettrick Shepherd is unquestionably the most distin- guished of Scottish bards, sprung from the ranks of the people : in the region of the supernatural he stands alone. A child of the forest, nursed amidst the wilds and tutored among the solitudes of nature, his strong and vigorous imagination had received impressions from the mountain, the cataract, the torrent, and the wilderness, and was filled with pictures and images of the mysterious, which those scenes were calculated to awaken. " Living for years in solitude," writes Professor Wilson,T " he unconsciously formed friendships with the springs, the brooks, the caves, the hills, and with all the more fleeting and faithless pageantry of the sky, that to him came in place of those human affections, from whose indulgence he was debarred by the necessities that kept him aloof from the cottage fire, and up among the mists on the mountain top. The still green beauty of the pastoral hills and vales where he passed his youth inspired him with ever-brooding visions of fairy-land, till, as he lay musing in his lonely shieling, the world of phantasy seemed, in the clear depths of his imagi- nation, a lovelier reflection of that of nature, like the hills and heavens more softly shining in the water of his native lake." Hogg was in his element, as he revelled amid the supernatural, and luxuriated in the realms of faery : the mysterious gloom of superstition was lit up into brilliancy by the potent wand of his enchantment, and before the splendour of his genius. His ballad of " Kilmeny," in the " Queen's Wake," is the emanation of a poetical mind evidently of the most gifted order ; never did bard conceive a finer fairy tale, or painter portray a picture of purer or more spiritual and exquisite sweetness. " The Witch of Fife,'' another ballad in the " Wake," has scarcely a parallel in wild unearthliness and terror ; and we know not if sentiments more spiritual or sublime are to be found in any poetry than in some passages of " The Pilgrims of the Sun." His ballads and songs are sweet and musical, and replete with pathos and pastoral dignity. Though he had written only " When the kye conies name," and " Flora Macdonald's Lament," his claims to an honoured place in the temple of Song had been unquestioned. As a prose-writer, he does not stand high : many of his tales are interesting in their details, but they are often disfigured by a rugged coarseness ; yet his pastoral experiences in the " Shep- herd's Calendar " will continue to find readers while a love for rural habits, and the arts of pastoral life, finds a dwelling in the Scottish heart. Of the Shepherd, it has been recorded by one % who knew him well, that at the time of his death he had certainly the youngest heart of all who had ever attained his age : he was possessed of a buoyancy which misfortune might depress, but could not subdue. To the close of his career, he rejoiced in the sports and exercises of his youth ; in his best days he had, in the games of leaping and running, been usually victorious in the annual competitions at Eskdalemuir ; in his advanced years, he was constituted judge at the annual Scottish games at Innerleithen. A sportsman, he * "The Domestic Memoirs and Private Life of Sir Walter Scott, by James Hogs," P- II8 - Glasgow, 1834. i6mo. t Blackwootfs Magazine, vol. iv., p. 521. \ Mr H. S. Riddell. JAMES HOGG. 107 was famous alike on the moor and by the river ; the report of his musket was familiar on his native hills ; and hardly a stream in south or north but had yielded him their finny brood. By young authors he was frequently consulted, and he entered with en- thusiasm into their concerns ; many poets ushered their volumes into the world under his kindly patronage. He had his weaker points ; but his worth and genius were such as to extort the reluctant testimony of one who was latterly an avowed antagonist, that he was " the most remarkable man that ever wore the maud of a shepherd." * Hogg left a widow and five young children. For their benefit the public raised a considerable sum by subscription, and the Duke of Buccleuch bestowed on Mrs Hogg an annuity of forty pounds. In November 1853, the editor of this work, ascertaining that Mrs Hogg did not enjoy any pension from the State, brought her claims under the notice of the Premier, Lord Aberdeen. A memorial to his lordship was cordially subscribed by upwards of forty eminent persons, including the late Earl of Eglinton, the present Lord Justice-General, Lord Neaves, Sir Archibald Alison, Bart., Sir Adam Ferguson, the Right Hon. Sir John M'Neill, Sir John Watson Gordon, Sir George Harvey, Sir Noel Paton, and Alfred Tennyson, the Poet-Laureate. Presented to the Premier by the present Earl of Dalhousie, the memorial was favourably entertained, and Mrs Hogg received a civil-list pension of 50. Lord Palmerston subsequently bestowed a pension of 40 on the poet's eldest daughter. Mrs Hogg still survives : she resides at Linlithgow. Shortly after the Shepherd's death, a uniform edition of his more esteemed works was issued by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow, in eleven duodecimo volumes; and more recently, the same enterprising publishers have reproduced his works in two elegant octavo volumes, accompanied with a Memoir of the Poet's Life and Writings, from the pen of the Rev. Thomas Thomson. * Mr J. G. Lockhart. DONALD MACDONALD. AIR " Woo'd, and married, and a"." MY name it is Donald Macdonald, I leeve in the Highlands sae grand ; I ha'e follow'd our banner, and will do, Wherever my master* has land. When rankit amang the blue bonnets, Nae danger can fear me ava' ; I ken that my brethren around me Are either to conquer or fa' : Brogues an' brochin an' a' ; Brochin an' brogues an' a' ; An' is nae her very weel aff, Wi' her brogues and brochin an' a' ? What though we befriendit young Charlie ? To tell it I dinna think shame ; Poor lad ! he cam' to us but barely, An' reckon'd our mountains his hame. 'Twas true that our reason forbade us, But tenderness carried the day ; Had Geordie come friendless amang ns, Wi' him we had a' gane away. Sword an' buckler an' a', Buckler an' sword an' a' ; Now for George we'll encounter the devil, Wi' sword an' buckler an' a' ! An' 0, I wad eagerly press him The keys o' the East to retain ; For should he gi'e up the possession, We'll soon ha'e to force them again ; Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour, Though it were my finishing blow, He aye may depend on Macdonald, Wi' his Hielanders a' in a row : Knees an' elbows an' a', Elbows an' knees an' a' ; Depend upon Donald Macdonald, His knees an' elbows an' a'. Wad Bonaparte land at Fort William, Auld Europe nae langer should grane ; I laugh when I think how we 'd gall him Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane ; Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny We'd rattle him off frae our shore, Or lull him asleep in a cairny, An' sing him "Lochaber no more ! " Stanes an' bullets an' a', Bullets an' stanes an' a' ; We'll finish the Corsican callan Wi' stanes an' bullets an" a'. * This is the term by which the Highlander was wont to designate his lawful prince. The word "maker," which appears in former editions of the song, was accidentally printed in the first edition, and the Shepherd never had the confidence to alter it. 108 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. For the Gordon is good in a hurry, An' Campbell is steel to the bane, An' Grant, an' Mackenzie, an' Murray, An' Cameron will hurkle to nane ; The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal, An' sae is Macleod an' Mackay ; An' I, their gude-brither Macdonald, Shall ne'er be the last in the fray ! Brogues an' brochin an' a', Brochin an' brogues an' a' ; An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet, The kilt an' the feather an' a'. FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL.* FAR over yon hills of the heather sae green, An' down by the corrie that sings to the sea, The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her e'e. She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung, Away on the wave, like a bird of the main ; An' aye as it lessen'd she sigh'd and she sung, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again ! Fareweel to my hero, the gallant and young, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again ! The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben- Connal, He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame ; The eagle that soars o'er the clifls of Clan- Ronald, Unawed and unhunted his eyrie can claim ; The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore, The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea, But ah ! there is one whose hard fate I deplore, Nor house, ha', nor hame in his country has he! The conflict is past, and our name is no more There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me ! The target is torn from the arm of the just, The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust, But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud, Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue; Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud, When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true ? Fare weel, my young hero, the gallant and good! The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow! * Was composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Neil Gow, junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was so agreeably astonished I could hardly believe my senses that I had made so good a song without know- ing it Hogg. BONNIE PRINCE CHAKLIE. CAM' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, Down by the Tummel or banks o' the Garry, Saw ye our lads wi' their bonnets and white cockades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly ! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie? I ha'e but ae son, my gallant young Donald ; But if I had ten they should follow Gleii- gary! Health to M 'Donnell and gallant Clan-Ronald For these are the men that will die for their Charlie ! Follow thee ! follow thee ! etc. I '11 to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them, Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie ; Brave M'Intosh, he shall fly to the field with them, These are the lads 1 can trust wi' my Charlie ! Follow thee ! follow thee ! etc. Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore ! Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' themrarely ! Ronald and Donald, drive on, wi' the broad claymore, Over the necks o' the foes o' Prince Charlie ! Follow thee ! follow thee ! wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly ! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee, King o' the Highland hearts, bounie Prince Charlie ? RISE! RISE! LOWLAND AND HIGHLAND MEN. RISE ! rise ! Lowland and Highland men ; Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early : Rise! rise! mainland and island men, Belt on your broadswords and fight for Prince Charlie ! . Down from the mountain steep, Up from the valley deep, Out from the clachan, the bothy, and shieling; Bugle and battle-drum Bid chief and vassal come ; Loudly on bagpipes the pibroch are pealing. Rise ! rise ! etc. JAMES HOGG, 109 Men of the mountains ! descendants of heroes ! Heirs of the fame and the hills of your fathers Say, shall the Sassenach southron not fear us, When fierce to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers ? Long on the trophied walls Of our ancestral halls Rust hath been blunting the armour of Albin : Seize, then, ye mountain Macs, Buckler and battle-axe, Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbine. Rise ! rise ! etc. When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward? When did the bonnet blue crest the disloyal ? Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart ! Follow your hero, the rightful, the royal. Come, Chief of Clanronald, And gallant M 'Donald; Come Lovat, Lochiel, with the Grant, and the Gordon ; Rouse every kilted clan, Rouse every loyal man ; Musket on shoulder, and thigh the broad sword on ! Rise! rise ! Lowland and Highland men, Bald sire and beardless son, each come, and early ; Rise ! rise ! mainland and island men, Belt on your broad swords and fight for Prince Charlie ! THE SKYLARK.* BIRD of the wilderness, Blythesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness, Bless'd in thy dwelling-place to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and mountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place to abide in the desert with thee ! * For the fine original air, see Purdie's " Border Garland. " Hogg. CALEDONIA.* CALEDONIA! thou land of the mountain and rock, Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak, Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind : Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens, Though bleak thy dun islands appear, Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans, That roam on the mountains so drear ! A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home, Could never thy ardour restrain ; The marshall'd array of imperial Rome Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain ! Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth, Of genius unshackled and free, The Muses have left all the vales of the south, My loved Caledonia, for thee! Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps, Where loveliness slumbers at even, AVhile far in the depth of the blue water sleeps, A calm little motionless heaven ! Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill, Of the storm, and the proud-rolling wave Yes, thou art the laud of fair liberty still, And the land of my forefathers' grave ! 0, JEANIE, THERE'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE ! AIR " Over the Border." MY lassie, our joy to complete again, Meet me again i' the gloamin', my dearie ; Low down in the dell let us meet again 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye ! Come', when the wee bat flits silent and eiry, Come, when the pale face o' Mature looks weary, Love be thy sure defence, Beauty and innocence 0, Jeanie, there 's naething to fear ye ! Sweetly blaw the haw an' the rowan tree, Wild roses speck our thicket sae breery ; Still, still will our walk in the greenwood be 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye! List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary, List when the beetle-bee's bugle comes near ye, Then come with fairy haste, Light foot and beating breast 0, Jeauie, there's naething to fear ye ! Far, far will the bogle and brownie be, Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it ; Kind love is the tie of our unity, A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it. * An appropriate air has been composed for this song by Mr 'Walter Burns, which has been arranged with symphonies and accompaniments for the piano- forte by Mr Edward Salter. 110 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. 'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery ; Love gars a' Nature look bonnie that's near ye; That maks the rose sae sweet, Cowslip an' violet 0, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye ! WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME. AIR" Shame fa* the gear and the blathrie o't." COME all ye jolly shepherds, That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken : "What is the greatest bliss That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk When the kye comes hame. 'Tis not beneath the coronet, Nor canopy of state, 'Tis not on couch of velvet, Nor arbour of the great 'Tis beneath the spreadin' birk, In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, etc. There the blackbird bigs his nest For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough, 0, a happy bird is he ; Where he pours his melting ditty, And love is a' the theme, And he'll woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, ctr. When the blewart bears a pearl, And the daisy turns a pea, And the bonny lucken gowan Has fauldit up her e'e, Then the laverock frae the blue lift Doops down, an' thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, etc. See yonder pawkie shepherd, That lingers on the hill, His ewes are in the fauld, An' his lambs are lying still ; * In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way, "When the kye come hame," when a tailor, scratching his head, said, " It was a terrible affectit way that !" I stood corrected, and have never sun? it so again. Hogg. Yet he downa gang to bed, For his heart is in a flame, To meet his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame. When the kye comes hame, etc. When the little wee bit heart Rises high in the breast, An' the little wee bit starn Rises red in the east, there's a joy sae dear That the heart can hardly frame, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie, When the kye comes hame ! When the kye comes hame, etc. Then since all Nature joins In this love without alloy, 0, wha would prove a traitor To Nature's dearest joy ? Or wha would choose a crown, Wi' its perils and its fame, And miss his bonny lassie When the kye comes hame ? When the kye comes hame, When the kye comes hame, 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, When the kye comes hame ! MISCHIEVOUS WOMAN. Could this ill warld ha'e been contrived To stand without mischievous woman, How peacefu' bodies might ha'e lived Retired from a" the ills sae common ! But since it is the waefu' case That man maun ha'e this crazing crony ; Why sic a sweet bewitching face ? Oh, had she no been made sae bonny ! I might ha'e roam'd wi' cheerfu" mind, Nae sin or sorrow to betide me, As careless as the wandering wind, As happy as the lamb beside me. I might ha'e screw'd my tunefu' pe^s, And caroll'd mountain airs fu' gaily, Had we but wanted a' the Megs Wi' glossy e'en sae dark and wily. I saw the danger, fear'd the dart, The smile, the air, an' a' sae taking, Yet open laid my wareless heart, And gat the wound that keeps me waking. My harp waves on the willow green, 0' wild witch-notes it has nae ony, Sin' e'er I saw that gawky quean, Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny ! THE WOMEN FOLK.* SARELY may I rue the day I fancied first the womenkiml ; For aye sinsyne I ne'er can ha'e Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind ! * The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set, too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same ac- companiments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humorous song when forced by ladies to sing against my will, which too frequently happens ; and notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again. For the air, see the " Border Garland. ' ' Hogg. JAMES HOGG, 111 They ha'e plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e, An' teased an' flatter 'd me at will, But aye, for a' their witchery, The pawky things I lo'e them still. 0, the women folk ! 0, the women folk! But they ha'e been the wreck o' me ; 0, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be ! I ha'e thought an' thought, but darena tell, I've studied them wi* a' my skill, I've lo'ed them better than mysel, I've tried again to like them ill. Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, To comprehend what nae man can ; When he has done what man can do, He'll end at last where he began. 0, the women folk ! etc. That they ha'e gentle forms an' meet, A man wi' half a look may see ; An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, An' waving curls aboon the bree ; An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud, An' e'en sae pawky, bright, an' rare, Wad lure the laverock frae the clud But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair ! 0, the women folk ! etc. Even but this night, nae farther gane, The date is neither lost nor lang, I tak ye witness, ilka ane, How fell they fought, and fairly dang. Their point they 've carried, right or wrang, Without a reason, rhyme, or law, An' forced a man to sing a sang, That ne'er could sing a verse ava". 0, the women folk ! 0, the women folk ! But they ha'e been the wreck o' me ; 0, weary fa' the women folk, For they winna let a body be ! M'LEAN'S WELCOME.* COME o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie ; Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And dine with M 'Lean ; And though you be weary, W T e '11 make your heart cheery, And welcome our Charlie, And his loyal train. We '11 bring down the track deer, We'll bring down the black steer, The lamb from the bracken, And doe from the glen, The salt sea we'll harry, And bring to our Charlie The cream from the bothy And curd from the penn. cuing cauuutuun, inubi ueserve u. one is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to her memory. The air is arranged by Smith. See the " Scottish Minstrel." Hogg. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie, Come o'er the sea, Charlie, And dine with M'Lean ; And you shall drink freely The dews of Glen-sheerly, That stream in the starlight When kings do not ken ; And deep be your meed Of the wine that is red, To drink to your sire, And his friend The M'Lean. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, Dear Charlie, brave Charlie ; Come o'er the stream, Charlie, And dine with M 'Lean ; If aught will invite you, Or more will delight you, Tis ready, atroop of our bold Highlandmen, All ranged on the heather, With bonnet and feather, Strong arms and broad claymores, Three hundred and ten ! THE STUARTS OF APPIN. I SING of a land that was famous of yore. The land of green Appin, the ward of the flood, Where every grey cairn that broods o'er the shore, Marks grave of the royal, the valiant, or good. The laud where the strains of grey Ossian were framed, The land of fair Selma, the reign of Fingal, And late of a race, that with tears must be named The noble Clan-Stuart, the bravest of all. Oh-hon, an High! and the Stuarts of Appin ! The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of Appin Their glory is o'er, For the clan is no more. Avid the Sassenach sings on the hills of green Appin. In spite of the Campbells, their might and renown, And all the proud piles of Glenorchy and Lorn, While one of the Stuarts held claim on the crown, His banner full boldly by Appin was borne, And ne'er fell the Campbells in check or trepan, In all their Whig efforts their power to renew, But still on the Stuarts of Appin they ran, To wreak their proud wrath on the brave and the few. Oh-hon, an High! and the Stuarts of Appin, etc. 1 1 2 THE MODERN SCO TTISH MINSTREL. In the year of the Graham, while in oceans of blood, CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.* The fields of the Campbells were gallantly flowing, 'TWAS on a Monday morning, It was then that the Stnarts the foremost still Right early in the year, stood, That Charlie cam' to our toon, And paid back a share of the debt they were owing. The young Chevalier. An' Charlie is my darling, 0, proud Inverlochy ! 0, day of renown ! Since first the sun rose o'er the peaks of My darling, my darling, Charlie is my darling, Cruachin, The young Chevalier. Was ne'er such a host by valour o'erthrown, Was ne'er such a day for the Stuarts of Appin. Oh-hon, an High ! and the Stuarts of Appin, etc. As Charlie he came up the gate, His face shone like the day ; I grat to see the lad come back That had been lang away. An' Charlie is my darling, etc. And ne'er for the crown of the Stuarts was fought Then ilka bonny lassie sang, One battle on vale, or on mountain deer- As to the door she ran, trodden, Our King shall ha'e his ain again, But dearly to Appin the glory was bought, An' Charlie is the man : And, dearest of all, on the field of Culloden ! For Charlie is my darling, etc. Lament, 0, Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel, High offspring of heroes who conquer'd were Out ow'r yon moory mountain, never, An' down the craggy glen, For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal, Of naething else our lasses sing, And the bold Clan of Stuart must perish for But Charlie an' his men. ever! An' Charlie he's my darling, etc. Oh-hon, an Eigh! and the Stuarts of Appin, etc. Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, An' glow without a stain ; Our Highland swords are metal keen, Clan-Chattan is broken, the Seaforth bends low, An' Charlie he's our ain. The sun of Clan-Ranald is sinking in labour ; Glencoe, and Clan Donnachie, where are they An' Charlie he 's my darling, My darling, my darling ; now? Charlie he 's my darling, And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of The young Chevalier. Lochaber? All gone with the house they supported! laid low, While dogs of the south their bold life-blood LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS. were lappins Trod down by a proud and merciless foe AIR "Paddy's Wedding." The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of I LATELY lived in quiet ease, Appin ! An' never wish'd to marry, ! Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of But when I saw my Peggy's face, Appin, etc. I felt a sad quandary, O ! Though wild as ony Athol deer, They are gone ! they are gone ! the redoubted, , V -1 She has trepann'd me fairly, ! Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear the brave, The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are Torment me late an' early, ! 0, love, love, love! sighing; Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave, Where the unconquer'd foes of the Campbells are lying. Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a poor body Gang about his business ! But, long as the grey hairs wave over this brow, And earthly emotions my spirit are wrapping, My old heart with tides of regret shall o'erflow, And bleed for the fall of the Stuarts of Appin. To tell my feats this single week, Would rnak' a daft-like diary, ! I drave my cart outow'r a dike, My horses in a miry, ! Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of I wear my stockings white an' blue, Appin ! The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of M v love's sae fierce an' fiery, ! I drill the land that I should plough, Appin ! An' plough the drills entirely, ! Their glory is o'er, 0, love, love, love ! etc. For their star is no more, And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin ! * Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published in the "Jacobite Relics." Hvgg. JAMES HOGG. 113 Ae morning, by the dawn o' day, I rose to theek the stable, ! I keust my coat an' plied away As fast as I was able, ! I wrought that morning out an' out, As I d been redding fire, ! When I had done an' look'd about, Gude faith, it was the byre, ! 0, love, love, love ! etc. Her wily glance I '11 ne'er forget, The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o' t. I tried to sing, I tried to pray, I tried to drown 't wi' drinkin' o't, I tried wi' sport to drive't away, But ne'er can sleep for thinkin* o' t. 0, love, love, love ! etc. Nae man can tell what pains I prove, Or how severe my pliskie, ! I swear I 'm sairer drunk wi' love Than e'er I was wi' whisky, ! For love has raked me fore an' aft, I scarce can lift a leggie, ! I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft, An' soon I '11 dee for Peggy, ! 0, love, love, love ! Love is like a dizziness, It winna let a puir body Gang about his business ! 0, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.* 0, WEEL befa' the maiden gay, In cottage, bught, or penn, An' weel befa' the bonny May That wons in yonder glen ; "Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel, Wha's aye kind, an' aye sae leal, An' pure as blooming asphodel Amang sae mony men. 0, weel befa' the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen ! * This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day a fair set-to who shoulil write the best poem be- tween breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Words- worth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, wh"ich was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain ; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not im- mediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and dis- couraged my heart, and I often said to myself, " Gude faith, it's a' ower wi' me for this day ! " When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me. Hogg. 'Tis sweet to hear the music float Along the gloaming lee ; 'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note Come pealing frae the tree ; To see the lambkins lightsome race The speckled kid in wanton chase- The young deer cower in lonely place, Deep in her flowing den ; But sweeter far the bonny face That smiles in yonder glen ! O, had it no' been for the blush 0' maiden's virgin flame, Dear beauty never had been known, An' never had a name ; But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame Was modell'd by an angel's frame, The power o' beauty reigns supreme O'er a' the sons o' men ; But deadliest far the sacred flame Burns in a lonely glen ! There 's beauty in the violet's vest There 's hinney in the haw There 's dew within the rose's breast, The sweetest o' them a'. The sun will rise an' set again, An' lace wi' burning gowd the main The rainbow bend outow'r the plain, Sae lovely to the ken ; But lovelier far the bonny thing That wons in yonder glen ! THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND. AIR" The Blue Bells of Scotland." WHAT are the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel The lovely flowers of Scotland, All others that excel ? The thistle's purple bonnet, And bonny heather-bell, 0, they : re the flowers of Scotland, All others that excel ! Though England eyes her roses With pride she'll ne'er forego, The rose has oft been trodden By foot of haughty foe ; But the thistle in her bonnet blue Still nods outow'r the fell, And dares the proudest foeman To tread the heather-bell. For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland, Alack and well a-day ! For ilka hand is free to pu' An' steal the gem away. But the thistle in her bonnet blue Still bobs aboon them a' ; At her the bravest darena blink, Or gi'e his mou' a thraw. Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, The emblems o' the free, Their guardians for a thousand years, Their guardians still we'll be. 1 1 4 THE MODERN SCO TTISH MINSTREL. A foe had better brave the deil Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather-bell. We've with Nelson plough'd the main, Pull away, jolly boys ! Now his signal flies again, Pull away ! Brave hearts, then let us go To drub the haughty foe, Who once again shall know, Pull away, gallant boys ! That our backs we never show, Pull away ! We have fought and we have sped, Pull away, gallant boys ! Where the rolling wave was red, Pull away ! We've stood many a mighty shock, Like the thunder-stricken oak, We've been bent but never broke, Pull away, gallant boys ! We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke, Pull away ! Here we go upon the deep, Pull away, gallant boys ! O'er the ocean let us sweep, Pull away ! Round the earth our glory rings, At the thought my bosom springs, That whene'er our pennant swings, Pull away, gallant boys ! Of the ocean we're the kings, Pull away ! LASS, AN' YE L'OE ME, TELL ME NOW.* "AFORE the muircock begin to craw, Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now, The bonniest thing that ever ye saw, For I canna come every night to woo." " The gowden broom is bonny to see, An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw, The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea, But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'. " " Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat, Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now ; It 's no the thing that I would be at, An' I canna come every night to woo !" 'The lamb is bonny upon the brae, The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe, The bird is bonny upon the tree But which is the dearest of a' to you ?" "The thing that I lo'e best of a', Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now ; The dearest thing that ever I saw, Though I canna come every night to woo, Is the kindly smile that beams on me, Whenever a gentle hand I press, And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess." " Aha ! young man, but I cou'dna see, What I lo'e best I '11 tell you now, The compliment that ye sought frae me, Though ye canna come every night to woo; Yet I would rather hae frae you A kindly look, an' a word witha' Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu', Than a' the lads that ever I saw." "Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine, Sin' a' the truth ye ha'e tauld me now, Our hearts an' fortunes we '11 entwine, An' I '11 aye come every night to woo ; For 0, I canna descrive to thee The feeling o' love's and nature's law, How dear this world appears to me Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a' ! " AULD JOE NICHOLSON'S NANNY. THE daisy is fair, the day-lily rare, The bud o' the rose as sweet as it's bonny ; But there ne'er was a flower, in garden or bower, Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonny Nanny ! 0, my Nanny ! My dear little Nanny ! My sweet little niddlety noddlety Nanny ! There ne'er was a flower, In garden or bower, Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonny Nanny ! Ae day she came out, wi' a rosy blush, To milk her twa kye, sae couthy and canny; I cower'd me down at the back o' the bush, To watch the air o' my bonny Nanny! 0, my Nanny ! etc. The looks that stray'd o'er nature away Frae bonny blue een sae mild an' mellow, Saw naething sae sweet in nature's array, Though clad in the morning's gowden yellow, 0, my Nanny! etc. My heart lay beating the flowery green, In quaking, quivering agitation ; An' the tears cam* tricklin' down frae my een, Wi' perfect love an' wi' admiration. 0, my Nanny ! etc. There's mony a joy in this warld below, An' sweet the hopes that to sing were un- canny ; PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS ! HERE we go upon the tide, Pull away, jolly boys ! With heaven for our guide, Pull away ! Here's a weather-beaten tar, Britain's glory still his star, He has borne her thunders far, Pull away, jolly boys ! To your gallant men-of-war, Pull away ! * This song was suggested to the Shepherd by the words adapted to the formerly popular air, " Lass, gin ye lo'e me beginning, " I hae laid a herring in saut." JAMES HOGG. 115 But of all the pleasures I ever can know, The young laird o' the Lang Shaw There's nane like the love o' my bonny Nanny ! Has drunk her health in wine ; 0, my Nanny ! The priest has said in confidence My dear little Nanny, The lassie was divine ; My sweet little niddlety noddlety Nanny ! And that is mair in maiden's praise There ne'er was a flower, Than ony priest should say In garden or bower, But, 0, what will the lads do Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonny Nanny ! When Maggy gangs away? The wailing in our green glen That day will quaver high, THE AULD HIGHLANDMAN. 'Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, The laverock frae the sky ; HERSELL pe auchty years and twa, The fairies frae their beds o' dew Te twenty-tird o' May, man ; She twell amang te Heelan hills, Will rise and join the lay An' hey ! what a day 'twill be Ayont the reefer Spey, man. When Maggy gangs away? Tat year tey foucht the Sherra-muir, She first peheld the liclit man * Tey shot my father in tat stoure A plaguit, vexin' spite, man. AH, PEGGY, SINCE THOUR'T GANE I've feucht in Scotland here at name, AWAY!* In France and Shermanie, man ; AH, Peggy ! since thou'rt gane away, And cot tree tespurt pluddy oons, An' left me here to languish, Beyond te 'Lantic sea, man. I canna fend anither day But wae licht on te nasty cun, In sic regretfu' anguish. Tat ever she pe porn, man ; My mind's the aspen i' the vale, Phile koot klymore te tristle caird, In ceaseless waving motion ; Her leaves pe never torn, man. 'Tis like a ship without a sail, On life's unstable ocean. Ae tay I shot, and shot, and shot, Phaue'er it cam my turn, man ; I downa bide to see the moon Put a* te force tat I could gie, Blink owre the glen sae clearly ; Te powter wadna purn, man. Aince on a bonnie face she shone A filty loon cam wi' his cun, A face that I lo'ed dearly ! Eesolvt to too me harm, man ; An' when beside yon water clear, And wi' te tirk upon her nose, At e'en I 'm lanely roaming, Ke me a pluddy arm, man. I sigh an' think, if ane was here, How sweet wad fa' the gloaming ! I flang mv cun wi' a' mv micht, And felt his nepour teit, man ; Tan drew my swort, and at a straik Hewt aff ee haf o 's heit, man. When I think o' thy cheerfu' smile, Thy words sae free an' kindly, Thy pawkie ee's bewitching wile, Be vain to tell o' a' my tricks ; The unbidden tear will blind me. My oons pe nae tiscrace, man ; Ter no pe yin pehint my pack, Ter a' pefore my face, man. The rose's deepest blushing hue Thy cheek could eithly borrow, But ae kiss o' *,hy cherry mou' Was worth a year o' sorrow. Oh ! in the slippery paths of love, WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY. Let prudence aye direct thee ; Let virtue every step approve, 0, WHAT will a' the lads do An' virtue will respect thee. When Maggy gangs away ? To ilka pleasure, every pang, 0, what will a' the lads do Alack ! I am nae stranger ; When Maggy gangs away? An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang There's no a heart in a' the glen Is best aware o' danger. That disna dread the day 0, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away ? May still thy heart be kind an' true, A' ither maids excelling ; May heaven distil its purest dew Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't, A waefu' wight is he ; Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't, Around thy rural dwelling. May flow'rets spring an' wild birds sing Around thee late an' early ; An' laid him down to dee ; An' oft to thy remembrance bring And Sandy's gane unto the kirk, The lad that lo'ed thee dearly. And learnin' fast to pray 0, what will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away ? * This song was addressed, in 1811, to Miss Margaret Phillips, who nine years afterwards became the poet's wife. 116 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. GANG TO THE BRAKEXS WI' ME. I 'LL sing of yon glen of red heather, An' a dear thing that ca's it her hame, "VVha's a' made o' love-life thegether, Frae the tie o' the shoe to the kaime, Love beckons in every sweet motion, Commanding due homage to gi'e ; But the shrine o' my dearest devotion Is the bend o' her bonny e'ebree. I fleech'd an* I pray'd the dear lassie To gang to the brakens wi' me ; But though neither lordly nor saucy, Her answer was " Laith wad I be! I neither ha'e father nor mither, Sage counsel or caution to gi'e ; An' prudence has whisper'd me never To gang to the brakens wi' thee." " Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me, An' try your ain love to beguile? For ye are the richest young lady That ever gaed o'er the kirk-stile. Your smile that is blither than ony, The bend o' your cheerfu' e'ebree, An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny, Are five hunder thousand to me! " She turn'd her around an' said, smiling, While the tear in her blue e'e shone clear, "You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing, For, 0, you have valued it dear : Gae mak' out the lease, do not linger, Let the parson indorse the decree ; An' then, for a wave of your finger, I'll gang to the brakeus wi' thee!" There's joy in the bright blooming feature, When love lurks in every young line ; There 's joy in the beauties of nature, There 's joy in the dance and the wine : But there 's a delight will ne'er perish, 'Mang pleasures all fleeting and vain, And that is to love and to cherish The fond little heart that's our ain ! LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON. LOCK the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale, Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on, The Armstrongs are flying, Their widows are crying, The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone ; Lock the door, Lariston, high on the weather gleam, See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky, Yeoman and carbineer, Billman and halberdier ; Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry. Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar, Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey, Hidley and Howard there, Wandale and Windermere, Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay. Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston ? Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye? Thou bold Border ranger Beware of thy danger Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh. Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace ; ' ' Ah, welcome, brave foemen, On earth there are no men More gallant to meet in the foray or chase ! Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here, Little know you of our moss-troopers' might, Lindhope and Sorby true, Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manner, but lions in fight ! "I've Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherby, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array ; Come, all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray. " Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold ; Many a bold martial eye Mirror'd that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold ! Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the war- rior shout, Lances and halberts in splinters were borne ; Halberd and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane, the proud files of the Win- dermere, Howard ah ! woe to thy hopes of the day ! Hear the wide welkin rend, While the Scots' shouts ascend, ' ' Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye ! " I HA'E NAEBODY NOW. I HA'E naebody now, I ha'e naebody now To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow, An' joy in her deep blue e'en ; Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smilo, An' the dance o' the lightsome fay, An' the wee bit tale o' news the while That had happen'd when I was away. I ha'e naebody now, I ha'e naebody now To clasp to my bosom at even, O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow, An' pray for a blessing from heaven. An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face In the morning, that met my eye, Where are they now, where are they now ? In the cauld, cauld grave they lie. JAMES HOGG. 117 There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens, An' may they never prove, That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love To see a flower in its vernal hour By slow degrees decay, Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death, Breathe its sweet soul away. 0, dinna break, my poor auld heart ! Nor at thy loss repine, For the unseen hand that threw the dart Was sent frae her Father and thine ; Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn, Even till my latest day ; For though my darling can never return, I can follow the sooner away. THE MOON WAS A-WANING. THE moon was a-waning, The tempest was over ; Fair was the maiden, And fond was the lover ; But the snow was so deep, That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep, In the moorland so dreary. Soft was the bed She had made for her lover, White were the sheets And embroidor'd the cover ; But his sheets are more white, And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps Where the hill foxes wander. Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you ! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window ; But long may you wait Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies, With a wreath on his bosom ! How painful the task, The sad tidings to tell you ! An orphan you were Ere this misery befell you ; And far in yon wild, Where the dead-tapers hover, So cold, cold and wan Lies the corpse of your lover ! THE LASS OF DELORAINE. STILL must my pipe lie idly by, And worldly cares my mind annoy? Again its softest notes I '11 try, So dear a theme can never cloy. Last time my mountain harp I strung, 'Twos she inspired the simple strain That lovely flower, so sweet and young, The bonnie lass of Deloraine, How blest the breeze's balmy sighs Around her ruddy lips that blow ; The flower that in her bosom dies, Or grass that bends beneath her toe. Her cheeks, endow'd with powers at will, The rose's richest shade to drain ; Her eyes, what soft enchantments fill ! The bonnie lass of Deloraine. Let Athol boast her birchen bowers, And Lomond of her isles so green, And Windermere her woodland shores, Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene : For there the evening twilight swells With many a wild and melting strain ; And there the pride of beauty dwells The bonnie lass of Deloraine. If Heaven shall keep her aye as good, And bonnie as she wont to be, The world may into Ettrick crowd, And nature's first perfection see. Glencoe has drawn the wanderer's eye, And Staffa in the western main ; These natural wonders ne'er can vie Wi' the bonnie lass of Deloraine. May health still cheer her beauteous face, And round her brow may honour twine, And Heaven preserve that heart in peace, Where meekness, love, and beauty join ! But all her joys shall cheer my heart, And all her griefs shall give me pain ; For never from my soul shall part The bonnie lass of Deloraine. GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY. THE year is wearing to the wane, An' day is fading west awa', Loud raves the torrent an' the rain, An' dark the cloud comes down the shaw ; But let the tempest tout an' blaw Upon his loudest winter horn, Good night, and joy be wi' you a', We'll maybe meet again the morn ! 0, we ha'e wander'd far and wide O'er Scotia's hills, o'er firth an' fell, An' mony a simple flower we've cull'd, An' trimm'd them wi' the heather-bell! We've ranged the dingle an' the dell, The hamlet an' the baron's ha', Now let us take a kind farewell, Good night, an' joy be wi' you a' f Though I was wayward, you were kind, And sorrow'd when I went astray ; For 0, my strains were often wild," As winds upon a winter day. If e'er I led you from the way, Forgi'e your Minstrel aince for a' ; A tear fa's wi' his parting lay, Good night, and joy be wi' you a' 1 118 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JAMES MUIRHEAD, D,D, JAMES MUIRHEAD was born in 1742, in the parish of Buittle, and stewartry of Kirk- cudbright. His father, William Muirhead of Logan, was representative of the family of Muirhead, who, for several centuries, were considerable landed proprietors in Galloway. He married on the 12th of January 1741, Miss Anna Lindsay of Croch- more.* The future poet was the first child of the marriage. He studied at the University of Edinburgh. Abandoning the legal profession, which he had originally chosen, he became, in 1769, a licentiate of the Established Church. After a probation of three years, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of Urr, a country parish in the stewartry. In 1794 he received the degree of D.D. from the University of Edinburgh. "Warmly attached to his flock, he ministered at Urr till his death, which took place on the 16th of May 1806. Dr Muirhead was a person of warm affections and remarkable humour ; his scholarship was extensive and varied, and he maintained a correspondence with many of his literary contemporaries. As an author, he is not known to have written aught save the popular ballad of " Bess, the Gawkie," a production which has been pro- nounced by Allan Cunningham " a song of original merit, lively without extravagance, and gay without grossness, the simplicity elegant, and the naive t6 scarcely rivalled. "f * Marriage Register of Buittle. t We have frequently had occasion to remark the ignorance of modem editors regarding the authorship of the most popular songs. Every collector of Scottish Song has inserted " Bess, the Gawkie ; " but scarcely one of them has correctly stated the authorship. The song has been generally ascribed to an anonymous "Rev. Mr Morehead ; " by some to the " Rev. Robert Morehead ; " and Allan Cunningham, who states that his father was acquainted with the real author, has described him as the "Rev. William Morehead !" BESS, THE GAWKIE. TUNE "Bess, the Gawkie." BLYTHE young Bess to Jean did say, ' ' Will ye gang to yon sunny brae, Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray, And sport a while wi' Jamie? " "Ah, na, lass, I'll no gang there, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, Nor about Jamie tak' a care, For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie. " For hark, and I will tell you, lass, Did I not see young Jamie pass, Wi' mickle blytheness in his face, Out bwer the muir to Maggie. I wat he ga'e her mony a kiss, And Maggie took them nae amiss ; 'Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this, ' That Bess was but a gawkie. " ' For when a civil kiss I seek, She turns her head, and thraws her cheek, And for an hour she'll hardly speak ; Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie? But sure my Maggie has mair sense, She'll gi'e a score without offence ; Now gi'e me ane into the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie. ' "'0 Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en, But I will never stand for ane Or twa when we do meet again ; So ne'er think me a gawkie.' " 'Ah, na, lass, that canna be; Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me, Or ony thy sweet face that see, E'er to think thee a gawkie.' " But, whisht, nae mail' o' this we '11 speak, For yonder Jamie does us meet ; Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet, I trow he likes the gawkie." ' ' 0, dear Bess ! I hardly knew, When 1 cam' by, your gown sae new ; 1 think you've got it wet wi' dew !" Quoth she, " That's like a gawkie ! " It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain, And I'll get gowns when it is gane; Sae ye may gang the gate ye came, And tell it to your dawtie." The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek ; He cried, " cruel maid, but sweet, If I should gang anither gate, I ne'er could meet my dawtie. " The lasses fast frae him they flew, And left poor Jamie sair to rue That ever Maggie's face he knew, Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie. As they ga'ed ower the muir they sang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, The hills and dales wi' echoes rang, " Gang o'er the muir to Maggie." MRS AGNES LYON. 119 MRS AGNES LYON, A CONTEMPORARY of the Baroness Nairne, of kindred tastes, and of equal indifference to a poetical reputation, was Mrs Agnes Lyon of Glammis. She was the eldest daughter of John Ramsay I/ Amy, of Dunkenny, Forfarshire, and was born at Dundee about the commencement of the year 1762. She was celebrated for her beauty, and had numerous suitors for her hand ; but she gave the preference to the Rev. Dr James Lyon, minister of Glammis, to whom she was married on the 25th of January 1786. Of a cultivated mind and most lively fancy, she had early improved a taste for versi- fying, and acquired the habit of readily clothing her thoughts in the language of poetry. She became the mother of ten children ; and she relieved the toils of their upbringing, as well as administered to the improvement of their youthful minds, by her occasional exercises in verse. Her four volumes of MS. poetry contain lyrics dated as having been written from the early period of her marriage to nearly the time of her decease. The topics are generally domestic, and her strain is lively and humorous ; in pathetic pieces she is tender and singularly touching. Possessed of a correct musical ear, she readily parodied the more popular songs, or adapted words to their airs, with the view of interesting her friends, or producing good humour and happiness in the family circle. She had formed the acquaintance of Neil Gow, the celebrated violinist, and composed, at his particular request, the words to his popular tune " Farewell to Whisky," the only lyric from her pen which has hitherto been published. In all the collections of Scottish song, it appears as anonymous. In the present work, it is printed from a copy in one of her MS. volumes. Mrs Lyon died on the 14th September 1840, having survived her husband about two years, and seen the greater number of her children carried to the grave. Entirely free of literary ambition, she bequeathed her MSS. to a cousin of the editor of this work, the widow of one of her sons, accompanied by a request that the compositions might not be printed, unless to supply a deficiency in the family funds. Their origin is thus described : " "Written off-hand, as one may say, Perhaps upon a rainy day, Perhaps while at the cradle rocking. Instead of knitting at a stocking, She 'd catch a paper, pen, and ink, And easily the verses clink. Perhaps a headache at a time Would make her on her bed recline, And rather than be merely idle, She'd give her fancy rein and bridle. She neither wanted lamp nor oil, Xor found composing any toil ; As for correction's iron wand, She never took it in her hand ; And can, with conscience clear, declare, She ne'er neglected house affair, Nor put her little babes aside, To take on Pegasus a ride. Rather let pens and paper flame, Than any mother have the shame (Except at any orra time) To spend her hours in making rhyme. In person, Mrs Lyon was of the middle height, and of a slender form. She had a fair complexion, her eyes were of light blue, and her countenance wore the expression of intelligence. She excelled in conversation ; and a retentive memory enabled her 120 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. to render available the fruits of extensive reading. In old age, she retained much of the buoyant vivacity of youth, and her whole life was adorned by the most exemplary piety. NEIL GOW'S FAREWELL TO WHISKY.* TUNE " Farewell to Whisky." YOU'VE surely heard of famous Neil, The man who play'd the fiddle weel; He was a heartsome merry chiel', And weel he lo'ed the whisky, ! For e'er since he wore the tartan hose He dearly liket Athole brosel^: And grieved was, you may suppose, To hid "Farewell to whisky," ! Alas ! says Neil, I 'm frail and auld, And whiles my hame is unco cauld ; I think it makes me blythe and bauld, A wee drap Highland whisky, ! But a' the doctors do agree That whisky's no the drink for me; I 'm fley'd they '11 gar me tyne my glee, By parting me and whisky, ! But I should mind on "auld lang syne," How Paradise our friends did tyne, Because something ran in their mind Forbid like Highland whisky, ! Whilst I can get good wine and ale, And find my heart, and fingers hale, I'll be content, though legs should fail, And though forbidden whisky, ! I '11 tak' my fiddle in my hand, And screw its strings whilst they can stand, And mak' a lamentation grand For guid auld Highland whisky, ! Oh ! all ye powers of music, come, For, 'deed, I think I 'm mighty glum, My fiddle-strings will hardly bum, To saj', " Farewell to whisky," ! * In the author's MS., the following sentences occur prefatory to this song: " Everybody knows Neil Gow. When he was poorly, the physicians forbade him to drink his favourite liquor. The words following were com- posed, at his particular desire, to a lamentation he had just made." Mrs I.yon became acquainted with Gow when she was a young lady, attending the concerts in Dundee, at which the services of the great violinist were regularly required. The song is very inaccurately printed in some of the collections. t A beverage composed of honey dissolved in whisky. WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.* TUNE " Merry in the Hall." WITHIN the towers of ancient Glammis Some merry men did dine, And their host took care they should richly fare In friendship, wit, and wine. But they sat too late, and mistook the gate, (For wine mounts to the brain) ; 0, 'twas merry in the hall, when the bearda wagg'd all ; 0, we hope they'll be back again; We hope they 11 be back again ! Sir Walter tapp'd at the parson's door, To find the proper way, But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch, And on the steps it lay, So his wife took care of this nice affair, And she wiped it free from stain ; For the knight was gone, nor the owner known, So he ne'er got the switch again ; So he ne'er got the switch again. This wondrous little whip remains Within the lady's sight, (She crambo makes, with some mistakes, But hopes for further light). So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart, These thirty years her ain ; Till the knight appear, it must just lie here, He will ne'er get his switch again ; He will ne'er get his switch again ! * This lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April 1821, celebrates an amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the Castle of Glammis, in 1793. Sir Walter was hospitably entertained in the Castle, by Mr Peter Proctor, the factor, in the absence of the noble owner, the Earl of Strathmore, who did not reside in the family mansion ; and the conjecture may be hazarded, that he dropt his whip at the manse door on the same evening that he drank an English pint of wine from the lion beaker of Glammis, the prototype of the stfver bear of Tully-Veolan, " t\\epoculum potatoritimot the valiant baron." (See Note to " Waverley." and Lockhart's " Life of Sir Walter Scott.") ROBERT LOCHORE, ROBERT LOCHORE was born at Strathaven, in the county of Lanark, on the 7th of July 1762, and, in his thirteenth year, was apprenticed to a shoemaker in Glasgow. He early commenced business on his own account. He promoted public improve- ments in the city, and frequently held public offices of trust. He was founder of the ' Annuity Society,' an institution attended with numerous benefits to the citizens of Glasgow. ROBERT LOG HO RE. 121 Mr Lochore devoted much of his time to private study. He wrote verses with facility, many of his letters to his friends being composed in rhyme. His poetry was of the descriptive order; his lyrical effusions were comparatively rare. Several poetical tales and songs of his youth, contributed to different periodicals, he arranged, about the beginning of the century, in a small volume. The greater number of his compositions remain in MS. in the possession of his family. He died at Glasgow, on the 27th April 1852, in his ninetieth year. Of a buoyant and humorous disposition, he composed verses nearly to the close of his long life ; and latterly found pleasure in recording, for the amusement of his family, his recollections of the past. He was a faithful friend and an exemplary Christian. NOW, JESSY LASS. TUNE " Garrytnvcn." Now, Jenny lass, my bonny bird, My daddy's dead, an' a' that; He 's snugly laid aneath the yird, And I'm his heir, an' a' that ; I 'm now a laird, an* a" that ; I 'm now a laird, an' a' that ; His gear an' land's at my command, And muckle mair than a' that. He left me wi' his deein' breath, A dwallin' house, an' a' that ; A barn, a byre, an' wabs o' claith A big peat-stalk, an' a' that- A mare, a foal, an' a' that ; A mare, a foal, an' a that ; Sax guid fat kye, a cauf forby, ATI' twa pet ewes, an' a' that. A yard, a meadow, lang braid leas, An* stacks o' corn, an' a' that Enclosed weel wi' thorns an' trees, An' carts, an' cars, an' a" that ; A pleugh, an' graith, an' a' that ; A pleugh, an' graith, an* a' that ; Guid harrows twa, cock, hens, an' a' A grecie, too, an' a' that. I 've heaps o' claes for ilka days, For Sundays, too, an' a' that ; 1 've bills an' bonds on lairds an' lands, And siller, gowd, an' a' that. "What think ye, lass, o' a' that ? "What think ye, lass, o' a* that ? "What want I noo, my dainty doo, But just a wife to a' that. Now, Jenny dear, my errand here Is to seek ye to a' that ; My heart's a' loupin', while I speir Gin ye '11 tak' me, wi' a' that. Mysel', my gear, an' a' that ; Mysel', my gear, an' a* that ; Come, gie's your loof to be a proof, Ye '11 be a wife to a' that. Syne Jenny laid her nieve in his Said, she'd tak' him wi' a' that; An' he gi'ed her a hearty kiss, An' dawted her, an' a' that. They set a day, an' a' that; They set a day, an' a' that ; "When she'd gang hame to be his dame, An' haud a rant, an' a' that. MARRIAGE, ASD THE CARE O'T. TUNE" Whistle o'er the lave o't." QUOTH Rab to Kate, My sonsy dear, I 've woo'd ye mair than hall' a year, An' if ye 'd wed me, ne'er cou'd speir "Wi" blateness, an' the care o 't. Now to the point : sincere I 'm wi 't ; "Will ye be my half-marrow sweet ? Shake han's, and say a bargain be't, An' ne'er think on the care o't. Na, na, quo' Kate, I winna wed, 0' sic a snare I '11 aye be rede ; How mony, thochtless, are misled By marriage, an' the care o't ! A single life's a life o' glee, A wife ne'er think to mak' o' me, Frae toil an' sorrow I '11 keep free, An' a' the dool an' care o't. "Weel, weel, said Robin, in reply, Ye ne'er again shall me deny, Ye may a toothless maiden die, For me, I '11 tek' nae care o't. Fareweel, for ever ! aff I hie ; Sae took his leave without a sigh : Oh! stop, quo' Kate, I'm yours, 111 try The married life, an' care o't, Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back, An' ga'e her mou' a hearty smack, Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack 'Bout marriage, an' the care o't. Though as she thocht she didna speak, An' lookit unco mim an' meek, Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek In marriage, wi' the care o't. 122 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JOHN ROBERTSON, JOHN ROBERTSON, author of " Tie Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of a grocer in Paisley, where he was born on the 30th November 1767.* He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put a check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia ; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as regimental schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth ; and though his muse had become mournful, she con- tinued to sing. His end was melancholy : the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon Ms mind, and he rushed to suicide. He died at Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Eobertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life. * Baptismal Register of Paisley. THE TOOM MEAL POCK. PRESERVE us a' ! what shall we do, Thir dark, unhallow'd times ? We're surely dreeing penance now, For some most awfu' crimes. Sedition daurna now appear In reality or joke ; For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me, 0' a hinging, toorn meal pock, And sing, Oh, waes me ! When lasses braw gaed out at e'en, For sport and pastime free ; I seem a like ane in paradise, The moments quick did flee. Like Venuses they all appear'd, Weel pouther'd were their locks ; 'Twas easy dune, when at their harne, Wi 1 the shaking o' their pocks. And sing, Oh, waes me ! How happy pass'd my former days, Wi' merry heartsome glee ; When smiling Fortune held the cup, And Peace sat on my knee. Nae wants had I but were supplied ; My heart wi' joy did knock, When in the neuk I smiling saw A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock. And sing, Oh, waes me ! Speak no ae word about reform, Nor petition Parliament ; A wiser scheme I'll now propose, I 'm sure ye '11 gi'e consent : Send up a chiel or twa like me, As a sample o' the flock, Whose hollow cheeks will be sure proof O' a hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh, waes me ! And should a sicht sae ghastly-like, Wi' rags, and banes, and skin, Ha'e nae impression on yon folks, But tell ye '11 stand ahin' ; what a contrast will ye shaw, To the glow'rin' Lunnun folk, When in St James' ye tak' your stand, Wi' a hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh, waes me ! Then rear your head, and glow'r, and stare, Before yon hills o' beef ; Tell them ye are frae Scotland come, For Scotia's relief. Tell them ye are the vera best, Waled frae the fattest flock ; Then raise your arms, and, oh ! display A hinging, toom meal pock. And sing, Oh, waes me ! ALEXANDER BALFOUR, ALEXANDER BALFOUR, a poet, novelist, and miscellaneous writer, was born in Feb- ruary 1767,* at Guildie, a small hamlet in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire. His parents were in humble circumstances ; and being a twin, he was supported in early life by a friend of the family, from whom he received such a religious training as * " 1767, March i, William Balfour and Ann Honeyman, in Guildy, had twins, both males, baptized before ye congregation; name, sen. William, jun. Alexander." Monikie Register of Births. < ALEXANDER BALFOUR. 123 exercised a highly beneficial influence on his future character. He was educated at the parish school, and evidenced precocity by essaying composition in his twelfth year. Apprenticed to a weaver, he soon became disgusted with the loom, and re- turned home to teach a school in his native parish. During the intervals of leisure he wrote articles for the provincial miscellanies, the British Chronicle newspaper, and Tlu Bee, published by Dr Anderson. In his 26th year, he became clerk to a sail- cloth manufacturer in Arbroath, and, on the death of his employer, soon afterwards, he entered into partnership with his widow. On her death, in 1800, he assumed another partner. As government-contractors for supplying the navy with canvas, the firm rapidly attained prosperity ; and Balfour found abundant leisure for prosecuting his literary studies. He had married in 1794; and deeming a country residence more advantageous for his rising family, he removed, in 1814, to Trottick, within two miles of Dundee, where he assumed the management of the branch of a London house, which for many years had been connected with his own firm. This step was lament- ably unfortunate : the house, in which he had embarked his fortune, shared in the commercial disasters of 1815, and was involved in complete bankruptcy. Keduced to a condition of dependence, Balfour accepted the situation of manager of a manufac- turing establishment at Balgonie, in Fife. In 1818, he resigned this appointment; and proceeding to Edinburgh, was employed as a clerk in the establishment of Mr Blackwood, the eminent publisher. The close confinement of the counting-house, and the revolution of his fortunes, which pressed heavily upon his mind, were too powerful for his constitution. Symptoms of paralysis began to appear shortly after his removal to the capital; and in October 1819, he was so entirely prostrated, as to require the use of a wheeled chair. His future career was that of a man of letters During the interval which elapsed between his commercial reverses and the period of his physical debility, he prepared a novel, which he had early projected, depicting the trials and sufferings of an unbeneficed preacher. This work appeared in 1819, under the title of " Campbell, or the Scottish Probationer," in three volumes ; and though published anonymously, soon led to the discovery and reputation of the author. Towards the close of the same year, he edited the poetical works of his late friend, Richard Gall, to which he supplied an elegant biographical preface. His next separate publication was " The Farmer's Three Daiighters," a novel in three volumes. In 1820, he published " Contemplation," with other poems, in one volume octavo ; which, favourably received by the press, also added considerably to his fame. A third novel from his pen, entitled "The Smuggler's Cave; or, The Foundling of Glenthorn," appeared in 1823 from the unpropitious Minerva press; it consequently failed to excite much attention. To the Scots Magazine he had long been a contri- butor ; and, on the establishment of Constable's Edinburgh Magazine in its stead, his assistance was secured by Mr Thomas Pringle, the original editor. His articles, con- tributed to this periodical during the nine years of its existence, contain matter sufficient to fill three octavo volumes. They are on every variety of theme, but especially on the manners of Scottish rural life, which he has depicted with singular power. Of his numerous contributions in verse, a series, entitled " Characters omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register," was published separately in 1825 ; and this production has been acknowledged as the most successful effort of his muse. It is scarcely inferior to the more celebrated composition of the English poet. In 1827, on the application of Mr Hume, M.P., a treasury donation of 100 was conferred on Mr Balfour by the Premier, Mr Canning, in consideration of his genius. His last novel, " Highland Mary," in four volumes, was published shortly before his death. To the last, he contributed to the periodical publications. He died, after a short illness, on the 12th September 1829, in the sixty -third year of his age. 124 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Though confined to his wheel-chair for a period of ten years, and otherwise debarred many of the comforts to which in more prosperous circumstances he had been accustomed, Alexander Balfour retained to the close of life his native placidity and gentleness. His countenance wore a perpetxial smile. He joined in the amuse- ments of the young, and took delight in the recital of the merry tale and humorous anecdote. A posthumous volume of his writings, under the title of " "Weeds and Wild Flowers," was published under the editorial care of Mr D. M. Moir, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. As a lyrical poet, he is not entitled to a first place : his songs are, however, to he remarked for deep and genuine pathos. THE BONNY LASS 0' LEVEN WATER. THOUGH siller Tweed rin o'er the lea, An" dark the Dee 'rnang Highland heather, Yet siller Tweed an' drumly Dee Are not sae dear as Leven Water : When Nature form'd our favourite isle, An' a' her sweets hegan to scatter, She look'd with fond approving smile, Alang the banks o' Leven Water. On flowery braes, at gloamin' grey, 'Tis sweet to scent the primrose springin' ; Or through the woodlands green to stray, In ilka buss the mavis singing' : But sweeter than the woodlands green, Or primrose painted fair by Nature, Is she wha smiles, a rural queen, The bonny lass o' Leven Water ! The sunbeam in the siller dew, That hangs upon the hawthorn's blossom, Shines faint beside her e'en sae blue ; An' purer is her spotless bosom. Her smile wad thaw a hermit's breast ; There's love an' truth in ilka feature ; For her I'm past baith wark an' rest, The bonny lass o' Leven Water ! But I'm a lad o' laigh degree, Her purse-proud daddy's dour an* saucy ; An' sair the carle wad scowl on me, For speakin' to his dawtit lassie : But were I laird o' Leven's glen, An' she a humble shepherd's daughter, I'd kneel, an' court her for my ain, The bonny lass o' Leven Water ! SLIGHTED LOYE. The rosebud blushing to the morn, The snaw white flower that scents the them, When on thy gentle bosom worn, Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary ! How blest was I, a little while, To deem that bosom free frae guile ; When, fondly sighing, thou wouldst smile; Yes, sweetly smile on me, Mary ! Though gear was scant, an' friends -were few. My heart was leal, my love was true; I blest your e'en of heavenly blue, That glanced sae saft on me, Mary ! But wealth has won your heart frae me ; Yet I maun ever think of thee ; May a' the bliss that gowd can gi'e, For ever wait on thee, Mary ! For me, nae mair on earth I crave, But that yon drooping willow wave Its branches o'er my early grave, Forgot by love, an' thee, Mary ! An' when that hallow'd spot you tread, Where wild-flowers bloom above my head, look not on my grassy bed, Lest thou shouldst sigh for me Mary ! GEORGE MACINDOE, GEORGE MACIXDOE, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes," a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was horn at Partick, near Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a silk weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less irksome duties of a hotel-keeper at Glasgow. His hotel was a corner tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate ; and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the remainder of the evenings in conversation ALEXANDER DOUGLAS. 125 with the intelligent host. After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow during a period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic, and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees. Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open, manly countenance was adorned with bushy locks, which in old age, becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of " incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume, " Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states in the preface he had laid before the public to gratify " the solicitations of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad entitled " A Million o' Potatoes," and the song we have selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled " The Wandering Muse ;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals. He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year, leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston, Glasgow. THE BURN TROUT.* TUNE " The gudeforgi'e me for leein." BRITHER Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn Trout, An' speir'd how acquaintance were greeing ; He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout, An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing, An' said it wad just be a preeing. In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door This trout had lang been a dweller, Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller. This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail That grannie had reested her ham on, "Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail, An' kipper 'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon. This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate, Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't ; The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat. But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't. When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive, Sae ye mauna think it was a wee ane ; May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing. ' "Amidst George Macindoe's songs one is distinguished by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. 'The Burn Trout' was composed on a real incident which it describes, namely, a supper, where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles to Glasgow by my father, who, when learning his business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with the poet." Note by Robert Cham- bers, LL.D. ALEXANDER DOUGLAS, ALEXANDER DOUGLAS was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the village of Strathmiglo, in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771. Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of studying for the ministry a laudable aspiration checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle ; and while so occupied, 126 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. he read the Bible in the fields, and with a religious sense remarkable for his years, engaged in daily prayer for the Divine blessing to grant him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen, he was apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and while busily plying the shuttle, began to compose verses for his amusement. These compositions were jotted down during intervals of leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty, his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of that gentleman. A cordial recommendation to publish his verses was the result ; and a large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume of " Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a profit of one hundred pounds. Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, he had few pretensions as a poet : some of his songs have, how- ever, obtained a more than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place in these pages. FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT. TUNE "Roy's Wife o' FIFE, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it ; , May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. "We'll raise the song on highest key, Through every grove till echo shout it ; The sweet enchantin' theme shall be, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. Fife, an" a' the land abont it, etc. Her braid an' lang extended vales Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow ; Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills ; Her woods resound wi' music mellow. Fife, an' a' the land about it, etc. Her waters pastime sweet afford To ane an' a' wha like to angle ; The seats o* mony a laird an' lord, Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle. Fife, an' a" the land about it, etc. In ilka town an' village gay, Hark! Tlirift, her wheel an' loom are usin'; ' Aldivalloch" While to an' frae each port an' bay, See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, etc. Her maids are frugal, modest, fair, As lilies by her burnies growiii' : An' ilka swain may here repair, Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin". Fife, an' a' the land about it, etc. In peace, her sons like lammies mild, Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin' ; In war, they're loyal, bauld, an' wild, As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, etc. Slay auld an' young ha'e meat an' claes ; May wark an' wages aye be plenty ; An' may the sun to latest days See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty. Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it ; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. * A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson. WILLIAM M'LAREN, WILLIAM M'LAREN, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He began life as a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the concerns of trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes o* verses, which WILLIAM MCLAREN. 127 were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled " Emma; or, The Cruel Father; and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of " Isabella ; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contri- buted to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend to which is appended an eloge on Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects. At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland ; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change- house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular man- ners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own. AND DOST THOU SPEAK SINCERE, MY LOVE? TUNE "Lord Gregory." AND dost thou speak sincere, my lore ! And must we ever part ? And dost thou unrelenting see The anguish of my heart ? Have e'er these doating eyes of mine, One wandering wish express'd ? No ; thou alone hast ever been Companion of my breast. I saw thy face, angelic fair, I thought thy form divine, I sought thy love I gave my heart, And hoped to conquer thine. But, ah ! delusive, cruel hope ! Hope now for ever gone ! My Mary keeps the heart I gave, But with it keeps her own. When many smiling summer suns Their silver light has shed, And wrinkled age her hoary hairs Waves lightly o'er my head ; Even then, in life's declining hour, My heart will fondly trace The beauties of thy lovely form, And sweetly smiling face. SAY NOT THE BARD HAST TURN'D OLD. THOUGH the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled, Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string, Be tremulous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, Yet say not the Bard has turu'd old. Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes ; Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night ; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old. When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright, In the hall of his chief, on a festival night, I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye, While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old. "When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done, By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone, His strains then are various now rapid, now slow, As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old. When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd, And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast, I list with delight to his rapturous strain, While the borrowing echo returns it again; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old. 128 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. But not summer's profusion alone can inspire His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre, But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow, When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow ; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old. I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven, Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven, And smile at the billows that angrily rave, Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave ; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old. When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart, Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave, And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave, Then say that the Bard has turn'd old. HAMILTON PAUL A MAX of fine intellect, a poet, and an elegant writer, Hamilton Paul has claims to remembrance. On the 10th April 1773,* he was born in a small cottage on the banks of Girvan "Water, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. In the same dwelling, Hugh Ainslie, another Scottish bard, was afterwards born. Eeceiving his elementary education at the parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Thomas Campbell, author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was a college contemporary; and their mutual love of poetry drew them closely to each other. They competed for academical rewards offered for the best compositions in verse, till frequent adjudication as to the equality of their merits induced them to forbear con- testing on the same subjects. At least on one occasion the verses of Paul were preferred to those* of the Bard of Hope. The following lines, exhibiting a specimen of his poetical powers at this period, are from a translation of Claudian's " Epithala- mium on the Marriage of Honorius and Maria," for which, in the Latin class, he gained a prize along with his friend : " Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms, Decreed to bless the youthful monarch's arms ; Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires, And in his breast awakens new desires. In love a novice, while his bosom glows With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows: The rural pastimes suited to his age, His late delight, no more his care engage ; No more he wills to give his steed the reins In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains ; No more he joys to bend the twanging bow, To hurl the javelin, or the dart to throw ; His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove, To wounds inflicted by the god of love. How oft, expressive of the inward smart, Did groans convulsive issue from his heart J How oft did blushes own the sacred fiainu, How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name! Now presents worthy of the plighted fair, And nuptial robes his busy train prepare Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired, And those bright dames that to the beds aspired Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid Requires no earthly ornamental aid To give her faultless form a single grace, Or add one charm to her bewitching face." The circumstances of the yoiing poets were far from affluent. Campbell par- ticularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning to the lodgings * " J 773- Hamilton, son lawful to John Paul at Bargenny, born loth April, and baptized isth." Baptismal Register of Dailly. HAMIL TON PA UL. 129 of Ms friend to request bis opinion of some verses; they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the pro- duction : " Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite, That rode upon the storm of night, And loud the waves were heard to roar That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore. " After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a family in Argyllshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the island of MulL They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose and verse. " Your verses on the ' Unfortunate Lady,' " writes Campbell to his friend, " I read with sweet pleasure ; for their is a joy in grief, when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad Morose as I am in judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit ; for my sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion, I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan, written soon after my arrival in Mull : " Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering Jacob's grassy meads between, Lo ! thy waters, gently wandering, Lave thy valleys rich and green. " "\Yhen the winter, keenly show'ring, Strips fair Salem's holy shade, Then thy current, broader flowing, Lingers 'mid the leafless glade. " "When, ! when shall light returning Gild the melancholy gloom, And the golden star of morning Jordan's solemn vault illume ? ' ' When shall Freedom's holy charmer Cheer my long benighted soul ? When shall Israel, proud in armour, Burst the tyrant's base control?" etc. " The similarity of the measure with that of your last made me think of sending you this piece. I am much hurried at present with my comedy, the ' Clouds of Aristophanes.' I have already finished my translation of the Choephorce of ^Eschylus. I dreamt a dream about your being before Parnassus upon your trial for sedition and contumacy. I thought Thalia, Clio, etc., addressed you. 'Their speeches shall be nonsensified into rhyme, and shall be part of some other scrawl from your affectionate friend, " THOMAS THE HERMIT." In another epistle, Campbell threatens to " send a formal message to the kind nymphs of Parnassus, telling them that, whereas Hamilton Paul, their favourite and admired laureate of the north, has been heard to express his admiration of certain nymphs in a certain place ; and that the said Hamilton Paul has ungratefully and feloniously neglected to speak with due reverence of the ladies of Helicon ; that said Hamilton Paul shall be deprived of all aid in future from these goddesses, and be sent to draw his inspiration from the dry fountain of earthly beauty; and that, furthermore, all the favours taken from the said Hamilton Paul shall accrue to the informer and petitioner ! " After two years' residence in the Highlands, both the poets returned to Glasgow 130 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. to resume their academical studies : Campbell to qualify himself as a man of letters, and Paul to prepare for the ministry of the Scottish Church. " It would have been impossible, even during the last years of their college life," writes Mr Deans,* " to have predicted which of the two students would ultimately arrive at the greatest eminence. They were both excellent classical scholars ; they were both ingenious poets ; and Campbell does not appear to have surpassed his companion either in his original pieces or his translations ; they both exhibited great versatility of talent ; they were both playful and witty ; and seem to have been possessed of great facilities in sport. During his latter years, when detailing the history of those joyous days, Mr Paul dwelt on them with peculiar delight, and seemed animated with youthful emotion when recalling the curious frolics and innocent and singular adventures in which Campbell and he had performed a principal part." While resident at Inverary, Mr Paul wrote several poems, which were much approved by his correspondent. Among these, a ballad entitled " The Maid of Inverary," in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Lady Bury, was set to music, and made the subject of elaborate criticism. On his return to the univer- sity, he composed with redoubled ardour, contributing verses on every variety of topic to the newspapers and periodicals. Several of his pieces, attracting the notice of some of the professors, received their warm commendation. Obtaining license to preach, the poet returned to his native county. During a probation of thirteen years, he was assistant to six parish ministers, and tutor in five different families. He became joint-proprietor and editor of the Ayr Advertiser, which he conducted for a period of three years. At Ayr he was a member of every literary circle ; was connected with every club ; chaplain to every society ; a speaker at every meeting ; the poet of every curious occurrence ; and the welcome guest at every table. Besides editing his newspaper, he gave private instructions in languages, and preached on Sabbath. His metrical productions became widely known, and his songs were sung at the cottage hearths of the district. His presence at the social meeting was the sure indication of a prevalent good humour. In 1813, Mr Paul attained the summit of his professional ambition: he was ordained to the pastoral office in the united parishes of Broughton, Glenholm, and Kilbucho, in Peeblesshire. Amidst due attention to his clerical duties, he still found leisure to engage in literary pursuits, and continued to contribute to the public journals both in prose and poetry. Of the poet Burns he was an enthusiastic admirer. He was laureate of the " Burns' Allowa' Club," and of the Glasgow Ayrshire Friendly Society, whose annual meetings were held on the Bard's anniversary ; and the odes which he composed for these annual assemblages attracted wide and warm admiration. ' He therefore recommended himself as a suitable editor of the works of Burns, when a new edition was contemplated by Messrs Wilson & M'Cormick, booksellers in Ayr. In the performance of his editorial task, he was led, in an attempt to palliate the immoralities of Burns, to make some indiscreet allusions respecting his own clerical brethren. For this imprudence he narrowly escaped censure from the ecclesiastical courts. His memoir, though commended by Professor Wilson, in Slack- wood's Magazine, was severely censured by Dr Andrew Thomson in the CJiristian Instructor. The pastoral parish of Broughton was in many respects suited for a person of Hamilton Paul's peculiar temperament and habits : in a more conspicuous position his talents might have shone with more brilliancy ; but, after the burst of enthusiasm in his youth was past, he loved seclusion, and modestly sought the shade. No man * We are indebted to Mr W. Deans, author of a "History of the Ottoman Empire, "for much of the informa- tion contained in this memoir. Mr Deans was personally acquainted with Mr Hamilton Paul. HAMIL TON PA UL. 131 was less conscious of his powers, or attached less value to his literary performances.* Of his numerous poetical compositions, each was the work of a sitting, or had been uttered impromptu ; and, unless secured by a friend, they were commonly laid aside never to be recollected. As a clergyman, he retained, during a lengthened incum- bency, the respect and affection of his flock, chiefly, it may be remarked, from the acceptability of his private services, and the warmth and kindliness of his dispositions. His pulpit discourses were elegantly composed, and largely impressed with originality and learning, but were somewhat imperfectly pervaded with those clear and evan- gelical views of Divine truth which are best calculated to edify a Christian audience. In private society, he was universally beloved. " His society," writes Mr Deans, " was courted by the rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned. In every company he was alike kind, affable, and unostentatious; as a companion, he was the most engaging of men ; he was the best story-teller of his day." His power of humour was unbounded; he had a joke for every occasion, a bon-mot for every adventure. He had eminent power of satire when he chose to wield it ; but he generally blended the complimentary with the pungent, and lessened the keenness of censure by the good humour of its utterance. His anecdotes are familiar over a wide district, and many of his witty sayings have become proverbial. He was abundantly hospitable, and had even suffered embarrassments from its injudicious exercise; still he was always able, as he used to say, " To invite the wanderer to the gate, And spread the couch of rest. " He died on the 28th of February 1854, in the eighty-first year of his age. In appearance, Hamilton Paul presented a handsome person, tall and erect ; his countenance was regular and pleasant ; and his eyes, which were partially concealed by overhanging eye-lashes, beamed with humour and intelligence. In conversation he particularly excelled, evincing on every topic the fruits of extensive reading and reflection. He was readily moved by the pathetic ; at the most joyous hour, a melancholy incident would move him into tears. The tenderness of his heart was frequently imparted to his verses, which are distinguished for simplicity and smoothness. * " He never took any credit to himself," communicates his friend, Mr H. S. Riddell, "from the widely- known circumstance of his having carried off the prize from Campbell. He said that Campbell was' at that period a very young man, much younger than he, and had much less experience in composition than himself." HELEN GRAY. FAIR are the fleecy flocks that feed On yonder heath-clad hills, "Where wild meandering crystal Tweed Collects his glassy rills. And sweet the buds that scent the air, And deck the breast of May ; But none of these are sweet or fair, Compared to Helen Gray. You see in Helen's face so mild, And in her bashful mien, The winning softness of the child, The blushes of fifteen. The witching smile, when prone to go Arrests me, bids me stay ; Nor joy, nor comfort can I know, "When 'reft of Helen Gray. I little thought the dark-brown moors, The dusky mountain's shade, Down which the wasting torrent pours, Conceal'd so sweet a maid ; When sudden started from the plain A sylvan scene and gay, "Where, pride of all the virgin train, I first saw Helen Gray. * * * * * May never Envy's venom'd breath, Blight thee, thou tender flower ! And may thy head ne'er droop beneath Affliction's chilling shower! Though I, the victim of distress, Must wander far away ; Yet, till my dying hour, I'll bless The name of Helen Gray. THE BONNIE LASS OF BARE. OF streams that down the valley run, Or through the meadow glide, Or glitter to the summer sun, The Stinshar* is the pride. * The English pronouncing the name of this river Stinkar, induced the poet Burns to change it to Lugar. 132 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. 'Tis not his banks of verdant hue, Though famed they be afar ; Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue, Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew ; 'Tis she that chiefly charms the view, The bonnie lass of Barr. "Wlien rose the lark on early wing, The vernal tide to hail ; When daisies deck'd the breast of spring, I sought her native vale. The beam that gilds the evening sky, And brighter morning star That tells the king of day is nigh "With mimic splendour vainly try To reach the lustre of thine eye, Thou bonnie lass of Barr. The sun behind yon misty isle, Did sweetly set yestreen ; But not his parting dewy smile Could match the smile of Jean. Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe, Mine strove with tender war. On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow, While rivers to the ocean flow, With love of thee my heart shall glow, Thou bonnie lass of Barr. ROBERT TANNAHILL ROBERT TAXNAHILL was born at Paisley on the 3d of June 1774.* His father, James Tannahill, a silk-gauze weaver, married Janet Pollock, daughter of Matthew Pollock, owner of the small property of Boghall, near Beith ; their family consisted of six sons and one daughter, of whom the future poet was the fourth child. On his mother's side he inherited a poetical temperament : she was herself endowed with strong natural sagacity, and her maternal uncle, Hugh Brodie of Langcroft, a small landowner in Lochwinnoch, evidenced poetic powers by composing " A Speech in Verse upon Husbandry. "f When a mere youth, Tannahill wrote verses; and being unable, from a weakness in one of his limbs to join in the active sports of his school-fellows, he sought amusement by composing riddles in rhyme for their solution. Along with poetry, Tannahill early cultivated the kindred arts of music and song. A mere youth, he occasionally earned the payment of ten shillings for playing on the fife at the Greenock parades ; he afterwards became eminent for his skill in the use of the flute. Having completed his education at school, which consisted of instruction in the elementary branches, he became apprenticed to a cotton-weaver. Collecting old or obscure airs, he began to adapt to them suitable words, which he jotted down as they occurred, upon a rude writing-desk he had attached to his loom. His spare hours were spent in the general improvement of his mind. For a period of two years at the commencement of the century, he prosecuted his handicraft occu- pation at Bolton in England. Returning to Paisley in the spring of 1802, he was offered the situation of overseer of a manufacturing establishment, but he preferred to resume the labours of the loom. Hitherto Tannahill had not dreamed of becoming known as a song-writer: he cultivated his gift to relieve the monotony of an unintellectual occupation, and the usual auditor of his lays was his younger brother Matthew, who for some years was his companion in the workshop. The acquaintance of Robert Archibald Smith, the celebrated musical composer, which he was now fortunate in obtaining, was the means of stimulating his Muse to higher efforts. Smith was at this period resident in Paisley; and along with one Ross, a teacher of music from Aberdeen, he set several of TannahilTs best songs to music. In 1805, our poet was invited to become h ,"^^ ne - 1774 ' Robe rt, 'awful son to James Tannahill, weaver, and Janet Polick, born 3d. baptized sth." Paisley Register of Births and Baptisms. t See Semple's " Continuation of Crawford's History of Renfrewshire," p. 116. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 133 a contributor to a leading metropolitan periodical, and two years afterwards he pub- lished a volume of " Poems and Songs." Of this work, a large impression was sold, and a number of the songs obtained celebrity. Encouraged by E. A. Smith and others, who, attracted by his fame, came to visit him, Tannahill began to court reputation as a song- writer; he composed new songs and re- wrote with attention those which he had already published. Some of these compositions he hoped would be accepted by his correspondent, Mr George Thomson, for his collection, and the others he expected would find a publisher in the famous bookselling firm of Constable and Co. The failure of both these schemes for Constable's hands were full, and Thomson exhibited his wonted " fastidiousness "deeply affected the sensitive bard. A temporary relief to his disappointed expectations was occasioned by a visit which, in the spring of 1810, he received from James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who made a journey to Paisley expressly to form his acquaintance. The poets spent a night together ; and in the morning Tannahill accompanied the Shepherd half-way to Glasgow. Their parting was memorable : " Farewell," said Tannahill, as he grasped the Shepherd's hand, " we shall never meet again ! Farewell, I shall never see you more ! " The visit of the Ettrick Bard proved only an interlude amidst the depression which had permanently settled on the mind of poor Tannahill. The intercourse of admiring friends became burdensome to him ; and he stated to his brother Matthew his determination either to leave Paisley for a sequestered locality, or to canvass the country for subscribers to a new edition of his poems. Meanwhile, his person became emaciated, and he complained to his brother that he experienced a prickling sensation in the head. During a visit to a friend in Glasgow, he exhibited symptoms of in- sanity. On his return home, he complained of illness, and took to bed in his mother's house. He was visited by three of his brothers on the evening of the same day, and they left him about ten o'clock, when he appeared sufficiently composed. Returning about two hours afterwards to inquire for him, and for their mother, who lay sick in the next apartment, they found their brother's bed empty, and discovered that he had gone out. Arousing the neighbours, they made an immediate search, and at length they discovered the poet's lifeless body at a deep spot of the neighbour- ing brook. Tannahill terminated his own life on the 17th May 1810, at the age of thirty-six. The victim of disappointments which his sensitive temperament could not endure, Tannahill was naturally of an easy and cheerful disposition. As a child, his exem- plary behaviour was so conspicuous, that mothers were satisfied of their children's safety if they learned that they were in company with " Bob Tannahill." Inoffensive in his own dispositions, he entertained every respect for the feelings of others. He enjoyed the intercourse of particular friends, but avoided general society ; in com- pany, he seldom talked, and only with a neighbour ; he shunned the acquaintance of persons of rank, because he disliked patronage, and dreaded superciliousness. His conversation Avas simple ; he possessed, but seldom used, considerable powers of satire ; but he applied his keenest shafts of sarcasm against the votaries of cruelty. In performing acts of kindness he took delight, but he was scrupulous of accepting favours ; he was strong in the love of independence, and had saved twenty pounds at the period of his death. His general appearance did not indicate intellectual supe- riority ; his countenance was calm and meditative, his eyes were grey, and his hair a light-brown. In person, he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are inferior to his songs : of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and graceful simplicity, they are 134 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. pervaded by the gentlest pathos. Rich in description of beautiful landscapes, they softly tell the tale of man's affection and woman's love.* * Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular affection towards any of the fair sex. We have ascertained that, at different periods, he paid court to two females of his own rank. The first of these was Jean King, sister of his friend John King, one of the minor poets of Paisley ; she afterwards married a person of the name of Pinkerton ; and her son, Mr James Pinkerton, printer, Paisley, has frequently heard her refer to the fear she had entertained lest " Rob would write a song about her." His next sweetheart was Mary Allan, sister of the poet Robert Allan. This estimable woman was a sad mourner on the poet's death, and for many years wept aloud when her deceased lover was made the subject of conversation in her presence. Twenty years ago she emigrated to America. Some verses addressed to her by the poet she retained with the fondest affection. Many particulars contained in this sketch we received from the poet's brother, Mr Matthew Tanna- hill. That respectable person died about 1860. JESSIE, THE FLOWER 0' DUMBLANE.* THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben- lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To rnuse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green ; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dum- blane. She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny ; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain ; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dum- blane. 1 "Jessie, the flower p' Dumblane" was published in 1808, and has since received an uncommon measure of popularity. The music, so suitable to the words, was composed by R. A. Smith. In the " Harp of Renfrew- shire" (p. xxxvi.), Mr Smith remarks that the song was at first composed in two stanzas, the third being added subsequently. "The Promethean fire," says Mr Smith, " must have been burning but Itnunly, when such com- mon-place ideas could be written, after the song had been so finely wound up with the beautiful apostrophe to the mavis, ' Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening.' " The heroine of the song was formerly a matter of speculation ; many a "Jessie " had the credit assigned to her ; and passengers by the old stage-coaches between Perth and the south, on passing through Dun- blane, had pointed out to them, by the drivers, the house of Jessie's birth. One writer (in the Musical Magazine, for May 1835) records that he had actually been intro- duced at Dunblane to the individual Jessie, then an elderly female, of an appearance the reverse of prepos- sessing ! Unfortunately for the curious in such inquiries, the heroine existed only in the imagination of the poet ; he never was at Dunblane, which, if he had been, he would have discovered that the sun could not there be seen setting "o'er the lofty Benlomond." Mr Matthew Tannahill informed the editor that the song was com- posed to supplant an old one, entitled, "Bob o' Dum- blane. ' How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain ; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dum- blane. LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.* AIR " Lord Moira's Wekome to Scotland." LOUDOTJN'S bonnie woods and braes, I maun lea' them a', lassie ; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie ? Wha would shun the field of danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger ? Now when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca', lassie ? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Ha'e seec our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie. "Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou 'It maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie. " * Tannahill wrote this song in honour of the Earl of Moira, afterwards Marquis of Hastings, and the Coun- tess of Loudoun, to whom his Lordship had been lately married, when he was called abroad in the service of his country. ROBERT T ANN A HILL. 135 ! resume thy wonted smile ! ! suppress thy fears, lassie ! Glorious honour crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie ; Heaven will shield thy faithful lover, Till the vengeful strife is over, Then we'll meet nae mair to sever, Till the day we die, lassie ; 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes, We'll spend our peaceful, happy days, As bl ythe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie. THE LASS 0' ARRANTEENIK* FAR lone amang the Highland hills, 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens, With weary steps I wander. The langsome way, the darksome day, The mountain mist sae rainy, Are nought to me when gaun to thee, Sweet lass o' Arranteenie. Yon mossy rosebud down the howe, Just op'ning fresh and bonny, Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, And 's scarcely seen by ony; Sae sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Mair fair and gay than rosy May, The flower o' Arranteenie. Xow, from the mountain's lofty brow, I view the distant ocean. There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, Ambition courts promotion : Let Fortune pour her golden store, Her laurell'd favours many ; Give me but this, my soul's first wish, The lass o' Arranteenie. YON BURN SIDE.t AIR" The Brier-Bush" WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side ; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we'll meet we'll meet at e'en down by yon burn side. * This song was written on a yonng lady, whom a friend of the author met at Ardentinny, a retired spot on the margin of Loch Long. t The poet and one of his particular friends, Charles Marshall, had met one evening in a tavern, kept by Tom Buchanan, near the cross of Paisley. The evening was enlivened by song-singing; and the landlord, who was present, sung the old song, beginning, " There grows a bonny brier-bush," which he did with effect. On their way home together, Marshall remarked that the words of the landlord's song were vastly inferior to the tune, I '11 lead you to the birkeu bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side ; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yen burn side. Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smooths her theme, By the sweetly murm'ring stream, And the rock -lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side. Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side ; Far frae the noisy scene, I '11 through the fields alane, There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side. THE BRAES 0' GLENIFFER,* AIR "Bonny Dundee." KEEN blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Glenifler, The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw ; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw: The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they ha'e marched my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me. Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. and humorously suggested the following burlesque parody of the first stanza : " There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, There's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, They were set by Charlie Marshall, And pu'd by Nannie Laird, Yet there's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail- yard." He added that Tannahill would do well to compose suitable words for the music. The hint sufficed; the friends met after a fortnight's interval, when the poet produced and read the song of " Yon burn side." It immediately became popular. * The Braes of Gleniffer are a tract of hilly ground, to the south of Paisley. They are otherwise known as Stanley Braes. 136 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their \jings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae; While down the deep glen bawls the snaw- flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. 'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e, For, 0, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan', The dark days o' winter were summer to me ! THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.* AIR '*Crockston Castle." THROUGH Crookston Castle's lanely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary ; Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary. Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure ; But I will ford the whirling deep, That roars between me and my treasure. Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave, Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee, Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie ; But when the lonesome way is past, I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary ! Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave, With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, The wildest dreary night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. * The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated on the brow of a gentle eminence, about three miles south-east of Paisley. The Castle, in the twelfth century, was pos- sessed by a Norman family, of the name of Croc ; it passed, in the following century, by the marriage of the heiress, into a younger branch of the House of Stewart, who were afterwards ennobled as Earls of Lennox. According to tradition, Queen Mary and Lord Darnley occasionally resided in the castle ; and it is reported that the unfortunate princess witnessed from its walls the fall of her fortunes at the battle of Langside. Crock- ston Castle is now in the possession of Sir William Stir- ling Maxwell, Bart. THE BRAES 0' BALQUHITHER. AIR " The Three Carls o' Buchanan." LET us go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather ; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o' Balquhither. I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain ; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling ; So merrily we'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shelling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming ; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. MY BONNY YOUNG LADDIE. OUR bonny Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids, Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw, Rank'd up on the green, were fair to be seen, But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a'. His cheeks were as red as the sweet heather-bell, Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw, His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell, And the e'en o' the lasses were fix'd on him a'. My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day, When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa', He bade me farewell, he cried " be leal," And his red cheeks were wet wi' the tears that did fa'. Ah ! Harry, my love, tho* thou ne'er shou'dst return, Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn, And memory shall fade, like the leaf on the tree, Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 137 YE DEAR ROMANTIC SHADES. Mirk and rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carry;* AIR " Mrs Hamilton of Wisha-w's Strathspey." Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, Far from the giddy court of mirth And winds drive wi' winter's fury. Where sick'ning follies reign, 0! are ye -sleeping, Maggie? etc. By Levern banks I wander forth To hail each sylvan scene. All hail, ye dear romantic shades ! Ye banks, ye woods, and sunny glades ! Here oft the musing poet treads In nature's riches great, Fearful soughs tue bourtree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and dreary, Loud the iron yate does clank, And cry of howlets makes me eerie. 0! are ye sleeping, Maggie? etc. Contrasts the country with the town, Makes nature's beauties all his own, And, borne on Fancy's wings, looks down Aboon my breath I daurna speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie, Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek, On empty pride and state. rise, rise, my bonnie lady! 0! are ye sleeping, Maggie? etc. By dewy dawn, or sultry noon, Or sober evening grey, I'll often quit the dinsome town, By Levern banks to stray ! Or from the upland's mossy brow, She opt the door, she let him in, He euist aside his dreeping plaidie : " Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye." Enjoy the fancy -pleasing view Of streamlets, woods, and fields below, Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie ! Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie ! A sweetly varied scene ! What care I for howlet's cry, Give riches to the miser's care ; Let Folly shine in Fashion's glare ; For bourtree bank, or warloch craigie ? Give me the wealth of peace and health, With all their happy train. WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE MARRIED AIR " Clean Peei-strae." GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'. When John and me were married, AIR " Lord Balgonie's Favourite. " Our hading was but sma', GLOOMY winter's now awa', Saft the westling breezes blaw, 'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw, The mavis sings fu' cheerie, ! Sweet the crawflower's early bell Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, For my minnie, canker't carling, Wou'd gi'e us nocht ava' ; I wair't my fee wi' canny care, As far as it wou'd gae, But weel I wat, our bridal bed Was clean pease-strae. Blooming like thy bonnie sel', Wi' working late and early, My young, my artless dearie, ! We 're come to what ye see, For fortune thrave aneath our hands, Come, my lassie, let us stray Sae eydent aye were we. O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, The lowe of love made labour light ; Blythely spend the gowden day, 'Midst joys that never weary, ! I'm sure ye '11 find it sae, When kind ye cuddle down at e'en Towering o'er the Newton woods, 'Mang clean pease-strae. Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds, Siller saughs, wi' downie buds, Adorn the banks sae briery, ! The rose blows gay on cairny brae, As weel's in birken shaw, And love will lowe in cottage low, Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks, 'Xeath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheerie, ! Trees may bud, and birds may sing, As weel's in lofty ha' ; Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like, Whate'er your minnie say, Tho' ye should make your bridal bed Of clean pease-strae. Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie, ! NOW, WINTER WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW. AIR " Forneth House." Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow, ! ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE? Is far ayont yon mountains ; AIR "Sleepy Maggie." And Spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains \ 0! ARE ye sleeping, Maggie? 0! are ye sleeping, Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring o'er the warloch craigie. * This expression commonly means, the direction in which the clouds are carried by the ind, but it is here used to denote the firmament. 138 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Now, on the budding slaethorn Lank She spreads her early blossom, And wooes the mirly -breasted birds To nestle in her bosom. But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, Sae darksome, dull, and drearie ; Now laverocks sing to hail the spring, And Nature all is cheerie. Then let us leave the town, my love, And seek our country dwelling, Where waving woods, and spreading flowers, On every side are smiling. We'll tread again the daisied green, Where first your beauty moved me ; We '11 trace again the woodland scene, Where first ye own'd ye loved me ; We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear those pleasures a', When shared with thee, my Nancy. THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, ! GAELIC AIR " Mornian a Ghibarlan." BLYTHE was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, ! Happy were the days when we herded the- gether, 0! Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, ! And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, 0! But, ah ! waes me ! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, ! The laird's wys'd awa' my braw Highland laddie, 0! Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, ! That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear High- land laddie, ! The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, ! Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, ! Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, ! The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O ! He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen; He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen; He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, 0! Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, ! Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, ! Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, ! Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammie and my daddie, ! I will leave you a' for my dear Highland lad.lie, ! THE LAMENT OF WALLACE AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIKK. AIR "Maids of ' Arrochar." THOU dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see, To me thou can'st never give pleasure again ; My brave Caledonians lie down on the lea, And thy streams are deep ting'd with the blood of the slain. Ah ! base-hearted Treach'ry has doom'd our undoing, My poor bleeding country, what more can I do? Ev'n Valour looks pale o'er the red field of Ruin, And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low. Farewell, ye dear partners of peril ! farewell ! Tho' buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave, Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell, And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave. But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander, Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die ! On thy wrongs, my country ! indignant I ponder Ah ! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly ! THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN. AIR" The Shepherd's Son." THE midges dance aboon the burn, 'The dews begin to fa' ; The pairrricks doun the rushy holm Set up their e'ening ca' ; Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'. Beneath the golden gloamin' sky The mavis mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day. While weary yeldrins seem to wail, Their little nestlings torn ; The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn. The roses fauld their silken leaves, The floxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell. Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me. ROBERT TANNAHILL. 139 EAB RORYSON'S BONNET. AIR-" TJie Auld Wife a' the S kn." YE'LL a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, Ye' 11 a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet; 'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that was in it, Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet. This bonnet, that theekit his wonderfu' head, Was his shelter in winter, in summer his shade; And at kirk or at market, or bridals, I ween, A braw, gaxicier bonnet there never was seen. "\Vi* a round rosy tap, like a meikle blackboyd, It was slouch'd just a kening on either hand side; Some maintain'd it was black, some maintain'd it was blue, It had something o' baith, as a body may trew. But, in sooth, I assure you, for aught that I saw, Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava' ; Tho' the haill parish talk'd o' Rab Rorysou's bonnet, 'Twas a' for the marvellous head that was in it. That head let it rest it is now in the mools, Tho' in life a' the warld beside it were fools ; Yet o' what kind o' wisdom his head was possest, Nane e'er kent but himsel', sae there's nane that will miss 't. AH ! SHEELAH, THOU 'RT MY DARLING. AIR "Nancy Verney." AH! Sheelah, thon'rt my darling, The golden image of my heart, How cheerless seems this morning It brings the hour when we must part ; Tho' doom'd to cross the ocean, And face the proud insulting foe, Thou hast my soul's devotion My heart is thine where'er I go : Ah ! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling, My heart is thine where'er I go. When toss'd upon the billow, And angry tempests round me blow, Let not the gloomy willow O'ershade thy lovely lily brow ; But mind the seaman's story, Sweet "William and his charming Sue ; I'll soon return with glory, And, like sweet William, wed thee too : Ah! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, My heart is thine where'er I go. Think on our days of pleasure While wandering by the Shannon side, When summer days gave leisure To stray amidst their flow'ry pride ; And while thy faithful lover Is far upon the stormy main, Think, when the wars are over, These golden days shall come again : Ah ! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling, These golden days shall come again. Farewell, ye lofty mountains, Your flow'ry wilds we wont to rove ; Ye woody glens and fountains, The dear retreats of mutual love. Alas ! we now must sever Sheelah, to thy vows be true ! My heart is thine for ever One fond embrace, and then adieu: Ah ! Sheelah, thou 'rt my darling, One fond embrace, and then adieu. BARROCHAN JEAN.* AIR "Johnnie M'Gill." 'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean ? And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? H_ow death and starvation came o'er the haill nation, She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzens, The tane kill'd wi' love, and the tither wi' spleen ; The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A" wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean ! Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen; The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie, Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean ! The carlines at name were a' girning and graniug, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en; They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie, For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean! The doctors declared it was past their de- scriving, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin; But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean! * Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill remarks: "You will, no doubt, have frequently observed how much some old people are given to magnify the occurrences of their young days. Bar- rochan Jean ' was written on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch parish, relating a story something similar to the subject of the song ; perhaps I have heightened her colouring a little." 140 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin; A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs, E'en the winds were a sighing, " Sweet Barrochan Jean ! " The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean ; Dead lovers were packit like herrin in barrels, Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean! But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie, The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green, He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en. 0, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID ! LOWLAND lassie, wilt thou go Where the hills are clad with snow ; Where, beneath the icy steep, The hardy shepherd tends his sheep? Ill nor wae shall thee betide, When row'd within my Highland plaid. Soon the voice of cheery spring Will gar a' our plantin's ring, Soon our bonny heather braes Will put on their summer claes ; On the mountain's sunny side, We'll lean us on my Highland plaid. When the summer spreads the flowers, Busks the glens in leafy bowers, Then we '11 seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose bed ; While the burning hours preside, I '11 screen thee wi' my Highland plaid. Then we '11 leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonny boat, Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee ; When chilly breezes sweep the tide, I '11 hap thee wi' my Highland plaid. Lowland lads may dress mair fine, Woo in words mair saft than mine ; Lowland lads ha'e mair of art, A' my boast 's an honest heart. Whilk shall ever be my pride \ 0, row thee in my Highland plaid ! " Bonny lad, ye've been sae leal, My heart would break at our fareweel ; Lang your love has made me fain ; Take me take me for your ain ! " Across the Firth, away they glide, Young Donald and his Lowland bride. GREEN INISMORE. AIR " T)ie Leitrim County." How light is my heart as I journey along, Now my perilous service is o'er ; I think on sweet home, and I carol a song, In remembrance of her I adore : How sad was the hour when I bade her adieu ! Her tears spoke her grief, tho' her words were but few ; She hung on my bosom, and sighed, 0, be true, When you're far from the green Inismore ! Ah ! Eveleen, my love ! hadst thou seen this fond breast, How, at parting, it bled to its core, Thou hadst there seen thine image so deeply imprest, That thou ne'er couldst have doubted me more. For my king and my country undaunted I fought, And brav'd all the hardships of war as I ought ; But the day never rose saw thee strange to my thought, Since I left thee in green Inismore. Ye dear native mountains that tow'r on my view, What joys to my mind ye restore ! The past happy scenes of my life ye renew, And ye ne'er seem'd so charming before. In the rapture of fancy already I spy My kindred and friends crowding round me with joy ; But my Eveleen, sweet girl, there's a far dearer tie, Binds this heart to the green Inismore. BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.* THOU bonny wood of Craigie lea ! Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea ! Near thee I pass'd life's early day, And won my Mary's heart in thee. The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea, And a' the sweets that ane can wish, Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee. Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade, The cooshat croodles am'rously, The mavis, down thy bughted glade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Thou bonny wood, etc. * Craigie Lea is situated a short distance to the north- west of Paisley. ROBERT T ANN A HILL. 141 Awa', ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee! They '11 sing you yet a canty sang, Then, 0, in pity, let them be ! Thou bonny wood, etc. When winter blaws in sleety showers Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie, He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers, As laith to harm a flower in thee. Thou bonny wood, etc. Though Fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea ; The happy hours I '11 ever mind, That I, in youth, ha'e spent in thee. Thou bonny wood, etc. DESPAIRING MARY. MABY, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow ? See a' around you the flowers sweetly blaw ; Blythe sets the sun o'er the wild cliffs of Jura, Blythe sings the mavis in ilka green shaw. "How can this heart ever mair think of pleasure, Summer may smile, but delight I ha'e nane ; Cauld in the grave lies my heart's only treasure, Mature seems dead since my Jamie is gane. "This 'kerchief he gave me, a true lover's token, Dear, dear to me was the gift for his sake ! I wear 't near my heart, but this poor heart is broken, Hope died with Jamie, and left it to break. Sighing for him, I lie down in the evening, Sighing for him, I awake in the morn ; Spent are my days a' in secret repining, Peace to this bosoto can never return. ' ' Oft have we wander'd in sweetest retirement, Telling our loves 'neath the moon's silent beam; Sweet were our meetings of tender endearment, But fled are those joys like a fleet-passing dream. Cruel Remembrance ! ah! why wilt thou wreck me? Brooding o'er joys that for ever are flown ! Cruel Remembrance ! in pity forsake me, Flee to some bosom where grief is unknown. MOLLY, MY DEAR, THE harvest is o'er, and the lads are so funny, Their hearts lined with love, and their pockets with money ; From morning to night 'tis " My jewel, my honey ! Och, go to the north with me, Molly, my dear ! " Young Dermot holds on with his sweet botheration, And swears there's only one flow'r in the nation : "Thou rose of the Shannon, thou pink of creation, Oeh, go to the north with me, Molly, niy dear ! " " The sun courts thy smiles as he sinks in the ocean, The moon to thy charms veils her face in devotion, And I, my poor self, och ! so rich in my notion, "Would pay down the world for sweet Molly, my dear." Tho' Thady can match all the lads with his blarney, And sings me love songs of the lakes of Kil- arney, In worth from my Dermot he's twenty miles journey, My heart bids me tell him I'll ne'er be his dear. PEGGY O'RAFFERTY. AIR" Paddy O'Rafferty." COULD I fly like the green-coated fairy, 1 'd skip o'er the ocean to dear Tipperary, Where all the young fellows are blythesome and merry, While here I lament my sweet Peggy O'Raf- ferty. How could I bear in my bosom to leave her ; In absence I think her more lovely than ever, With thoughts of her beauty I 'm all in a fever, Since others may woo my sweet Peggy O'Ratferty. Scotland, thy lasses are modest and bonny, But here ev'ry Jenny has got her own Johnny ; A'tho' I might call them my jewel and honey, My heart is at home with sweet Peggy O'Rafferty. Wistful I think on my dear native mountains, Their green shady glens, and their crystalline fountains, And ceaseless I heave the deep sigh of repent- ance That ever I left my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty. Fortune, 'twas thine all the light foolish notion, That led me to rove o'er the wide -rolling ocean ; But what now to me all thy hopes of promotion, Since I am so far from sweet Peggy O'Raf- ferty. Grant me as many thirteens as will carry me Down thro' the country, and over the ferry, I '11 hie me straight home into dear Tipperary, And never more leave my sweet Peggy O'Rafferty. 142 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.* AIR "Goodnight, and joy be wi' you a!" THE weary sun's gaen down the west, The birds sit nodding on the tree ; All nature now prepares for rest, But rest prepared there's none for me. The trumpet sounds to war's alarms, The drums they beat, the fifes they play : Come, Mary, cheer me wi' 'thy charms, For the morn I will be far away. Goodnight, and joy goodnight, and joy, Good night, and joy be wi' you a' ; For since its so that 1 must go, Good night, and joy be wi' you a' ! * From Mr Matthew TanHahill we received a copy of this song of his gifted brother. It has been printed, through the favour of Mr M. Tannahill, in the " Book of Scottish Song." I grieve to leave my comrades dear, I mourn to leave my native shore To leave my aged parents here, And the bonnie lass whom I adore. But tender thoughts maun now be hush'd, When danger calls I must obey ; The transport waits us on the coast, And the morn I will be far away. Good night, and joy, etc. Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast ! Though bleak and drear thy mountains be, "When on the heaving ocean tost, I '11 cast a wishful look to thee ! And now, dear Mary, fare thee well, May Providence thy guardian be ! Or in the camp, or on the field, I '11 heave a sigh, and think on thee ! Goodnight, and joy, etc. HENRY DUNCAN, D,D, DR HENRY DUNCAN, the founder of Savings' Banks, and the promoter of various schemes of social economy, we are enabled to record among the contributors to Cale- donian minstrelsy. He was descended through both parents from a succession of respectable clergymen of the Scottish Church. His father, George Duncan, was minister of Lochrutton in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, and the subject of this memoir was born in the manse of that parish, on the 8th October 1774. After a period of training at home under a private tutor, he was sent to the Academy of Dum- fries to complete his preparation for the University. At the age of fourteen, he entered as a student the United College of St Andrews, but after an attendance of two years at that seat of learning, lie was induced, on the invitation of his relative, Dr Currie, to proceed to Liverpool, there to prepare himself for a mercantile profes- sion, by occupying a situation in the banking office of Messrs Heywood. After a trial of three years, he found the avocations of business decidedly uncongenial, and firmly resolved *to follow the profession of his progenitors, by studying for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. He had already afforded evidence of ability to grapple with questions of controversial theology, by printing a tract against the errors of Socinian- ism, which, published anonymously, attracted in the city of Liverpool much attention from the originality with which the usual arguments were illustrated and enforced. Of the concluding five years of his academical course, the first and two last were spent at the University of Edinburgh, the other two at that of Glasgow. In 1797, he was enrolled as a member of the Speculative Society of Edinburgh, and there took his turn in debate with Henry Brougham, Francis Horner, Lord Henry Petty, after- wards Marquis of Lansdowne, and other young men of genius, who then adorned the academic halls of the Scottish capital. With John Leyden, William Gillespie, after- wards minister of Kells, and Robert Lundie the future minister of Kelso, he formed habits of particular intimacy. From the Presbytery of Dumfries, he obtained license as a probationer in the spring of 1798, and he thereafter accepted the situation of tutor in the family of Colonel Erskine, afrerwards Earl of Mar, who then resided at Dalhonzie, near Crieff. In this post he distinguished himself by inducing the inhabi- HENR Y D UNCAN, D.D. tants of the district to take up arms in the defence of the country, during the excite- ment which then prevailed respecting an invasion. In the spring of 1799, the parishes of Lochmaben and Ruth-well, both in the gift of the Earl of Mansfield, became simul- taneously vacant, and the choice of them was accorded to Mr Duncan by the noble patron. He preferred Ruth-well, and was ordained to the charge of that parish on the 19th September. In preferring the parish of Ruthwell to the better position and wider field of ministerial usefulness presented at Lochmaben, Mr Duncan was influenced by the consideration, that the population of the former parish was such as would enable him to extend the pastoral superintendence to every individual of his flock. In this respect he realised his wishes ; but not content with efficiently discharging the more sacred duties of a parochial clergyman, he sought with devoted assiduity, the amelioration of the physical condition of his people. Relieving an immediate destitution in the parish, by a supply of Indian corn brought on his own adventure, he was led to devise means of preventing the recurrence of any similar period of depression. With this intention, he established two friendly societies in the place, and afterwards a local bank for the savings of the industrious. The latter proved the parent of those, admirable institutions for the working classes, known as Savings' Banks, which hav since become so numerous throughout Europe and the United States of America. The Ruthwell Savings' Bank was established in 1810. Numerous difficulties attended the early operation of the system, on its general adoption throughout the country, but these were obviated and removed by the skill and promptitude of the ingenious pro- jector. At one period his correspondence on the subject cost him in postages an annual expenditure of one hundred pounds, a sum nearly equal to half the yearly emoluments of his parochial cure. The Act of Parliament establishing Savings' Banks in Scotland, which was passed in July 1819, was procured through his indomi- table exertions, and likewise the Act of 1835, providing for the better regulation of these institutions. At Ruthwell, Dr Duncan introduced the system of popular lectures on science, which has since been adopted by Mechanics' Institutes. Further to extend the benefits of popular instruction and entertainment, he edited a series of tracts entitled " The Scottish Cheap Repository," one of the first of those periodicals devoted to the moral improvement of the people. A narrative designated " The Cottager's Fireside," which he originally contributed to this series, was afterwards published separately, and com- manded a wide circulation. In 1809, Dr Duncan originated the Dumfries and Gallo- way Courier, a weekly newspaper which he conducted during the first seven years of its existence. He was a frequent contributor to " The Christian Instructor," and wrote the articles " Blair " and " Blacklock " for the Edinburgh Encyclopaedia. At the request of Lord Brougham, he composed two treatises on Savings' Banks and Friendly Societies, for publication by the " Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge." In 1819, he published the " Young Country Weaver," a tale calculated to disseminate just political views among the manufacturing classes ; and in 1826 a tale of the times of the Covenant in three volumes, with the title of " William Douglas, or the Scottish Exiles." Deeply interested in the question of Slave Emancipation, he contributed a series of letters on the subject to the Dumfries Courier, which, afterwards published in the form of a pamphlet, excited no inconsiderable attention. His most valuable and successful publication, the " Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons" appeared in 1836-7 in four duodecimo volumes. As a man of science, the name of Dr Duncan is associated with the discovery of footprints of four-footed animals in the New Red-Sandstone. He made this curious geological discovery in a quarry at Corncockle-muir, about fifteen miles distant from H4 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. his parochial manse. In 1823, he received the degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews. In 1839, he was raised to the Moderator's chair in the General Assembly. In church politics, he had early espoused liberal opinions ; at the Dis- ruption in 1843, he resigned his charge and united himself to the Free Church. He continued to minister in the parish of Euthwell, till the appointment of an assistant and successor a short time before his decease. Revisiting the scene of his ministerial labours after a brief absence, he was struck with paralysis while conducting service at a prayer-meeting, and two days afterwards expired. He died at Comlongon, the residence of his brother-in-law Mr Philips, on the 12th February 1846, and his remains were committed to the churchyard of Ruthwell, in which he had ministered during an incumbency of upwards of forty-six years. Dr Duncan was twice married ; first in 1804, to Miss Craig, the only surviving daughter of his predecessor ; and secondly in 1836, to Mrs Lundie, the relict of his friend Mr Lundie, minister of Kelso. His memoirs have been published by his son, the late Rev. George John C. Duncan, of London. A man of fine intellect, varied scholarship, and highly benevolent dispositions, Dr Duncan was beloved alike by his parishioners and his gifted contemporaries. Pious and exemplary as became his pro- fession, he was expert in business, and was largely endowed with an inventive genius. Though hitherto scarcely known as a poet, he wrote verses so early as his eleventh year, which are described by his biographer as having " evinced a maturity of taste, a refinement of thought, and an ease of diction which astonished and delighted his friends," and the specimens of his more mature lyrical compositions which we have been privileged to publish from his MSS. are such as to induce some regret that they were not sooner given to the public. CURLING SONG. THE music o' the year is hush'd In bonny glen and shaw, man ; And winter spreads o'er nature dead A winding sheet o' snaw, man. O'er burn and loch, the -warlock frost, A crystal brig has laid, man ; The wild geese screaming wi' surprise, The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man. Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm, And leave your coaxing wife, man ; Gae get your besom, tramps, and stanes, And join the friendly strife, man. For on the water's face are met, Wi' mony a merry joke, man, The tenant and his jolly laird, The pastor and his flock, man. The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd, The bonspiel is begun, man ; The ice is true, the stanes are keen, Huzza for glorious fun, man ! The skips are standing at the tee, To guide the eager game, man ; Hush, not a word, but mark the broom, And tak' a steady aim, man. There draw a shot, there lay a guard, And here beside him lie, man ; Now let him feel a gamester's hand, Now in his bosom die, man ; Then fill the port, and block the ice, We sit upon the tee, man ; Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat, And mak' their winner flee, man. How stands the game? It's eight and eight, Now for the winning shot, man ; Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim, I '11 sweep you to the spot, man. The stane is thrown, it glides along, The besoms ply it in, man ; Wi' twisting back the player stands, And eager breathless grin, man. A moment's silence, still as death, Pervades the anxious thrang, man, When sudden bursts the victor's shout, With holla's loud and lang, man. Triumphant besoms wave in air, And friendly banters fly, man ; Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn, Wi' eager steps they hie, man. Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane, And drink wi' social glee, man, May curlers on life's slippery rink, Frae cruel rubs be free, man ; Or should a treacherous bias lead Their erring course ajee, man, Some friendly in-ring may they meet, To guide them to the tee, man. HENRY DUNCAN, D.D. 145 THE RUTHWELL VOLUNTEERS.* THE ROOF OF STRAW. HARK ! the martial drums resound, I ASK no lordling's titled name, Valiant brothers, welcome all, Nor miser's hoarded store ; Crowd the royal standard round, I ask to live with those I love, 'Tis your injured country's call. Contented though I 'm poor. See, see, the robbers come, From joyless pomp and heartless mirth Ruin seize the ruthless foe ; I gladly will withdraw, For your altars, for your homes, And hide me in this lowly vale, Heroes, lay the tyrants low ! Beneath my roof of straw. He whom dastard fears abash, He was born to be a slave Let him feel the despot's lash, And sink inglorious to the grave. To hear my Nancy's lips pronounce A husband's cherish'd name, To press my children to my heart Are titles, wealth, and fame. oee, see, etc. Let kings and conquerors delight He who spurns a coward's life, To hold the world in awe, He whose bosom freedom warms, Be mine to find content and peace Let him share the glorious strife, Beneath my roof of straw. We '11 take the hero to our arms. See, see, etc. When round the winters warm fireside Spirits of the valiant dead, Who fought and bled at Freedom's call, In the path you dared to tread, . We, your sons, will stand or falL We meet with social joy, The glance of love to every heart Shall speak from every eye. More lovely far such scenes of bliss Thau monarch ever saw, See, see, etc. Even angels might delight to dwell Bending from your airy halls, Beneath my roof of straw. Turn on us a guardian eye . Lead where Fame or Honour calls, And teach to conquer or to die ! See, see, etc. THOU KEN'ST, MARY HAY. TUNE " Bonny Mary Hay." EXILED FAR FROM SCENES OF THOU ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel, My ain auld wife sae canty and leal, PLEASURE. Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in TUNE " BlytJie, Blythe and Merry was she." thine e'e, And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at EXILED far from scenes of pleasure, me? Love sincere and friendship true, Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance, Trembling in the midnight dew. Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek, Sad and lonely, sad and lonely, And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and Musing on the tints decay, sleek? On the maid I love so dearly, For the snaw *s on my head, and the roses are And on pleasure's fleeting day. Bright the moonbeams when we parted, gane, Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain. Mark'd the solemn midnight hour, Clothing with a robe of silver But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim, Hill, and dale, and shady bower. An' age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb, Then our mutual faith we plighted, My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness f j.1- Vows of true love to repeat, Lonely oft the pale orb watching, for thee, For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e. At this hour to lovers sweet. On thy silent face, with fondness, The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold, The ivy sticks close to the tree when it's old, Let me gaze, fair queen of night, For my Annie's tears of sorrow And still thou grow'st dearer to me, Mary Hay, As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away. Sparkle in thy soften'd light. When I think my Annie views thee, We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey Dearly do 1 love thy rays, For the distance that divides us is done, But I '11 meet thee again in the bright world Seems to vanish as I gaze. aboon, Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in * Written in 1805, when the nation was apprehending an invasion from France. thine e'e, And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me ? 146 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ROBERT ALLAN, ROBERT ALLAN was the son of a respectable flax-dresser in the village of Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire. The third of a family of ten children, he was born on the 4th of November 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the com- position of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of Tannahill and Robert Archibald Smith. With Tannahill he lived on terms of the most cordial friendship. A muslin weaver in his native place, he composed many of his best verses at the loom. He was an extensive contributor to the " Scottish Minstrel," published by R. A. Smith, his songs being set to music by the editor. In 1820, a number of his songs appeared in the " Harp of Renfrewshire." His only separate volume was pub- lished in 1 836, under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy, teacher of elocution in Glasgow. In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and benevolent dis- positions, became peculiarly irritable ; he fancied that his merits as a poet had been overlooked, and the feeling preyed deeply upon his mind. He entertained extreme political opinions, and conceived a dislike to his native country, which he deemed had not sufficiently estimated his genius. Much in opposition to the wishes of his friends, he sailed for New York in his 67th year. He survived the passage only six days ; he died at New York on the 1st June 1841. Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of Scottish song ; all his lyrics evince a correct appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and of the pure and elevated in sentiment. BLINK OVER THE BURN, MY SWEET BETTY. BLINK over the burn, my sweet Betty, Blink over the burn, love, to me ; 0, lang ha'e I look'd, my dear Betty, To get but a blink o' thine e'e. The birds are a' sporting around us, And sweetly they sing on the tree ; But the voice o' my bonnie sweet Betty, I trow, is far dearer to me. The ringlets, my lovely young Betty, That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree, I'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain, That blossom sae sweetly, like thee. Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty, Come over the burn, love, to me ; 0, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty, To live in the blink o' thine e'e. COME AW A, HIE AWA. AIR " Haud aivafrae me, Donald." COME awa, hie awa, Come and be mine ain, lassie ; Row thee in my tartan plaid, An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie. A gowden brooch, and siller belt, Wi' faithfu" heart, I '11 gie, lassie, Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame, For Highland hills wi' me, lassie. Come awa, etc. A bonnie bower shall be thy hame, And drest in silken sheen, lassie, Ye '11 be the fairest in the ha', And gayest on the green, lassie. Come awa, etc. ANSWER. Haud awa, bide away, Haud awa frae me, Donald ; What care I for a' your wealth, And a' that ye can gie, Donald ? I wadna lea' my Lowland lad For a' your gowd and gear, Donald ; Sae tak' your plaid, an" o'er the hill, An' stay nae langcr here, Donald. Haud awa, etc. My Jamie is a gallant youth, I lo'e but him alane, Donald, And in bonnie Scotland's isle, Like him. there is nane, Donald. Haud awa, etc. ROBERT ALLAN. 147 He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose, Nor garters at his knee, Donald ; But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart, And love blinks in his e'e, Donald. Sae haud awa, bide awa, Come nae mair at e'en, Donald ; I wadna break my Jamie's heart, To be a Highland queen, Donald. OX THEE, ELIZA, DWELL MY THOUGHTS. AIR " In yon garden fine and gay." ON thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, While straying was the moon's pale beam ; At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep, I see thy form in fancy's dream. I see thee in the rosy morn, Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen; The morning smiles, but thou art lost, Too soon is fled the sylvan scene. Still fancy fondly dwells on thee, And adds another day of care ; What bliss were mine could fancy paint Thee true, as she can paint thee fair ! fly, ye dear deceitful dreams ! Ye silken cords that bind the heart ; Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine, And smile and triumph in the smart ? TO A LIXXET. AIK " M'Gikhrisfs Lament. ' CHATJNT no more thy roundelay, Lovely minstrel of the grove, Charm no more the hours away, With thine artless tale of love ; Chaunt no more thy roundelay, Sad it steals upon mine ear ; Leave, leave thy leafy spray, Till the smiling morn appear. Light of heart, thou qtutt'st thy song, As the welkin's shadows low'r ; Whilst the beetle wheels along, Humming to the twilight hour. Xot like thee I quit the scene To enjoy night's balmy dream ; Xot like thee I wake again, Smiling with the morning beam. THE PRIMROSE IS BOXXY IX SPEIXG. AIR" The Banks of Erwal." THE primrose is bonnie in spring, .And the rose it is sweet in June ; It's bonnie where leaves are green I' the sunnv afternoon. It 's bonnie when the sun gaes down, An' glints on the hoary knowe ; It 's bonnie to see the cloud Sae red in the dazzling lowe. When the night is a' sae calm, An' comes the sweet twilight gloom, Oh! it cheers my heart to meet My lassie amang the broom. When the birds in bush and brake, Do quit their blythe e'ening sang ; Oh ! what an hour to sit The gay gowden links amang. THE BOXXIE LASS 0' WOODHOUSELEE. AIR "Hey the rantin' Murray's Ha'." THE sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, But sweeter far on Woodhouselee, And dear I like his setting beam For sake o' ane sae dear to me. It was na simmer's fairy scenes, In a' their charming luxury, But Beauty's sel' that won my heart, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee. Sae winnin' was her witchin' smile, Sae piercin' was her coal-black e'e, Sae sairly wounded was my heart, That had na wist sic ills to dree ; In vain I strave in beauty's chains, I cou'd na keep my fancy free, She gat my heart sae in her thrall, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee. The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a', Where aft is heard the hum of bee, The meadow green, and breezy hill, Where lambkins sport sae merrilie, May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain, When e'enin' sun dips in the sea, But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn, Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee. The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn, And dew-clad gowans on the lea, The water-lily on the lake, Are but sweet emblems a' of thee ; And while in simmer smiles they bloom, Sae lovely, and sae fair to see, I '11 woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee. THE SUX IS SETTIXG OX SWEET GLEXGARRY. THE sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green : bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en. Doun yon glen ye never will weary, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en. MS THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green ; Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en. In yonder glen there's naething to fear ye, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green ; Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en. The water is wimpling by fu' clearly, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green ; Oh ! ye sail ever be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en. An' there wi' blythe and lightsome heart, When day has closed his e'e, I wander wi' my Marion, Wha lo'es na ane but me. Sic luve as mine an' Marion's, 0, may it never fa' ! But blume aye like the fairest flower, That grows in Lockershaw. My Marion I will ne'er forget Until the day I dee, For she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me. QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE. HIGHLAND BOAT-AIR Pur off, put off, and row with speed, For now s the time, and the hour of need ! To oars, to oars, and trim the bark, Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark ! Yon light that plays round the castle's moat Is only the warder's random shot ! Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need! Those pond'rous keys* shall the kelpies keep, And lodge in their caverns dark and deep ; Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall, Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall ; Or be the haunt* of traitors, sold, While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold ; Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need ! Hark ! the alarum-bell hath rung, And the warder's voice hath treason sung ; The echoes to the falconet's roar, Chime softly to the dashing oar. Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam, We steer by the light of the tapers' beam ; For Scotland and Mary, on with speed, Now, now is the time, and the hour of need ! HER HAIR WAS LIKE THE CROMLA MIST. GAELIC AIR. HER hair was like the Cromla mist, When evening sun beams from the west, Bright was the eye of Morna ; When beauty wept the warrior's fall, Then low and dark was Fingal's hall, Sad was the lovely Morna. ! lovely was the blue-eyed maid That sung peace to the warrior's shade, But none so fair as Morna. The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake, That waved beside dark Orna's lake, Where wander'd lovely Morna. Sad was the hoary minstrel's song, That died the rustling heath among, Where sat the lovely Morna ; It slumber'd on the placid wave, It echoed through the warrior's cave, And sigh'd again to Morua. The hero's plumes were lowly laid ; In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid Sang peace and rest to Morna ; The harp's wild strain was past and gone, No more it whisper'd to the moan Of lovely, dying Morna. WHEN CHARLIE TO THE HIGHLANDS CAME. AIR " Tlie bonnie Alill-dams o' Balgonie." WHEN Charlie to the Highlands came, It was a' joy and gladness, We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon Wad broken be wi' sadness. Oh ! why did Heaven sae on us frown, And break our hearts wi' sorrow ; Oh ! it will never smile again, And bring a gladsome morrow ! Our dwellings, and our outlay gear, Lie smoking, and in ruin ; Our bravest youths, like mountain deer, The foe is oft pursuing. LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS. AIR " Hodgarfs Delight." LEEZE me on the bonnie lass That I lo'e best o' a' ; leeze me on my Marion, The pride o' Lockershaw. weel I like my Marion, For love blinks in her e'e, And she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me. The flowers grow bonnie on the bank, Where doun the waters fa' ; The birds sing bonnie in the bower, Where red, red roses blaw. * The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the lake. ROBERT ALLAN. 149 Our home is now the barren rock, As if by Heaven forsaken ; Our shelter and our canopy, The heather and the bracken. Oh ! we maun wander far and near, And foreign lands maun hide in ; Our bonnie glens we lo'ed sae dear, We daurna langer bide in. LOKD RONALD CAME TO HIS LADY'S BOWER. LORD ROXALD came to his lady's bower, When the moon was in her wane ; Lord Ronald came, at a late, late hour, And to her bower is gane. He saftly stept in his sandal shoon, And saftly laid him doun ; "It's late, it's late," quoth Ellenore, " Sin ye maun wauken soon. "Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock Shall flap his siller wing, An' saftly ye maun ope the gate, An' loose the silken string." " Ellenore, my fairest fair, Ellenore, my bride ! How can ye fear when my merry men a' Are on the mountain side." The moon was hid, the night was sped, But Ellenore's heart was wae ; She heard the cock flap his siller wing, An' she watch'd the morning ray : "Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear, The morn in' opes its e^e ; Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower, And safe, safe may thou be." But there was a page, a little fause page, Lord Ronald did espy, An' he has told his baron all, Where the hind and hart did lie. " It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald, Thy father's deeds o' weir ; But since the hart has come to my faul', His blood shall dim my spear." Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore, And press 'd her lily hand ; Sic a comely knight and comely dame Ne'er met in wedlock's band : But the baron watch'd, as he rais'd the latch, And kiss'd again his bride ; And with his spear, in deadly ire, He pierc'd Lord Ronald's side. The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek, She look'd all wan and ghast ; She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side, An' the blood was rinnin' fast. She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue, But his life she couldna stay ; Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb, An' their spirits baith fled away. THE LOVELY MAID OF ORMADALE. AIR "Highland Lassie." WHEN sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, To blaze upon the western wave ; When peace and love possess the grove, And echo sleeps within the cave ; Led by love's soft endearing charms, I stray the pathless winding vale, And hail the hour that gives to me The lovely maid of Ormadale. Her eyes outshine the star of night, Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue ; And pure as flower in summer shade, Low bending in the pearly dew : Nor flower sae fair and lovely pure, Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail ; As angel-smile she aye will be Dear to the bowers of Ormadale. Let fortune soothe the heart of care, And wealth to all its votaries give ; Be mine the rosy smile of love, And iu its blissful arms to live. I would resign fair India's wealth, And sweet Arabia's spicy gale, For balmy eve and Scotian bower, With thee, loved maid of Ormadale. THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE. THERE grew in bonnie Scotland A thistle and a brier, And aye they twined and clasp'd, Like sisters, kind and dear. The rose it was sae bonnie, It could ilk bosom charm ; The thistle spread its thorny leaf, To keep the rose frae harm. A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' and late ; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate ; And the leal hearts of Scotland Pray'd it might never fa', The thistle was sae bonny green, The rose sae like the snaw. But the weird sisters sat Where Hope's fair emblems grew ; They drapt a drap upon the rose 0' bitter, blasting dew ; And aye they twined the mystic thread, - But ere their task was done, The snaw -white shade it disappear'd, And wither'd in the sun ! A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith ear' an' late ; He water'd it, and fann'd it, And wove it with his fate ; But the thistle tap it wither'd, Winds bore it far awa', And Scotland's heart was broken, For the rose sae like the snaw ! ISO THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE COVENANTER'S LAMENT. TUNE" The Martyr's Grave." THERE'S nae Covenant now, lassie ! There's nae Covenant now ! The Solemn League and Covenant Are a* broken through ! There's nae Renwick now, lassie, There's nae gude Cargill, Nor holy Sabbath preaching Upon the Martyrs' Hill ! It's naething but a sword, lassie ! A bluidy, bluidy ane ! Waving owre poor Scotland, For her rebellious sin. Scotland 's a' wrang, lassie, Scotland 's a' wrang It's neither to the hill nor glen, Lassie, we daur gang. The Martyrs' Hill's forsaken In simmer's dusk sae calm ; There's nae gathering now, lassie, To sing the e'ening psalm ! But the martyr's grave will rise, lassie, Aboon the warrior's cairn ; An' the martyr soun' will sleep, lassie, Aneath the waving fern ! BONNIE LASSIE. BONNIE lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet's the sparkling o' thine e'e; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling, Ye ha'e stown my heart frae me. Fondly wooing, fondly sueing, Let me love, nor love in vain ; Fate shall never fond hearts sever, Hearts still bound by true love's chain. Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming, Shall each day life's feast renew ; Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure, Still to live and love more true. Mirth and folly, joys unholy, Never shall our thoughts employ ; Smiles inviting, hearts uniting, Love and bliss without alloy. Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet 's the sparkling o' thine e'e ; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling, Ye ha'e stown my heart frae me. ANDREW MERCER. ANDREW MERCER was born at Selkirk, in 1775. By his father, who was a respectable tradesman, he was destined for the pulpit of the Secession Church. He became a student at the University of Edinburgh, in 1790, and was the class-fellow and friend of John Leyden, and of Dr Alexander Murray, the future philologist. At the house of Dr Kobert Anderson, he formed the intimacy of Thomas Campbell ; he also num- bered among his early associates Thomas Brown and Mungo Park. Abandoning theological study, he cultivated a taste for the fine arts ; and he endeavoured to establish himself in the capital in the twofold capacity of a miniature-painter, and a man of letters. With respect to both avocations, he proved unfortunate. In 1804, a periodical entitled the North British Magazine was originated and supported by his friends, on his behalf ; but the publication terminated at the end of thirteen months. At a subsequent period, he removed to Dunfermline, where he engaged in teaching, and in drawing patterns for the manufacturers. In 1828, he published a " History of Dunfermline," in a duodecimo volume ; and, at an interval of ten years, a volume of poems, entitled " Summer Months among the Mountains." A man of considerable ingenuity and scholarship, he lacked steadiness of application. His latter years were clouded by poverty. He died at Dunfermline on the llth of June 1842, in his 67th year. THE HOUR OF LOVE. WHEN the fair one and the dear one Her lover by her side Strays or sits as fancy flits, Where yellow streamlets glide ; Gleams illuming flowers perfuming Where'er her footsteps rove ; Time beguiling with her smiling, Oh ! that's the hour of love. When the fair one and the dear one, Amid a moonlight scene, Where grove and glade, and light and shade, Are all around serene ; Heaves the soft sigh of ecstasy, While coos the turtle-dove, And in soft strains appeals complains, Oh ! that's the hour of love. JOHN LEYDEN, M.D. 151 Should the fair one and the dear one The sigh of pity lend For human woe, that presses low A stranger or a friend, Tears descending, sweetly blending, As down her cheeks they rove ; Beauty's charms in pity's arms Oh ! that's the hour of love. When the fair one and the dear one Appears in morning dreams, In flowing vest by fancy drest, And all the angel beams ; The heavenly mien, and look serene, Confess her from above ; While rising sighs and dewy eyes Say, that's the hour of love! JOHN LEYDEN, M.D, JOHN LEYDEN was born in September 1775,* at Denholm, a hamlet in the parish of Cavers, Roxburghshire. His ancestors, for several generations, were farmers, but his father followed the humble occupation of a shepherd. Of four brothers and two sisters, John was the eldest. About a year after his birth, his father removed to Henlawshiel, a solitary cottage,f about three miles from Denholm, on the margin of the heath stretching down from the " stormy Ruberslaw." He received the rudiments of knowledge from his paternal grandmother ; and discovering a remarkable aptitude for learning, his father determined to afford him the advantages of a liberal education. He was sent to the parish school of Kirkton, and afterwards placed under the tutor- ship of a Cameronian clergyman, who was reputed as a scholar. In 1790, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he soon acquired distinction for his classical attainments. His last session of college attendance was spent at St Andrews, where he became a tutor. By the Presbytery of St Andrews, in May 1798, he was licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church. On obtaining his license, he returned to the capital, where his reputation as a scholar had secured him many friends. He now accepted the editorship of the Scots Magazine, to which he had formerly been a con- tributor, and otherwise employed himself in literary pursuits. In 1799, he published, in a duodecimo volume, " An Historical and Philosophical Sketch of the Discoveries and Settlements of the Europeans in Northern and Central Africa, at the Close of the Eighteenth Century." " The Complaynt of Scotland," a curious political treatise of the sixteenth century next appeared under his editorial care, with an ingenious intro- duction, and notes. In 1801, he contributed the ballad of " The Elf-king," to Lewis' " Tales of "Wonder ; " and, about the same period, wrote several ballads for the " Min- strelsy of the Scottish Border." The dissertation on "Fairy Superstition," in the second volume of the latter work, slightly altered by Scott, proceeded from his pen. In 1802, he edited a small volume, entitled, " Scottish Descriptive Poems," consisting of a new edition of Wilson's " Clyde," and a reprint of " Albania," a curious poem, in blank verse, by an anonymous writer of the beginning of the eighteenth century. A wide circle of influential friends were earnestly desirous of his promotion. In 1800, the opposition of the aged incumbent prevented his appointment as assistant and successor in the ministerial charge of his native parish. A proposal to appoint him Professor of Rhetoric in the University of Edinburgh also failed. He now resolved to proceed to Africa, to explore the interior, under the auspices of the African Association ; but some of his friends meanwhile procured him an appointment as a surgeon in the East India Company's establishment at Madras. During his course at the University, he had attended some of the medical classes ; and he now resumed * "Anno 1773, September 8th, baptized a child to John Leyden, in Denholm, named John." Register of Baptisms of Cavers Parish. A pencil entry following the father's name, describes the mother as " Isabel Scott." The precise day of the poet's birth is unknown. t We have visited the spot. Not a vestige of the cottage remains. A wilder and more desolate locality hardly ever nourished the youthful imagination of a poet. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. the study of medicine, with such an amount of success, that in six weeks he qualified himself for a surgeon's diploma. About the same time, the degree of M.D. was con- ferred on him by the University of St Andrews. Before his departure for the East, Leyden finished his longest poem, the " Scenes of Infancy," the publication of which he entrusted to his friend, Dr Thomas Brown. His last winter in Britain he passed in London, enjoying the society of many dis- tinguished men of letters, to whom he was introduced by his former friend, Mr Richard Heber. He sailed for India* on the 7th April 1803, and arrived at Madras on the 19th August. In Hindostan, his talents and extraordinary capabilities in forming an acquaintance with the native tongues gained him numerous friends. He was succes- sively appointed surgeon to the commissioners for surveying the provinces in Mysore, recently conquered from Tippoo Sultan ; professor of Hindostan in the College of Calcutta ; judge of the twenty-four pargunnahs of Calcutta ; a commissioner of the Court of Requests in Calcutta ; and assay-master of the mint. His literary services being required by the Governor-General, he left Calcutta for Madras, and afterwards proceeded along with the army in the expedition against Java. On the capture of the town of Batavia, having gone to examine the library of the place, in which he expected to find some curious Indian MSS., he caught a malignant fever from the tainted air of the apartment. He survived only three days, terminating a life of much promise, on the 28th of August 1811, in the thirty-sixth year of his age. In John Leyden an unconquerable perseverance was united to remarkable native genius, and a memory of singular reteutiveness. Eminent as a linguist, he was an able and accurate philologist ; in a knowledge of the many languages of India he stood unrivalled. During his residence in the East he published a " Dissertation on the Languages and Literature of the Indo-Chinese Nations," in the tenth volume of the " Asiatic Researches," and he left numerous MSS. on subjects connected with oriental learning. He was early a votary of the Muse ; and, in youth, was familiar with the older Scottish bards. In April 1795, he appeared in the Edinburgh Literary Magazine as author of an elegy "On the Death of a Sister;" and subsequently became a regular contributor of verses to the periodicals of the capital. His more esteemed poetical productions are the " Scenes of Infancy," and the ballads which he composed for the " Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border." Of the latter, the super- natural machinery is singularly striking: in the former poem, much smooth and elegant versification is combined with powerful and vigorous description. There are, indeed, occasional repetitions and numerous digressions; but amidst these marks of hasty composition, every sentence bears evidence of a masculine intellect and powerful imagination. His lyrical effusions are pervaded with simplicity and tenderness. Like some other sons of genius, Leyden was of rather eccentric habits. He affected to despise artificial manners ; and, though frequenting polished circles in Edinburgh, then in London, afterwards in Madras and Calcutta, he persevered in an indomitable aversion to the use of the English tongue, which he so well knew how to write with precision and power. He spoke the broadest provincial Scotch with singular perti- nacity. His voice was extremely dissonant, but, seemingly unconscious of the defect, he talked loud ; and if engaged in debate, raised his voice to a pitch which frequently proved more powerful than the strength of his argument. He was dogmatical in maintaining his opinions, and prone to monopolise conversation: his gesticulations were awkward and even offensive. Peculiar as were his habits, few of the distinguished persons who sought his acquaintance ever desired to renounce his * Leyden was assisted in his outfit for India by Sir Walter Scott and Sydney Smith, the latter contributing forty pounds. (See "Memoir of the Rev. Sydney Smith," by his daughter, Lady Holland, vol. i. p. 21. London: 1855. 2 vols. 8vo.) JOHN LEYDEN, M.D. 153 friendship.* In his domestic habits he was temperate often to abstinence ; he was frugal, but not mean careful, but not penurious. He was generous towards his aged parents, was deeply imbued with a sense of religion, and was the foe of vice in every form. He was of a slight figure, and of middle stature ; his countenance was peculiarly expressive of intelligence. His hair was auburn, his eyes dark, and his complexion clear and sanguine. He was considerably robust, and took delight in practising gymnastics ; he desired fame, not less for feats of running and leaping, than in the sedate pursuits of literature. His premature death was the subject of general lamentation. In the " Lord of the Isles," Scott introduced the following stanza in tribute to his memory : " His bright and brief career is o'er, And mute his tuneful strains ; Quench'd is his lamp of varied lore, That loved the light of song to pour ; A distant and a deadly shore Has Leyden's cold remains." Some years ago an elegant monument to the memory of the poet was erected, by public subscription, at Denholm, his native village. The last corrected edition of his poetical works was published at Kelso in 1858, under the editorial care of Mr Robert White. * Thomas Campbell was one of Leyden's early literary friends ; they had quarrelled, but continued to respect each other's talents. The following anecdote is recorded by Sir Walter Scott in his diary: " When I repeated ' Hohenlinden' to Leyden, he said, ' Dash it, man, tell the fellow that I hate him; but, dash him, he has written the finest verses that have been published these fifty years." I did mine errand as faithful as one of Homer's messengers, and had for answer : ' Tell Leyden that I detest him, but I know the value of his critical approbation."' Lockharfs Life of Scott. THE RETURN AFTER ABSENCE. OH ! the breeze of the mountain is soothing and sweet, "\Varni breathing of love, and the friends we shall meet ; And the rocks of the desert, so rough when we roam, Seem soft, soft as silk, on the dear path of home ; The -white waves of the Jeikon, that foam through their speed, Seem scarcely to reach to the girth of my steed. Rejoice, Bokhara, and flourish for aye ! Thy King comes to meet thee, and long shall he stay. Our King is our moon, and Bokhara our skies, Where soon that fair light of the heavens shall arise Bokhara our orchard, the cypress our king, In Bokhara's fair orchard soon destined to spring. LAMENT FOR RAMA. From the Bengali. I WARN* you, fair maidens, to wail and to sigh, For Rama, our Rama, to greenwood must fly ; Then hasten, come hasten, to see his array, Ayud'hya is dark when our chief goes away. All the people are flocking to see him pass by ; They are silent and sad, with the tear in their eye : From "the fish in the streamlets a broken sigh heaves, And the birds of the forest lament from the leaves. His fine locks are matted, no raiment has he, For the wood, save a girdle of bark from the tree; And of all his gay splendour you naught may behold, Save his bow and his quiver, and ear-rings of gold. Oh! we thought to have seen him in royal array Before his proud squadrons his banners display, And the voice of the people exulting to own Their sovereign assuming the purple and crown ; But the time has gone by, my hope is despair, - One maiden perfidious has wrought all my care. Our light is departing, and darkness returns, Like a lamp half-extinguished, and lonely it burns ; Faith fades from the age, nor can honour remain, And fame is delusive, and glory is vain. TO ATJRELIA. OXE kind kiss, my love, before We bid a long adieu ! Ah ! let not this fond heart deplore Thy cold cheek's pallid hue. One soft, sweet smile before I go ! That fancy may repeat, And whisper, 'mid the sighs of woe, My love, we yet shall meet. * Aurelia is supposed to have been Miss Janet Brown, sister of the afterwards celebrated Dr Thomas Brown. She is alluded to by Leyden in his " Scenes of Infancy." 154 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. One dear embrace, and then we part We part to meet no more ! I bear a sad and lonely heart To pine on India's shore. A heart that once has loved like mine, No second love can know ! A heart that once has throbb'd with thine, Must other love forego. JAMES SCADLOCK. JAMES SCADLOCK, a poet of considerable power, and an associate of Tannahill, was born at Paisley on the 7th October 1775. His father, an operative weaver, was a person of considerable shrewdness ; and the poet M'Laren, who became his bio- grapher, was his uterine brother. Apprenticed to the loom, he renounced weaving in the course of a year, and thereafter was employed in the establishment of a book- binder. At the age of nineteen he entered on an indenture of seven years to a firm of copperplate engravers at Ferenize. He had early been inclined to verse-making, and, having formed the acquaintance of Tannahill, he was led to cultivate with ardour Ms native predilection. He likewise stimulated his ingenious friend to higher and more ambitious efforts in poetry. Accomplished in the elegant arts of drawing and painting, Scadlock began the study of classical literature and the modern languages. A general stagnation of trade, which threw him out of employ- ment, checked his aspirations in learning. After an interval, attended with some privations, he heard of a professional opening at Perth, which he proceeded to occupy. He returned to Paisley, after the absence of one year ; and, having married in 1808, his attention became more concentrated in domestic concerns. He died of fever on the 4th July 1818, leaving a family of four children. Scadlock was an upright member of society, a sincere friend, a benevolent neigh- bour, and an intelligent companion. In the performance of his religious duties he was regular and exemplary. Desirous of excelling in conversation, he was prone to evince an undue formality of expression. His poetry, occasionally deficient in power, is uniformly distinguished for smoothness of versification. ALONG BY LEVERN STREAM SO CLEAR.* ALONG by Levern stream so clear, When Spring adorns the infant year, And music charms the list'ning ear, I '11 wander with my Mary, My bonny blooming Maiy ; Not Spring itself to me is dear, When absent from my Mary. When Summer's sun pours on my head His sultry rays, I '11 seek the shade, Unseen upon a primrose bed I'll sit with little Mary, My bonny blooming Mary* Where fragrant flowers around are spread, To charm my little Mary. She's mild's the sun through April shower That glances on the leafy bower, She's sweet as Flora's fa v' rite flower, My bonny little Mary, My blooming little Mary ; Give me but her, no other dower I '11 ask with little Mary. * Set to music by R. A. Smith. Should fickle fortune frown on me, And leave me bare's the naked tree, Possess'd of her, how rich I 'd be, My lovely little Mary, My bonny blooming Mary ; From gloomy care and sorrow free, I 'd ever keep my Mary. HARK, HARK, THE SKYLARK SINGING. WELSH AIR " The rising of the Lark." HARK, hark, the skylark singing, While the early clouds are bringing Fragrance on then* wings ; Still, still on high he 's soaring, Through the liquid haze exploring, Fainter now he sings. Where the purple dawn is breaking, Fast approaches morning's ray, From his wings the dew he's shaking, As he joyful hails the day, While Echo, from his slumbers waking, Imitates his lay ! See, see the ruddy morning, With his blushing locks adorning Mountain, wood, and vale ; SIR ALEXANDER OS WELL, BART. 155 Clear, clear the dew-drop's glancing, As the rising sun's advancing O'er the eastern hill; Now the distant summits clearing, As the vapours steal their way, And his heath-clad breast 's appearing Tinged with Phoebus' golden ray, Far down the glen the blackbird 's cheering Morning with her lay. Come, then, let us be straying, Where the hazel boughs are playing O'er yon summits grey ; Mild now the breeze "is blowing, And the crystal streamlet's flowing Gently on its way. On its banks the wild rose springing Welcomes in the sunny ray, Wet with dew its head is hinging, Bending low the prickly spray ; Then haste, my love, while birds are singing To the newborn day. OCTOBER WINDS. AIR "Oh, my love's bonnie." OCTOBER winds, wi' biting breath, Now nip the leaves that 's yellow fading ; Nae gowan's glint upon the green, Alas! they're co'er'd wi' winter's cleading. As through the woods I musing gang, Nae birdies cheer me frae the bushes, Save little robin's lanely sang, Wild warbling where the burnie gushes. The sun is jogging down the brae, Dimly through the mist he's shining, And cranreugh hoar creeps o'er the grass, As Day resigns his throne to E'ening. Oft let me walk at twilight grey To view the face of dying nature, Till Spring again, wi' mantle green, Delights the heart o' ilka creature. SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL, BART. ALEXANDER BOSWELL was the eldest son of James Boswell, the celebrated biographer of Dr Johnson, and grandson of Lord Auchinleck, one of the senators of the College of Justice. He was born on the 9th October 1775. His mother, a daughter of Sir Walter Montgomery, Bart., of Lainshaw, was a woman of superior intelligence, and of agreeable and dignified manners. Along with his only brother James, he received his education at Westminster School and the University of Oxford. In 1795, on the death of his father, he succeeded to the paternal estate of Auchinleck. He now made the tour of Europe, and on his return took up his residence in the family mansion. Inheriting his father's love of literature, and deriving from his mother a taste for elegant accomplishments, Alexander Boswell diligently applied himself to the culti- vation of his mind, by an examination of the stores of the famous "Auchinleck Library." From his youth he had been ardent in his admiration of Burns, and had written verses for the amusement of his friends. A wooer of the lyric Muse, many of his lays rapidly obtained circulation, and were sung with a gusto not inferior to that inspired by the songs of the Bard of Coila. In 1803 he published, without his name, in a thin octavo volume, " Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," and sub- sequently contributed a number of lyrics of various merit to the Musical Collection of Mr George Thomson, and Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology." Several other poetical works proceeded from Ms pen. In 1803, shortly after the appearance of his songs, he published a ballad entitled " The Spirit of Tintoc ; or, Johnnie Bell and the Kelpie," with notes, 16 pp. 8vo : Mundell & Son, Edinburgh. This per- formance, in which are humorously related the adventures of a drunken tailor with the brownies and other denizens of the unseen world, on the summit of Tintoc Hill, was followed in 1810 by another amusing poem, bearing the title of " Edinburgh; or, the Ancient Royalty, a Sketch of Former Manners, with Notes by Simon Gray." In this poem, the changes which had occurred in the habits of the citizens of Edinburgh are portrayed in a colloquy between an old farmer and his city friend. In 1811 appeared " Clan-Alpin's Vow, a Fragment," with the author's name prefixed. This production, founded upon a horrible tragedy connected with the history of the Clan Macgregor, proved one of the most popular of the author's works ; it was reprinted in 1817, by Bentley & Son, London. His future publications may be simply enume- 1 5 6 THE MODERN SCO TTISH MINSTREL. rated ; they were generally issued from a printing press which he established in the mansion of Auchinleck. In 1812 he printed, for private circulation, a poetical frag- ment entitled " Sir Albon," intended to burlesque the peculiar style and rythm of Sir Walter Scott ; in 1815, " The Tyrant's Fall," a poem on the battle of Waterloo ; in 1816, "Skeldon Haughs; or, the Sow is Flitted," a tale in verse, founded on an old Ayrshire tradition ; and in the same year another poetical tale, after the manner of Allan Eamsay's " Monk and Miller's Wife," entitled, " The Woo'-creel ; or, the Bull o' Bashun." From his printing office at Auchinleck, besides his poetical tales and pasquinades, he issued many curious and interesting works, chiefly reprints of scarce tracts on different subjects, preserved in the Auchinleck Library. Of these the most remarkable was the disputation between John Knox and Qnentin Kennedy, at Maybole, in 1562, of which the only copy then known to exist was deposited in his paternal library.* Amidst his devotedness to the pitrsuits of elegant literature, Mr Boswell bestowed much attention on public affairs. He was M.P. for the county of Ayr ; and though silent in the House of Commons, was otherwise indefatigable in maintaining his political sentiments. He supported strict conservative principles, and was not without the apprehension of civil disturbance through the impetuosity of the advocates of reform. As Lieutenant-Colonel of the Ayrshire Yeomanry Cavalry, he was painstaking in the training of his troops ; the corps afterwards acknowledging his services by the presentation of a testimonial. In 1821, his zeal for the public interest was rewarded by a Baronetcy. One of the most substantial of Sir Alexander's patriotic achievements was the erection of an elegant monument to Eobert Burns on the banks of the Doon. The mode in which the object was accomplished is sufficiently interesting. Along with a friend who warmly approved of the design, Sir Alexander advertised in the public prints that a meeting would be held at Ayr, on a particular clay, to take into consider- ation the proposal of rearing a monument to the national bard. The day and hour arrived, but, save the projectors, not a single individual attended. Nothing disheart- ened, Sir Alexander took the chair, and his friend proceeded to act as clerk, resolutions were proposed, seconded, and recorded, thanks were voted to the chairman, and the meeting separated. These resolutions being printed and circulated, were the means of raising, by public subscription, the sum of nearly two thousand pounds for the erection of the monument. Sir Alexander laid the foundation stone on the 25th of January 1820. The literary and patriotic career of Sir Alexander Boswell was brought to a sudden termination. Prone to indulge a strong natural tendency for sarcasm, especially against his political opponents, he published, in a Glasgow newspaper, a severe poetical pasquinade against Mr James Stuart, younger of Dunearn, a leading member of the Liberal party in Edinburgh. The discovery of the authorship was followed by a challenge from Mr Stuart, which being accepted, the hostile parties met near the village of Auchtertool, in Fife. Sir Alexander fell, the ball from the pistol of his antagonist having entered near the root of his neck on the right side. He was immediately carried to Balmuto, a seat of his ancestors in the vicinity, where he expired the following day. The duel took place on the 26th March 1822. The remains of the deceased Baronet were solemnly deposited in the family vault of Auchinleck. In personal appearance, Sir Alexander presented a powerful muscular figure ; in society, he was fond of anecdote and humour. In his youth he was keen on the turf and in field sports ; he subsequently found his chief entertainment in literary avocations. As a poet, he had been better known if his efforts had been of a * Another copy has since been discovered. SIR ALEXANDER OS WELL, BART. 157 less fragmentary character. The general tendency of his Muse was drollery, but some of his lyrics are sufficiently touching. JEXNY'S BAWBEE. I MET four chaps yon birks amang, Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang ; I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang, Wha 's they I see ? Quoth he, Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel' Thinks himsel' cunning' as the deil, And here they cam' awa' to steal Jenny's bawbee. The first, a Captain to his trade, "\Vi" ill-lined skull, but back weel clade, March'd round the barn, and by the shed, And papped on his knee : Quoth he, My goddess, nymph, and queen, Your beauty 's dazzled baith my e'en ! Though ne'er a beauty he had seen But Jenny's bawbee. A Norland Laird neist trotted up Wi' bawsint naig and siller whup ; Cried There's my beast, lad, haud the grup, Or tie it to a tree. What's gowd to me? I've wealth o' Ian', Bestow on ane o' worth your han' : He thought to pay what he was awn Wi' Jenny's bawbee. A Lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin' gab, Wha speeches wove like ony wab ; ilka ane's corn aye took a dab, And a' for a fee ; Accounts he owed through a' the toun, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown ; But now he thought to clout his goun Wi' Jenny's bawbee. Quite spruce, just frae the washin" tubs, A fool came neist ; but life has rubs ; Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs, And jaupit a' was he : He danced up squintin' through a glass, And grinn'd, i' faith, a bonnie lass ! He thought to win, wi' front o' brass, Jenny's bawbee. She bade the laird gae kaim his wig, The sodger not to strut sae big, The lawyer not to be a prig ; The fool he cried, Te-hee ! 1 kenn'd that I could never fail ! But she pinn'd the dishclout to his tail, And soused him frae the water-pail, And kept her bawbee. Then Johnnie came, a lad o' sense, Although he had na mony pence, And took young Jenny to the spence, Wi' her to crack a wee. Now Johnnie was a clever chiel', And here his suit he press'd sae weel That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel, And she biii'd her bawbee.* * The last st anza does not appear in the original version of the song ; it is here added from Allan Cunningham's JEXXY DANG THE WEAVER.' AT Willie's weddin' o' the green, The lasses, bonnie witches, Were busked out in aprons clean, And snaw-white Sunday mutches ; Auld Mysie bade the lads tak' tent, But Jock wad na believe her ; But soon the fool his folly kent, For Jenny dang the weaver. In ilka country dance and reel Wi' her he wad be babbin' ; When she sat down, then he sat down, And till her wad be gabflin' ; Where'er she gaed, or butt or ben, The coof wad never leave her, Aye cacklin' like a clockin' hen, But Jenny dang the weaver. Quoth he, my lass, to speak my mind, In troth I needna swither, Ye've bonnie e'en, and, gif ye're kind, I needna court anither ! He hmnm'd and haw'd, the lass cried "pheugh,' And bade the coof no deave her, Syne crack'd her thumb, and lap and leugh, And dang the silly weaver. THE LASS 0' ISLA. " AH, Mary, sweetest maid, farewell ! My hopes are flown, for a's to wreck ; Heaven guard y6u, love, and heal your heart, Though mine, alas, alas! maun break." collection. The idea of the song, Cunningham remarks, was probably suggested to the author by an old frag- ment, which still lives among the peasantry : "And a' that e'er my Jenny had, My Jenny had, my Jenny had, A' that e'er my Jenny had, Was ae bawbee. There's your plack and my plack, And your plack and my plack, And my plack and your plack, And Jenny's bawbee. We'll put it in the pint stoup, The pint stoup, the pint stoup, We'll put it in the pint stoup, And birl't a' three." * The origin of the air is somewhat amusing. The Rev. Mr Gardner, minister of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, known for his humour and musical talents, was one even- ing playing on his Cremona the notes of an air he had previously jotted down, when a curious scene arrested his attention in the courtyard of the manse. His man "Jock," who had lately been a weaver in the neighbour- ing village, had rudely declined to wipe the minister's shoes, as requested by Mrs Gardner, when the enraged matron, snatching a culinary utensil, administered a hearty drubbing to the shoulders of the impudent boor, and compelled him to execute her orders. The minister witnessing the proceeding from the window, was highly diverted, and gave the air he had just completed the title of "Jenny Dang the Weaver." This incident is said to have occurred in the year 1746. 238 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. " Dearest lad, what ills betide ? Is Willie to his love untrue ! Engaged the morn to be his bride, Ah ! hae ye, hae ye, ta'en the rue ? " "Ye canna wear a ragged gown, Or beggar wed wi' nought ava ; My kye are drown'd, my house is down, My last sheep lies aneath the snaw." ' ' Tell na me o' storm or flood, Or sheep a' smoor'd ayont the hill ; For Willie's sake I Willie lo'ed, . Though poor, ye are my Willie still. " " Ye canna thole the wind and rain, Or wander friendless far frae hame ; Cheer, cheer your heart, some other swain Will soon blot out lost Willie's name." " I'll tak' my bundle in my hand, An' wipe the dew-drop frae my e'e ; I'll wander wi' ye ower the land ; I'll venture wi' ye ower the sea. " " Forgi'e me, love, 'twas all a snare ; My flocks are safe, we needna part ; I 'd forfeit them and ten times mair To clasp thee, Mary, to my heart. " " How could ye wi' my feelings sport, Or doubt a heart sae warm and true ? I maist could wish ye mischief for't, But cauna wish ought ill to you." TASTE LIFE'S GLAD MOMENTS.* TASTB life's glad moments, Whilst the wasting taper glows ; Pluck, ere it withers, The quickly-fading rose. Man blindly follows grief and care, He seeks for thorns, and finds his share, Whilst violets to the passing air Unheeded shed their blossoms. Taste life's, etc. When tim'rous Nature veils her form, And rolling thunder spreads alarm, Then, ah ! how sweet, when lull'd the storm, The sun shines forth at even. Taste life's, etc. How spleen with envy anxious flies, And meek content, in humble guise, Improves the shrub, a tree shall rise, Which golden fruits shall yield him. Taste life's, etc. Who fosters faith in upright breast, And freely gives to the distress'd, There sweet contentment builds her nest, And flutters round his bosom. Taste life's, etc. * These verses, which form a translation of Freut fitch des Libens, were written at Leipsig in 1795, when the author was on his continental tour. He was then in his twentieth year. And when life's path grows dark and strait. And pressing ills on ills await, Then friendship, sorrow to abate, The helping hand will offer. Taste life's, etc. She dries his tears, she strews his way, E'en to the grave, with flow'rets gay, Turns night to morn, and morn to day, And pleasure still increases. Taste life's, etc. Of life she is the fairest band, Joins brothers truly hand in hand, Thus, onward to a better land, Man journeys light and cheerly. Taste life s, etc. GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE WF YE A'. GOOD night, and joy be wi' ye a", Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart ; May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw ; In sorrow may ye never part ! My spirit lives, but strength is gone, The mountain-fires now blaze in vain ; Remember, sons, the deeds I 've done, And in your deeds I '11 live again ! When on yon muir our gallant clan Frae boasting foes their banners tore ; Wha show'd himself a better man, Or fiercer waved the red claymore? But when in peace then mark me there When througli the glen the wand'rer came, I gave him of our lordly fare, I gave him here a welcome hame. The auld will speak, the young maun hear ; Be cantie, but be gude and leal ; Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear, Anither's aye hae heart to feel. So, ere I set, I '11 see ye shine ; I '11 see ye triumph ere I fa' ; My parting breath shall boast you mine Good night, and joy be wi' ye a' ! OLD AND NEW TIMES.' AIR " Kelly burn Braes." HECH ! what a change hae we now in this town! The lads a* sae braw, the lasses sae glancin', Folk maun be dizzie gaun aye in the roun', For deil a haet'a done now for feastin' and daucin'. * Goweing robbed, while in a state of inebriety. Still descending in the social scale, he became an umbrella-maker in Manchester, while his wife was employed in some of the manufactories. Some other odd and irregular occupations were severally attempted without success, till at length, about his fiftieth year, he finally settled into the humble condition of a wandering poet. He composed verses on every variety of theme, and readily parted with his compositions for food or whisky. His field of wandering included the entire Lowlands, and he occasionally penetrated into Highland districts. In his wanderings he was accompanied by his wife, who, though a severe sufferer on his account, along with her family of five or six children, continued most devoted in her attachment to him. On her death, which took place in the Cowgate, Edinburgh, early in 1817, he became almost distracted, and never recovered his former composure. He now roamed wildly through the country, seldom remaining more than one night in the same place. He finally returned to Dumfriesshire, his native county ; and accidentally falling into the Nith, caught an inflammatory fever, of which he died, in the village of Ruthwell, on the 22d Septem- ber 1818. Lewis was slender, and of low stature. His countenance was sharp, and his eye intelligent, though frenzied with excitement. He always expressed himself in the language of enthusiasm, despised prudence and common sense, and commended the impulsive and fanciful. He published, in 1816, a small volume, entitled " The African Slave ; with other Poems and Songs." Some of his lyrics are not unworthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. DAVID DRUMMOND. 201 O'ER THE MUIR.* AE morn of May, when fields were gay, Serene and charming was the weather, I chanced to roam some miles frae home, Far o'er yon muir, amang the heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather, How healthsome 'tis to range the nmirs, And brush the dew from vernal heather. I walk'd along, and humm'd a song, My heart was light as ony feather, And soon did pass a lovely lass, Was wading barefoot through the heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir arnang the heather ; The bonniest lass that e'er I saw I met ae morn amang the heather. Her eyes divine, mair bright did shine, Than the most clear unclouded ether ; A fairer form did ne'er adorn A brighter scene than blooming heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather ; There's ne'er a lass in Scotia's isle, Can vie with her amang the heather. I said, "Dear maid, be not afraid; Pray sit you down, let's talk together; For, oil ! my fair, I vow and swear, You've stole my heart amang the heather." O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather ; Ye swains, beware of yonder muir, You '11 lose your hearts amang the heather. She answer'd me, right modestly, " I go, kind sir, to seek my father, Whose fleecy charge he tends at large, On yon green hills beyond the heather. " O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir amang the heather ; Were I a king thou shouldst be mine, Dear blooming maid, amang the heather. * The more popular words to the same tune and chorus, beginning, " Comin' through the Craigs o" Kyle," are believed, on the authority of Burns, to have been the composition of Jean Glover, a girl of respectable paren- tage, bom at Kilmamock in 1758, who became attached to a company of strolling players. Lewis is said to have claimed priority for his verses, and the point is not likely ever to be decided. This much may be said in favour of Lewis's claims, that he had long been the writer of respectable lyrics ; while Jean Glover, though well skilled as a musician, is not otherwise known to have composed verses. One of the songs is evidently an echo of the other. Away she flew out of my view, Her home or name I ne'er could gather, But aye sin' syne I sigh and pine For that sweet lass amang the heather. O'er the muir amang the heather, O'er the muir ainang the heather, While vital heat glows in my heart, I '11 love the lass amang the heather. LANARK MILLS. AIR " Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff." ADIEU ! romantic banks of Clyde, Where oft I 've spent the joyful day ; Now, weary wand'ring on thy side, I pour the plaintive, joyless lay. To other lands I 'm doom'd to rove, The thought with grief my bosom fills ; Why am I forced to leave my love, And wander far from Lanark Mills? Can I forget th' ecstatic hours, When ('scaped the village evening din) I met my lass 'midst Braxfield bowers, Or near the falls of Corhouse Linn ! While close I clasp'd her to my breast, (Th' idea still with rapture thrills!) I thought myself completely blest, By all the lads of Lanark Mills. Deceitful, dear, delusive dream, Thou 'rt fled alas! I know not where, And vanish 'd is each blissful gleam, And left behind a load of care. Adieu ! dear winding banks of Clyde, A long farewell, ye rising hills ; No more I '11 wander on your side, Though still my heart's at Lanark Mills. While Tintock stands the pride of hills, While Clyde's dark stream rolls to the sea, So long, my dear-loved Lanark Mills, May Heaven : s best blessings smile on thee. A last adieu ! my Mary dear, The briny tear my eye distils ; While reason's powers continue clear, I'll think of thee and Lanark Mills. DAVID DRUMMOND, DAVID DRUMMOND, author of " The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside," a song formerly of no inconsiderable popularity, was a native of Crieff, 'Perthshire. Along with his four brothers, he settled in Fifeshire, about the beginning of the century, having obtained the situation of clerk in the Kirkland works, near Leven. In 1812, he proceeded to India, and afterwards attained considerable wealth as the conductor of an academy 202 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. and boarding establishment at Calcutta. A man of vigorous mind and respectable scholarship, he had early cultivated a taste for literature and poetry, and latterly became an extensive contributor to the public journals and periodical publications of India. The song with which his name has been chiefly associated, was composed during the period of his employment at the Kirkland works the heroine being Miss Wilson, daughter of the proprietor of Pirnie, near Leven, a young lady of great per- sonal attractions, to whom he was devotedly attached. The sequel of his history, in connection with this lady, forms the subject of a romance, in which he has been made to figure much to the injury of his fame. The correct version of this story, in which Drununond has been represented as faithless to the object of his former affections, we have received from a gentleman to whom the circumstances were intimately known. In, consequence of a proposal to become his wife, Miss Wilson sailed for Calcutta in 1816. On her arrival, she was kindly received by her affianced lover, who conducted her to the house of a respectable female friend, till arrangements might be completed for the nuptial ceremony. In the interval, she became desirous of withdrawing from her engagement ; and Drummond, observing her coldness, offered to pay the expense of her passage back to Scotland. Meanwhile, she was seized with fever, of which she died. Report erroneously alleged that she had died of a broken heart on account of her lover being unfaithful, and hence the memory of poor Drummond has been most unjustly aspersed. Drummond died at Calcutta, in 1845, about the age of seventy. He was much respected among a wide circle of friends and admirers. His personal appearance was unprepossessing, almost approaching to deformity a circumstance which may explain the ultimate hesitation of Miss Wilson to accept his hand. " The Bonnie Lass o' Levenside" was first printed, with the author's consent, though without acknowledgment, in a small volume of poems, by William Rankin, Leven, published in 1812. The authorship of the song was afterwards claimed by William Glass,* an obscure rhymster of the capital. * Glass was a house-painter in Edinburgh ; he ultimately became very dissipated, and died in circumstances of penury about 1840. He published, in 1811, " The Album, a Collection of Poems and Songs," i2ino ; in 1814, " Scenes of Gloamin'," i2mo : and in 1816, a third volume, entitled, " Songs of Edina." The last is dedicated, by permission, to the Duke of Gordon. In the " Scenes of Gloamin'," Glass has included the " Bonnie Lass o Levenside," as a song of his own composition. THE BONNIE LASS 0' LEVENSIDE. AIR " Up amang the Cliffy Rocks." How sweet are I/even's silver streams, Around her banks the wild flowers blooming ; On every bush the warblers vie, In strains of bosom-soothing joy. But Leveu's banks that bloom sae braw, And Leven's streams that glide sae saucy, Sic joy an' beauty couldna shaw, An 'twere not for my darling lassie ; Her presence fills them a' wi' pride, The bonnie lass o' Levenside. When sober eve begins her reign, The little birds to cease their singing, The flowers their beauty to renew, Their bosoms bathe in diamond dew ; When far behind the Lomonds high, The wheels of day are downwards rowing, And a' the western closing sky Wi' varied tints of glory lowing, "Tis then my eager steps I guide, To meet the lass o' Levenside. The solemn sweetness nature spreads, The kindly hour to bliss inviting, Within our happy bosoms move, The softest sigh o' purest love ; Reclined upon the velvet grass, Beneath the balmy, birken blossom, What words could a' my joy express, When clasped to her beating bosom ; How swells my heart with rapture's tide, When wi' the lass o' Levenside. She never saw the splendid ball, She never blazed in courtly grandeur, But, like her native lily's bloom, She cheerfu' gilds her humble home ; The pert reply, the modish air, To soothe the soul were never granted, When modest sense and love are there, The guise o' art may well be wanted ; Fate ! gi'e me to be my bride The bonnie lass o' Levenside. JAMES STIRRAT JOHN GRIEVE. 203 JAMES STIRRAT was born in the village of Dairy, Ayrshire, on the 28th March 1781. His father was owner of several houses in the place, and conducted business as a haber- dasher. Young Stirrat was educated at the village school. In his seventeenth year he composed verses which afforded some indication of power. Of a delicate constitution, he accepted the easy appointment of village postmaster. He died in March 1843, in his sixty-second year. Stirrat wrote much poetry, but never ventured on a publica- tion. Several of his songs appeared at intervals in the public journals, the " Book of Scottish Song," and the " Contemporaries of Burns." The latter work contains a brief sketch of his life. He left a considerable number of MSS., which are now in the possession of a relative in Ayr. Possessed of a knowledge of music, he excelled in playing many of the national airs on the guitar. His dispositions were social, yet in society he seldom talked. Among his associates, he frequently expressed his hope of posthumous fame. He was enthusiastic in his admiration of female beauty, but died unmarried. MAEY. "!N life's gay morn, " when hope beats high, And youthfu' love's endearing tie Gave rapture to the mutual sigh, Within the arms of Mary, My ain dear Mary ; Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky Could equal mine wi' Mary. The sacred hours like moments flew, Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through, The warl' evanish'd frae my view Within the arms of Mary, My ain dear Mary ; Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew Within the arms of Mary. Young fancy spread her visions gay, Love fondly view'd the fair display, Hope show'd the blissfu' nuptial day, And I was rapt with Mary, My ain dear Mary ; The flowers of Eden strew'd the way That led me to my Mary. But life is now a dreary waste, I lanely wander sair depress'd, For cold and lifeless is that breast Where throbb'd the heart of Mary, My ain dear Mary ; She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest, And I ha'e lost my Mary. * This song was set to music by R. A. Smith. JOHN GRIEVE. JOHN GRIEVE, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve, minister of the Eeformed Presbyterian church in that place ; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his residence at Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner and wood-merchant in Alloa, and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet, hat-manufacturer, on the North Bridge. The firm subse- quently assumed, as a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick. 204 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension as a man of letters he became reputed as a contributor to some of the more respectable periodicals.* In his youth he had been a votary of the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was pre- vailed on to publish anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of genius 'he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his kindness was munificent. Along with his partner Mr Scott, a man of kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his " Autobiography," after expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve, he adds, " During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him and his partner, Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve ; and I believe as much so as to any other man alive. ... In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to any one but themselves for the vahie of a farthing ; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem " Mador of the Moor ;'' and in the character of one of the competing bards in the " Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him : " The bard that night who foremost came Was not enroll'd, nor known his name ; A youth he was of manly mould, Gentle as lamb, as lion bold; But his fair face, and forehead high, Glow'd with intrusive modesty. 'Twas said by bank of southland stream Glided his youth in soothing dream ; The harp he loved, and wont to stray Far to the wilds and woods away, And sing to brooks that gurgled by Of maiden's form and maiden's eye ; That when this dream of youth was past, Deep in the shade his harp he cast ; In busy life his cares beguiled, His heart was true, and fortune smiled." Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an appropriate solace in litera- ture ; he made himself familiar with the modern language's, that he might form an acquaintance with the more esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends ; and to the close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily resort of the savans of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the 4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's in Yarrow. The few songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour. * In the "Key to the Chaldee MS.," he is described as the author of "The White Cottage, a Tale;" this was not written by him, but was the production of one More, a native of Berwickshire, whose literary aspira- tions he had promoted. JOHN GRIEVE. 205 CULLODEN; OE, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL. AIR " FingaVs Laienl." CULLODEN, on thy swarthy brow Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair ; Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow, More than the freezing wintry air. For once thou drank'st the hero's blood, And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore ; Thy deeds unholy nature view'ot, Then fled, and cursed thee evermore. From Beauly's wild and woodland glens, How proudly Lovat's banners soar! How fierce the plaided Highland clans Eush onward with the broad claymore ! Those hearts that high with honour heave, The volleying thunder there laid low ; Or scatter'd like the forest leaves, When wintry winds begin to blow ! Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel? The braided plumes torn from thy brow, "What must thy haughty spirit feel, When skulking like the mountain roe ! While wild birds chant from Lochy's bowers, On April 'eve, their loves and joys, The Lord of Lochy's loftiest towers To foreign lands an exile flies. To his blue hills that rose in view, As o'er the deep his galley bore, He often look'd and cried, "Adieu! 1 11 never see Lochaber more ! Though now thy wounds I cannot feel, My dear, my injured native land, In other climes thy foe shall feel The weight of Cameron's deadly brand. ' ' Land of proud hearts and mountains grey, Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung ! Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day, That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung. Where once they ruled and roam'd at will, Free as their own dark mountain game, Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel A longing for their father's fame. " Shades of the mighty and the brave, Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell ! No trophies mark your common grave, Nor dirges to your memory swell. But generous hearts will weep your fate, When far has roll'd the tide of time ; And bards unborn shall renovate Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme." HEE BLUE-EOLLIN' EE. AIR " The Banks oftlte Devon." MY lassie is lovely, as May-day adorning Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee ; Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning, As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' ee. 0, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain ? Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie? Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw ou the mountain, ' An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be. See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild- wood, Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree, 'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood, An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' ee. Though soon frae . my hame an' my lassie I wander'd ; Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea ; Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meandered, Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin" ee. Oh ! for the evening, and oh ! for the hour, When down by yon greenwood she promised to be; When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower, A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee. Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures ; Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gi'e ; As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures, In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue ee. LOVELY MAEY.* AIR ' ' Gowd in gowpens." I 'VE seen the lily of the wold, I 've seen the opening marigold, Their fairest hues at morn unfold, But fairer is my Mary. How sweet the fringe of mountain burn, With opening flowers at spring's return ! How sweet the scent of flowery thorn ! But sweeter is my Mary. Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind ; Her form's not fairer than her mind ; Two sister beauties rarely join'd, But joined in lovely Mary. As music from the distant steep, As starlight on the silent deep, So are my passions lull'd asleep By love for bonnie Mary. * This song was written during the author's first resi- dence at Alloa. The heroine was Miss Mary Douglas, an extremely handsome young lady, daughter of Cap- tain Douglas, of the East India Company's Marine Sen-ice, who resided in the village of Sauchie, in the vicinity. She became the wife of a Mr Rhind, an Edin- burgh gentleman, but died soon after her marriage. Her remains were brought for interment to the churchyard of Alloa. 206 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. CHARLES GRAY, CHARLES GRAY was born at Anstruther-vrester, on the 10th March 1782. He was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr William Tennant, the author of " Anster Fair," who were both natives of Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation ; but in 1805, through the influence of Major- General Burn,* his maternal uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of " Poems and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in establishing the " Musomanik Society of Anstruther," an association which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of respectable verses, f After thirty-six years' active service in the Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in compliance with the wishes of numerous friends, expressed in the form of a Round Robin, he published a second volume of verses, with the title of " Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo, illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his birthplace. In the Glasgow Citizen newspaper, he subsequently published " Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the " Songs of Scotland." Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits ; and he enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have de- servedly attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate the style of that great national bard. In person he was of low stature ; his grey weather- beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died, after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. * A memoir of this estimable individual, chiefly from materials found in his Diary, has been published. t This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled " Bouts-Rime's, or Poetical Pastimes of a few Hobblers round the base of Parnassus ; " it is dedicated ' ' To the Lovers of Rhyme, Fun, and Good-Fellow- ship throughout the British Empire." THE BLACK-EED LASSIE.* AIR " My only Joe and Dearie O!" Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell, But dinna ye be saucy, ! Or a' my love I winna tell To thee, my black-eed lassie, ! It's no thy cheek o' rosy hue, It's no thy little cherrie mou' ; It 's a' because thy heart 's sae true, My bonnie black-eed lassie. It's no the witch -glance o' thy ee, Though few for that surpass ye, ! That maks ye aye sae dear to me My bonnie black-eed lassie, ! It's no the whiteness o' thy skin, It's no lore's dimple on thy chin; It's a' thy modest worth within, My bonnie black-eed lassie, ! Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind, That a' wish to caress ye, ! But, ! how I admire thy mind, My bonnie black-eed lassie, ! I Ve seen thine een like crystal clear, Shine dimly through soft pity's tear ; These are the charms that mak thee dear, To me, my black-eed lassie, ! * The heroine of this song subsequently became the author's wife. CHARLES GRAY. 207 MAGGIE LAUDER.* THE cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head, And Winter yet did blaud her, When the Ranter came to Anster Fair, And speir'd for Maggie Lander ; A snug wee house in the East Green, + Its shelter kindly lent her ; Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane, Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter ! Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride, And to the kirk they ranted ; He play'd the auld " East Nook o' Fife;" And merry Maggie vaunted, That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring, Nor blew sae weel his chanter, For he made Anster town to ring And wha's like Rob the Ranter? For a' the talk and loud reports, That ever gaed against her, Meg proves a true and carefu' wife, As ever was in Anster; And since the marriage-knot was tied, Rob swears he couldna want her ; For he loves Maggie as his life And Meg loves Rob the Ranter. GRIM WINTER WAS HOWLIN'. AIR '''Bonny Dundee." GRIM winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain, And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea; The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain, As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee. Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie, And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree ; For when the heart's light, the feet winna soon weary, Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee ! Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river, I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea ; And Fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever, Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee. * These stanzas are an appropriate addition to the well-known song of "Maggie Lauder," composed by Francis Semple, about 1660. t The East Green of Anstruther is now a low street connecting the town with the adjoining village of Cellar- dyke. The site of Maggie Lauder's house which is said to have been a cot of one storey is pointed out in a small garden opposite a tannery, and on the north side of the street. Maggie Lauder is the heroine of Dr Tennant's poem of " Anster Fair." There, glowrin* about, I saw in his station Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee ; When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation, The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee ! ! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie, I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be ; I'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy ; They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee ! ! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour ; Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be ; And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee ! CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.* CHARLIE is my darling, My darling, my darling ; Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier! When first his standard caught the eye, His pibroch met the ear, Our hearts were light, our hopes were high For the young Chevalier. Charlie is my darling, etc. The plaided chiefs cam' frae afar, Nae doubts their bosoms steir ; They nobly drew the sword for war And the young Chevalier ! Charlie is my darling, etc. But he wha trusts to Fortune's smile Has meikle cause to fear ; She blinket blythe but to beguile The young Chevalier ! Charlie is my darling, etc. dark Culloden fatal field! Fell source o' mony a tear ; There Albyn tint her sword and shield, And the young Chevalier ! Charlie is my darling, etc. Now Scotland's ' ' flowers are wede away ; " Her forest trees are sere ; Her Royal Oak is gane for aye, The young Chevalier ! Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling ; Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier. * See ante pp. 63, and 112. 208 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JOHN FINLAY, JOHN FINLAY, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born at Glasgow in 1782. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they contrived to afford him the advantages of a good education. From the academy of Mr Hall, an efficient teacher in the city, he was sent, in his fourteenth year, to the University. There he distinguished him- self both in the literary and philosophical classes ; he became intimately acquainted with the Latin and Greek classics, and wrote elegant essays on the subjects prescribed. His poetical talents first appeared in the composition of odes on classical subjects, which were distinguished alike by power of thought and smoothness of versification. In 1802, while still pursuing his studies at college, he published a volume entitled " "Wallace, or the Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition* ap- peared, with considerable additions. Soon after, he published an edition of Blair's " Grave," with many excellent notes ; produced a learned life of Cervantes ; and super- intended the publication of a new edition of Smith's "Wealth of Nations." In the hope of procuring a situation in one of the public offices, he proceeded to London in 1807, where he contributed many learned articles, particularly on antiquarian subjects, to different periodicals. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable post in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1808 ; and the same year published, in two duodecimo volumes, a collection of " Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads." This work is chiefly valuable from some interesting notes, and an ingenious preliminary disserta- tion on early romantic composition in Scotland. About this period, Professor Richardson, of Glasgow, himself an elegant poet, offered him the advance of sufficient capital to enable him to obtain a share in a printing establishment, and undertook to secure for the firm the appointment of printers to the University ; he declined, how- ever, to undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of 1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at Elleray, in Cumberland, to con- sult with him on the subject of his views. He only reached the distance of Moffat ; he was there struck with an apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship, and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy aspirations, and was amply qualified for success ; for his energies were co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best production is the poem of " Wallace," written in his nineteenth year ; though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of external naturt, and dis- plays much vigour of versification. His lyrics are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country. * A third edition was published at Glasgow, by R. Chapman, in 1817. OH! DEAR WERE THE JOYS. AIR "Here's a health to tine I love dear.'' OH ! dear were the joys that are past ! Oh ! dear were the joys that are past Inconstant them art, as the dew of the morn, Or a cloud of the night on the blast ! How dear was the breath of the eve, When bearing thy fond faithless sigh ! And the moonbeam how dear that betray 'J The love that illumined thine eye ! WILLIAM NICHOLSON. 209 Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine, Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light ; But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky, It hid the pale queen of the night. Thou hast broken thy plighted faith, And broken a fond lover's heart ; Yes ! in winter the moon's fleeting ray I would trust more than thee and thy art! I am wretched to think on the past Even hope now my peace cannot save ! Thou hast given to my rival thy hand, But me thou hast doom'd to my grave. 0! COME WITH ME. TUNE "Ratlin Castle." ! COME with me, for the queen of night Is throned on high in her beauty bright : 'Tis now the silent hour of even, When all is still in earth an' heaven ; The cold flowers which the valleys strew Are sparkling bright wi' pearly dew, And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum, Then come with me, sweet Mary, come. The opening blue-bell Scotland's pride In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed ; The daisy meek frae the dewy dale, The wild thyme, and the primrose pale, Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake, Of these a fragrant wreath I '11 make, And bind them 'mid the locks that flow In rich luxuriance from thy brow. love, without thee, what were life ? A bustling scene of care and strife ; A waste, where no green flowery glade Is found for shelter or for shade. But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share We can with calm composure bear ; For the darkest nicht o' care and toil Is bricht when blest by woman's smile. I HEAED THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE. AIR " Gramackree." I HEAED the evening linnet's voice the wood- land tufts among, Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song; So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul, The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control. I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade, And mingled in the melody that Isabella made ; Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart, Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art. I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky, Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye; Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year, Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity -melted tear. All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved! Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more, As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore. WILLIAM NICHOLSON. WILLIAM NICHOLSON, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the occupation of a carrier ; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a tavern. Of a family of eight children, "William was the youngest ; he inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which, sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan of Ruth well, and Dr Alexander Murray, .the famous philologist, these gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers ; and in 1814 he appeared as the author of 210 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. " Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised 100, but this sum was diminished by his imprudent excesses. With the balance, he republished some tracts on the sub- ject of Universal Eedemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826 he proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was engaged for a short time as assistant to a catttle-driver. In 1828, he published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a gaberlun/ie ; he played at merry-makings on his bag-pipes, for snuff and whisky. For some time his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board of his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849. He was rather above the middle size, and was well formed. His countenance was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song- writer he claims a place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled " The Country Lass," in the same measure as the " Queen's Wake," contains much simple and graphic delineation of life ; while the ballad of " The Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true to nature. THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY. TUNE" White Cockade" LASSIE, wilt thou gang wi' me, And leave thy frien's i' th' south countrie Thy former frien's and sweethearts a', And gang wi' me to Gallowa' ? Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom, And heather-bells in bonnie bloom ; There 's lordly seats, and livin's braw, Amang the braes o' Gallowa' ! There's stately woods on mony a brae, Where burns and birds in concert play ; The waukrife echo answers a', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. Gallowa' braes, etc. The simmer shiel I '11 build for thee Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee, Half circlin' roun" my father's ha', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. Gallowa' braes, etc. When autumn waves her flowin" horn, And fields o' gowden grain are shorn, 1 '11 busk thee fine, in pearlins braw, To join the dance in Gallowa'. Gallowa' braes, etc. At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight, And lanely, langsome is the night, Wi' tentie care my pipes I '11 thraw, Play " A' the way to Gallowa'." Gallowa' braes, etc. Should fickle fortune on us frown, Nae lack o' gear our love should drown ; Content should shield our haddin' sma', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. Come while the blossom's on the broom, And heather bells sae bonnie bloom ; Come let us be the happiest twa On a' the braes o' Gallowa' ! THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS. TUNE "Ewe Bug/its, Marion." WILL ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary, And visit our haughs and our glens ? There's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's, That lass i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens. 'Tis true we've few cowslips or roses, Nae lilies grow wild on the lea ; But the heather its sweet scent discloses, And the daisy's as sweet to the ee. See yon far heathy hills, whare they're risin', Whose summits are shaded wi' blue ; There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin', Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you. Eight sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin', Whan shepherds return frae the hill, Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomoii', While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill. Plight sweet are the low-setting sunbeams, That point owre the quivering stream ; But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary, And kinder the blinks o' her eeii. CLEMENTINA STIRLING GRAHAM. 211 0! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE? TUNE " Will ye walk the woods with me?" ! WILL ye go to yon burn side, Amang the new-made hay ; And sport upon the flowery swaird, My ain dear May? The sun blinks blythe on yon burn side, Whare lambkins lightly play, The wild bird whistles to his mate, My ain dear May. The waving woods, wi' mantle green, Shall shield us in the bower, Whare I'll pu' a posy for my May, 0' mony a bonnie flower. My father maws ayont the burn, My mammy spins at hame ; And should they see thee here wi' me, I 'd better been my lane. The lightsome lammie little kens What troubles it await Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er, The fause bird lea'es its mate. The flowers will fade, the woods decay, And lose their bonnie green ; The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast, Before that it be e'en. Ilk thing is in its season sweet ; So love is in its noon : But cankering time may soil the flower, And spoil its bonnie bloom. Oh, come then, while the summer shines, And love is young and gay ; Ere age his withering, wintry blast Blaws o'er me and my May. For thee I '11 tend the fleecy flocks, Or haud the halesome plough ; And nightly clasp thee to my breast, And prove aye leal and true. The blush o'erspread her bonnie face, She had nae mair to say, But ga'e her hand and walk'd alang, The youthfu', bloomin' May. THE BANKS OF TARF. TUNE " Sin' my Uncle's dead." WHERE windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows ; And mony a greenwood cluster grows, And harebells bloomin' bonnie, ! Below a spreadin' hazel lea, Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see, While blinkin' love beam'd frae her ee, I met my bonnie Annie, ! Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue, Her lips, like roses, wet wi' dew ; But, ! her ee, o' azure blue, Was past expression bonnie, ! Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair, That lightly wanton'd wi' the air ; But vain were a' my rhymin' ware To tell the charms o' Annie, ! While smilin' in my arms she lay, She whisperin' in my ear did say, "Oh, how could I survive the day, Should you prove fause, my Tammie, 0?" "While spangled fish glide to the main, While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain, Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain, I '11 aye be true to Annie, ! " The Beltan winds blew loud and lang, And ripplin' raised the spray alang ; We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang, The banks of Tarf are bonnie, ! Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay, And blythe the blinks o' summer day ; I fear nae winter cauld and blae, If blest wi' love and Annie, ! CLEMENTINA STIRLING GRAHAM was born in May 1782. Her father, Patrick Stirling, Esq. of Pittendreich, Forfarshire, married, on the 18th April 1781, Amelia Graham, daughter and co-heiress of Alexander Graham, Esq. of Duntrune, when he assumed the surname and arms of Graham. The family of Graham of Duntrune is descended from the Grahams of Fintry and Claverhouse. On the death of John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, without surviving issue, his brother David succeeded him in the representation of the family. On the death of this gentleman, without issue, David Graham of Duntrune became the family representative. That dignity is now enjoyed by the subject of this sketch. In her youth Miss Stirling Graham was celebrated for her amusing personations ; some of these she has related in a volume entitled "Mystifications," published in 1864, under the editorial care of Dr John 212 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, Brown of Edinburgh. The songs which follow, Miss Graham has kindly contributed to the present work. She succeeded to the family estate of Dun- trune in 1844. SONG. I WILL think of my love in the moonlight, And my love will think of me, And I '11 waft him a sigh on the light breeze, And he'll breathe one to Heaven for me. Dear to me is the sailor boy, His bride I have promised to be, And he's gone far away on the dark blue sea To seek a rare gift for me. He said he would bring me a casket of gold, And pearls to deck my hair, But his heart is the only treasure I prize His love is the gem I will wear. Then speed to the swelling sail As it bounds o'er the dark blue wave, And blessings attend on the little bark, That brings home my sailor brave. SERENADE. AWAKE, awake, my own true love, The trysting hour is come ; The lights of Tay are waning low, And Broughty sands are won. My skiff is launched and buoyant floats Upon the light wave borne, And one fair planet sweetly glows To herald in the morn. The dawn now breaking in the east Is spreading far and wide And in a flood of living gold Is melting in the tide. From willing oars the sparkling drops In circling rainbows play, And merrily, with laughing waves, We'll cruise the pathless way. THE BIRKIE OF BONNIE DUNDEE. YE fair lands of Angus and bonnie Dundee, How dear are your echoes, your memories to me! At gatherings and meetings in a' the braw toons, I danced wi' the lasses and distanced the loons ; Syne. bantered them gaily, and bade the young men Be mair on their mettle when I cam' again. They jeered me, they cheered me, and cried ane and a'. He's no an ill fellow that, now he's awa. When puir beggar bodies cam* making their mane I spak' them aye cheery, for siller I'd nane, They shook up their duddies, and muttered "wae's me, " Sae lightsome a laddie no worth a bawbee !" I played wi' the bairnies at bowls and at ba', And left them a* greetin when I cam' aw a ; Ay ! mithers, and bairnies, and lasses and a', Were a' sobbin loudly when I cam' awa. I feigned a gay laugh, just to keep in the greet, For ae bonnie lassie, sae douce and sae sweet, How matchless the blink of her deep loving ee, How soft fell its shade as it glanced upon me. I flung her a wild rose sae fresh and sae fair, And bade it bloom on in the bright summer there ; While breathing its fragrance, she aiblins may gi'e A thought to the Birkie of bonnie Dundee. THE OCEAN WAVE. THERE is hope, there is hope when the summer wind blows, There is love, there is love in the breath of the rose, There is joy in the songs of the emerald lea, But the gruff voice of ocean is dearer to me. For the ocean wave Is the home of the brave, And Heaven's own sky Their canopy. There is life, there is life when the merry waves play, When they toss their white crests, flinging high the light spray ; How they dance with the skiff as she bounds o'er the tide, And they laugh as they speed her o'er the waters wide ! For the ocean wave Is the home of the brave, And Heaven's own sky Their canopy. There's a smile, there's a smile, 'tis enchantment to trace, As it breaks from the eye and beams over the face, 'Tis the gush of deep love from the soul of the brave, Like the bright setting glow on the billowy wave. For the ocean wave Is the home of the brave, And Heaven's own sky Their canopy J ALEXANDER RODGER. 213 ALEXANDER RODGER, ALEXANDER RODGER was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder, Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village inn ; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to Hamburg. Alexander was appren- ticed, in his twelfth year, to a silversmith in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country in 1797, he joined his maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a weaver. He married in his twenty-second year ; and contrived to add to the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led, in 1819, to afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of promoting disaffection and revolt. The connection was attended with serious consequences ; he was convicted of revolu- tionary practices, and sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the Barrowfield "Works as an inspector of cloths used for printing and dyeing. He held this office during eleven years ; he subsequently acted as a pawn- broker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different newspapers. In 1836 he became assistant in the publishing office of the Reformers' Gazette, a situation which he held till his death. This event took place on the 26th September 1846. Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of " Poems and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are disfigured by coarse political allusions. Several of his songs are of a high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of external nature than of the domestic affec- tions ; and, himself possessed of a lively sympathy with the humbler classes, he took delight in celebrating the simple j oys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the pathetic, his muse sometimes assumes a sportive gaiety, when the laugh is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation ; he was fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836, about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained bim at a public festival, and handed him a small box of sovereigns ; and some admiring friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow. BEHAVE YOTJKSEL' BEFORE FOLK. AIR " Good-morrow to your night-cap." BEHAVE yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk. It wad na gi'e me meikle pain, 'Gin we were seen and heard by nane To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane, But, guid sake ! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; 'Whate'er you do when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk. Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they'll mak' 0' naething but a simple smack That's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, Nor gi'e the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o' er folk. It's o through hatred o' a kiss That I sae plainly tell you this ; But, losh ! I tak' it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; "When we 're our lane ye may tak' ane, But fient a ane before folk. I'm sure wi' you I've been as free As ony modest lass should be ; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. 214 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; I'll ne'er submit again to it So mind you that before folk. Ye tell me that my face is fair ; It may be sae I dinna care But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair As ye ha'e done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk. Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit ; At ony rate, it's hardly meet, To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk ; Gin that's the case, there'stime and place, But surely no before folk. But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae get a license frae the priest, And mak' me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And when we're ane, bluid, flesh and bane, Ye may tak' ten before folk.* SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN. How brightly beams the bonnie moon, Frae out the azure sky ; While ilka little star aboon Seems sparkling bright wi' joy. How calm the eve, how blest the hour ! How soft the sylvan scene ! How fit to meet thee, lovely flower, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen ! Now let us wander through the broom, And o'er the flowery lea; While simmer wafts her rich perfume, Frae yonder hawthorn tree : There, on yon mossy bank we'll rest, Where we 've sae aften been ; Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast Sweet Bet of Aberdeen! How sweet to view that face so meek That dark expressive eye To kiss that lovely blushing cheek ^ Those lips of coral dye ! But ! to hear thy seraph strains, Thy maiden sighs between, Makes rapture thrill through all my veins Sweet Bet of Aberdeen ! ! what to us is wealth or rank ? Or what is pomp or power? More dear this velvet mossy bank This blest, ecstatic hour ! * "The Answer" is of inferior merit, and has there- fore been omitted. I 'd covet not the monarch's throne, Nor diamond-studded queen, While blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen ! LOVELY MAIDEN. LOVELY maiden, art thou sleeping? Wake, and fly with me, my love, While the moon is proudly sweeping, Through the ether fields above ; While her mellow'd light is streaming Full on mountain, moor, and lake. Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming? 'Tis thy true-love calls, awake ! All is hush'd around thy dwelling, Even the watch-dog's lull'd asleep ; Hark ! the clock the hour is knelling, Wilt thou then thy promise keep? Yes, I hear her softly coming, Now her window's gently raised ; There she stands, an angel blooming, Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste! Fear not, love, thy rigid father Soundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine ; 'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder, To his care thyself resign ! Now my arms enfold a treasure, Which for worlds I 'd not forego ; Now our bosoms feel that pleasure, Faithful bosoms only know. Long have our true-loves been thwarted, By the stern decrees of pride, Which would doom us to be parted, And make thee another's bride ; But behold, my steeds are ready, Soon they'll post us far away ; Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady, Long before the dawn of day. THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE. AIR "For lack a' gowd." How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fire- side, Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fire- side; Wi' his wifie blythe and free, and his bairnie on his knee, Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside ! Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fire- side; Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fire- side; In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind, To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fire- side. JOHN WILSON. 215 "When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside, What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside, A' day lie gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles At their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside ; And while they grow apace, about his ain fire- side, In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside, Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd, He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside. When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside, And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside, She's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet, While she's kindly made to etJt, by his ain fireside. When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside, And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside, With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days, As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fire- side. And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside, What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fire- side? With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes Heaven for his prop, Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fire- side. Oh ! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside ; Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fire- side; May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath, Then we'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside. AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAKEWELL. AH, no! I cannot say "Farewell," "T would pierce my bosom through ; And to this heart 'twere death's dread knell, To hear thee sigh, "Adieu!" Though soul and body both must part, Yet ne'er from thee I '11 sever, For more to me than soul thou art, And oh ! I'll quit thee never. Whate'er through life may be thy fate, That fate with thee I'll share, If prosperous, be moderate ; If adverse, meekly bear ; This bosom shall thy pillow be, In every change whatever, And tear for tear I '11 shed with thee, But oh ! forsake thee, never. One home, one hearth, shall ours be still, And onexrar daily fare; One altar, too, where we may kneel, And breathe our humble prayer ; And one our praise, that shall ascend, To one all-bounteous Giver ; And one our will, our aim, our end, For oh! we'll sunder never. And when that solemn hour shall come, That sees thee breathe thy last, That hour shall also fix my doom, And seal my eyelids fast. One grave shall hold us, side by side, One shroud our clay shall cover ; And one then may we mount and glide, Through realms of love, for ever. JOHN WILSON. JOHN WILSON, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose -writers, and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the minstrels of his country. He was horn in No. 40 High Street, Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a prosperous manufacturer ; and his mother, Margaret Sym, was connected with a respectable family in the west of Scotland. The poet's grandfather, John Wilson, was horn at Paisley in 1684, and espoused Janet, daughter of William Finlayson, a merchant-burgess in Paisley ; he became the father of three sons, and died on the 18th March 1764. The father of this gentleman, also John Wilson, is mentioned in the Poll-Tax Eolls for the county of Eenfrew in 1695 ; he resided in the Town-head of Paisley, and was possessed of considerable substance.* The poet received his elementary education at the schools of his native town, and * We are indebted for these particulars to a note appended by Mr David Semple to his transcript of the Poll-Tax Rolls of the Parishes in Renfrewshire, deposited by him in the General Register House, Edinburgh. 216 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in Renfrewshire, under the superin- tendence of Dr Macletchie, the parochial clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns, and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of Black- wood's Magazine. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young of the Greek Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning ; but it was to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In 1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a gentleman- commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and strength, he assiduously con- tinued the prosecution of his classical studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he became master of a fortune of about 30,000, which accrued to him from his father's estate ; and, having concluded a course of four years at Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of Elleray, on the banka of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During the interval of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric adventures and humorous escapades ; and his native enthusiasm remained unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of singular and stir- ring adventures : he practised cock-fighting and bull-baiting, and loved to startle his companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of " The Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott ; in the year following he produced " The Isle of Palms," a poem in four cantos. Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune ; and his original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry. But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally towards the Scottish Bar ; and he now engaged in legal studies in the capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law courts, estab- lished his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as a counsel at the circuit courts ; but his devotion to literature prevented him from giving his heart to his pro- fession, and he did not succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his " City of the Plague," a dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches, entitled " Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and "The Trials of Margaret Lindsay." On the establishment of BlacJcwood's Magazine, in 1817, Wilson was one of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others ; and on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of the periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Black- wood himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the JOHN WILSON. 217 Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of Ethics and principal con- tributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and drawing forth the energies of youth ; and wielding in periodical litera- ture the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. Blaclcwood's Magazine attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical ; the essays and sketches of " Christopher North," his literary nom-de- guerre, became a monthly treasure of interest and entertainment. His celebrated " Noctes Ambrosianae," a series of dialogues on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in Blackwood from 1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two octavo volumes ; and, on his ceasing his regular connection with Blackwood' s Magazine, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected in three volumes, under the title of " Recreations of Christopher North." Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sump- tuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake "Winder- mere, from which he derived his title of " Admiral of the Lake," have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution ; and in the following year a civil -list pension of 300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and his memory has been honoured by an elegant monumental statue in bronze, in the Princes' Street Gardens. Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant disser- tation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the " Caledonia Illustrata." Of Ms whole works, a complete edition has been published in twelve octavo volumes, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, the late Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. His memoir has been published by his daughter, Mrs Gordon, in two volumes octavo. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom ; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream. Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent " old Christopher ;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot ; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty ; and, irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to'periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood. 218 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. MARY GRAY'S SONG I WALK'D by mysel' o\vre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd : But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest. I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' its shelter- ing tree. By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken, And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door ! Sic silence sic lonesomeness, oh, were be- wildering ! I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep ; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children, Dancing on to the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep. I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming; Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken' d, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive. I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing Used to bleach their white garments wi' dafiin and din ; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn. I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming, Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute; 'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smil- ing gloaming, Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute. To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a* neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-doo coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men ! Sweet Denholm ! not thus when I lived in thy bosom Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek. Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white ; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night. The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping ; I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth ; Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And hesiven in beauty came down on the earth. The morning smiled on, but nae kirk-bell was ringing ; Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill. I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling ; The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrow- ful scene, And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green. The infant had died at the breast o 1 its mither ; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed ; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither ; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead. Oh ! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea, When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree. But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices, And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices When man's soul is dark in the season o' light! DAVID WEBSTER. 219 OX A HIGHLAND GLEN. To whom belongs this valley fair That sleeps beneath the filmy air, Even like a living thing? Silent, as infant at the breast, Save a still sound that speaks of rest, That streamlet's murmuring ! The heavens appear to love this vale ; Her clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, Or mid the silence lie : By that blue arch this beauteous earth, 'Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth, Seems bound unto the sky. ! that this lovely vale were mine ! Then, from glad youth to calm decline, My years would gently glide ; Hope would rejoice in endless dreams, And memory's oft -returning gleams By peace be sanctified. Then would unto my soul be given, From furnace of that gracious heaven, A purity sublime ; And thoughts would come of mystic mood To make in this deep solitude Eternity of time. And did I ask to whom belonged This vale ? I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul. She spreads her glories o'er the earth, And all her children from their birth Are joint-heirs of the whole. Yea ! long as Nature's humblest child Hath kept his temple undefiled By sinful sacrifice, Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, He is a monarch, and his throne Is built amid the skies. TO SLEEP. GENTLE Sleep ! wilt thou lay thy head For one little hour on thy lover's bed, And none but the silent stars of night Shall witness be to our delight? Alas ! 'tis said that the couch must be Of the eider-down that is spread for thee, So I in my sorrow must lie alone, For mine, sweet Sleep ! is a couch of stone. Music to thee, I know, is dear ; Then the saddest of music is ever here, For Grief sits with me in my cell And she is a syren who singeth well. But thou, glad Sleep ! lov'st gladsome airs, And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers, "When the bells of merriment are ringing, And bliss with liquid voice is singing. Fair Sleep ! so long in thy beauty woo'd, Xo rival hast thou in my solitude, Be mine, my love, and we two will lie Embraced for ever, or awake to die ! Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour, Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow ; But thou art Joy's faithful paramour, And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow. DAVID WEBSTER, DAVID WEBSTER was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By bis father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in parts, a volume of poems and songs, with the title, " Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1S37, in his fiftieth year. 220 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. TAK' IT, MAU, TAK' IT. TUNE "Brose and Butter." WHEN I was a miller in Fife, Losh ! I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak' hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it racket ; For I lifted twa neivefu" or mair, While the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it. Hey for the mill and the kill, The garland and gear for my cogie, Hey for the whisky and yill, That washes the dust frae my craigie. Although it's been lang in repute For rogues to mak' rich by deceiving, Yet I see that it does not weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving ; For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, Oh ! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it ; Sae I flang frae my neive what was in't, Still the happer said, Tak' it, man, tak' it. Hey for the mill, etc. A man that's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper ; Yet there's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what's said by the happer. I whiles thought it scofFd me to scorn, Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit ? But when I grew dry for a horn, It changed aye to Tak' it, man, tak' it. Hey for the mill, etc. The smugglers whiles came wi' their pocks, 'Cause they kent that I liked a bicker ; Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, Ga'e them grain for a soup o' their liquor. 1 had lang been accustom'd to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clappertie clink Said aye to me, Tak' it, man, tak' it Hey for the mill, etc. But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye '11 think I was wrang o't, Od ! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife, A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o't ; I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singing I ne'er got the knack o't ; Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please Ti,n Teedy wi' Tak' it, man, tak' it. [ey for the mill, etc. The Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter, There's men mair notorious to fame, Mair greedy than me or the muter ! For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety the half we may mak' it, Had some speaking happer within, That said to them, Tak' it, man, tak' it. Hey for the mill, etc. OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS. AIR " Gregor A rora." OH, sweet were the hours That I spent wi' my Flora, In yon gay shady bowers, Roun' the linn o' the Cora ! Her breath was the zephyrs That waft frae the roses, And skim o'er the heath As the summer day closes. I told her my love-tale, Which seem'd to her cheering ; Then she breathed on the soft gale Her song so endearing. The rock echoes ringing Seem'd charm'd wi' my story ; And the birds, sweetly singing, Replied to my Flora. The sweet zephyr her breath As it wafts frae the roses, And skims o'er the heath As the summer day closes. THOMAS PRINGLE, THOMAS PRIXGLE was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors had been tenants for a succes- sion of generations. By an accident in infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading, and during his attend- ance at college he formed the resolution of adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811 in connec- tion with his ingenious friend, Robert Story, afterwards minister of Roseneath a THOMAS PR INGLE. 221 poem entitled, " The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of Sir "Walter Scott for Hogg's " Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede the Scots' Magazine, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwood the proposal was well received ; a periodical was originated under the title of the Edinburgh Monthly Magazine, and Pringle relinquished his post in the Eegister House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the materials being supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher, however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had commenced so prosperously ; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal : a new series, under the title of Blackwood's Magazine, appeared in October, under the literary superintendence of Wilson ; while, in the August preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr Constable, The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany, as a new series of the Scots' Magazine. In the first number of Mr Black- wood's new series appeared the celebrated " Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade, chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards cancelled. Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the editorship of The Star, a bi-weekly newspaper ; but he was led soon to renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the "Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems j" but finding, in spite of every effort, that he was unable to support himself by litera- ture, he resumed, early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House. When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the comfortable main- tenance of his family. He formed the resolution of emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his wife's relatives and his own consented to accom- pany him. In February 1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the upper part of the valley of Baaviars River, a tributary of the Great Fish River. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden, Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government Library, with a salary of 75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing educational establish- ment. He now established a periodical, which he designated the South African Com- mercial Advertiser, and became editor of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures : in consequence of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826 ; and failing to obtain from the Home Government a reparation of his losses in the colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from literature. An article which he had written on slavery, in the New 222 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Monthly Magazine, led to his appointment as secretary to the Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June 1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in Bunhill Field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory. As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification, perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition, and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions ; and to this peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person he was under the middle height ; his countenance was open and benignant, with a well-developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow. FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE. OUR native land our native vale A long, a last adieu ; Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Cheviot's mountains blue ! Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, Ye streams renown 'd in song ; Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads, Our hearts have loved so long ! Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes, Where thyme and harebells grow ; Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes, O'erhung with birk and sloe ! The mossy cave and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dells ; The martyr's grave and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell ! Home of our love our father's home Land of the brave and free The sail is flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee ! We seek a wild and distant shore Beyond the western main ; Wr leave tliee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again ! Our native land our native vale A long, a last adieu ! Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue ! THE EXILE'S LAMENT. BY the lone Mankayana's margin grey A Scottish maiden sung ; And mournfully pour'd her melting lay In Teviot's border-tongue : bonuie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes, And the birk in Clifton dale ; And green are the hills o' the milk- white ewes By the briery banks o' Cayle ! Here bright are the skies ; and these valleys of bloom May enchant the traveller's eye ; But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom To the exile who comes to die ! bonnie grows the broom, etc. Far round and round spreads the howlingwaste, Where the wild beast roams at will ; And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced, Where the savage lurks to kill! bonnie grows the broom, etc. Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green My dreaming fancy strays ; But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene That scowls on my aching gaze ! bonnie grows the broom, etc. Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state On Scotland's peaceful strand, Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate In tins wild and weary land! bonnie grows the broom, etc. WILLIAM KNOX. 223 COME AWA', COME AWA'. COME awa', come a\va', An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie ; Leave your southron wooers a', My winsome bride to be, lassie ! Lands nor gear I proffer you, Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie ; But I 've a heart that 's leal and true, And a' that heart is thine, lassie ! Come awa', come awa', And see the kindly north, lassie, Out o'er the peaks o Lammerlair, And by the Links o' Forth, lassie ! And when we tread the heather-bell, Aboon Demayat lea, lassie, You'll view the land o' flood and fell, The noble north countrie, lassie ! Come awa', come awa', And leave your southland hame, lassie ; The kirk is near, the ring is here, And I 'm your Donald Graeme, lassie ! Eock and reel and spinning-wheel, And English cottage trig, lassie ; Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie ! Come awa', come awa', I ken your heart is mine, lassie, And true love shall make up for a' For whilk ye might repine, lassie! Your father he has gi'en consent, Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie ; that our feet were on the bent, An' the lowlands far behind, lassie ! Come awa', come awa', Ye '11 ne'er ha'e cause to rue, lassie ; My cot blinks blythe beneath the shaw, My bonnie Avondhu, lassie ! There's birk and slae on ilka brae, And brackens waving fair, lassie, And gleaming lochs and mountains grey- Can aught wi' them compare, lassie? Come awa', come awa', etc. WILLIAM KNOX. "WILLIAM Kxox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August 1789.* His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a country gentleman, Mr Pott, of Todrig in Selkirkshire ; and of this marriage, "William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of "Wrae, near Langholm, Dumfriesshire ; but his habits were not those of a thriving farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to Edin- burgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published " The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo ; in 1824, " The Songs of Israel," 12mo ; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled " The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of Professor Wilson, and other men of letters. Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue gratifica- tion of his social propensities ; he was seized with paralysis, and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale entitled " Marianne ; or, the Widower's Daughter." He left several compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by his executors. * Lilliesleaf Register of Births. 224 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed ; his complexion was fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious anecdotes. THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES. BRAVE Caledonians ! my brothers, my friends, Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds ; Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west, And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast. Here social pleasure enlivens each heart, And friendship is ready its warmth to impart ; The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes, To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes. Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine- cover'd hills, Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills; Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers, There slavery's wail counts the wearisomehours. Though our island is beat by the storms of the north, There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth ; There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes. valour ! thou guardian of freedom and truth, Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth 1 Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid. And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land ; Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes, When call'd in defence of the dear land of cakes. Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud When therageof the battle is dreadful and loud, See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay, And leave to our foemen the pride of the day? No, by heavens, we will stand to our honour and trust ! Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust, Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks, Beneath the brown heath of the dear land of cakes. 0, peace to the ashes of those that have bled, For the land where the proud thistle raises its head! 0, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth, In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth ! Though their lives are extinguished, their spirit remains, And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins ; Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes, For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes. Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart, From our word, from our trust, let us never depart ; Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd, And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound ; And still to our bosom be honesty dear, And still to our loves and our friendships sincere ; And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes, May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes ! TO MARY. FAREWELL ! and though my steps depart From scenes for ever dear, Mary ! I must leave my heart And all my pleasures here ; And I must cherish in my mind, Where'er my lot shall be, A thought of her I leave behind A hopeless thought of thee. Mary ! I can ne'er forget The charm thy presence brought ; No hour has pass'd since first we met, But thou hast shared my thought. At early morn, at sultry noon, Beneath the spreading tree, And, wandering by the evening moon, Still, still I think of thee. Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream, And bid me grieve no more, But at the morn's returning gleam, I sorrow'd as before ; Yet thou shalt still partake my care, And when I bend the knee, And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer, I will remember thee. WILLIAM THOM. 225 Farewell ! and when my steps depart, Though many a grief be mine, And though I may conceal my own, I'll weep to hear of thine. Though from thy memory soon depart Each little trace of me, 'Tis only in the grave this heart Can cease to think of thee. WILLIAM THOM, WILLIAM THOM, commonly styled " The Inverury Poet," was born at Aberdeen in 1789. His father, who was a shopkeeper, dying during bis infancy, he was placed by his mother at a school taught by a female, from whom he received the greater amount of his juvenile education. At the age of ten, he was put to a cotton-factory, where he served an apprenticeship of four years. He was subsequently employed, during a period of nearly twenty years, in the large weaving-factory of Gordon, Barron, & Co. In 1827, he removed to Dundee ; and shortly after to the village of Newtyle, in Strathmore, at both of these places working as a hand-loom weaver. Thrown out of employment, in consequence of a stagnation in the manufacturing world, he was sub- jected, in his person and family, to much penury and suffering. At length, disposing of his articles of household furniture, he purchased a few wares, and taking his wife and children along with him, commenced the precarious life of a pedlar. In his published " Recollections," he has supplied a heart-rending narrative of the priva- tions attendant on his career as a wanderer ; his lodgings were frequently in the farmer's barn, and, on one of these occasions, one of his children perished from cold and starvation. The contents of his pack becoming exhausted, he derived the means of subsistence by playing on the flute, and disposing of copies of verses. After wandering over a wide district as a pedlar, flute-player, and itinerant poet, he resumed his original occupation of weaving in Kinross. He subsequently sought employment as a weaver in Aberdeen, where he remained about a year. In 1840 he proceeded to Inverury ; and it was while he was resident in this place that his beautiful stanzas, entitled " The Blind Boy's Pranks," appeared in the columns of the Aberdeen Herald newspaper. These verses were copied into many of the public journals ; they particularly arrested the attention of Mr Gordon of Knockespock, a landed proprietor in Aberdeenshire, who, ascertaining the indigent circumstances of the author, transmitted to him a handsome donation, and desired to form his acquaintance. The poet afterwards accompanied Mr Gordon to London, who intro- duced him as a man of genius to the fashionable and literary circles of the metro- polis. In 1844 he published a small volume of poems and songs, with a brief autobiography, under the title of " Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-Loom Weaver." This volume was well received ; and on a second visit to London, Thorn was entertained at a public dinner by many distinguished literary persons of the metropolis. From admirers, both in India and America, he received pecuniary acknowledgments of his genius. He now attempted to establish himself in London in connection with the press, but without success. Returning to Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee ; where, after a period of distress and penury, he breathed his last on the 29th February 1848. In respect of pure and simple pathos, some of Thorn's lyrics are unequalled among the compositions of any of the national bards. Than " The Mitherless Bairn," it may be questioned whether there is to be found in the language any lyrical composi- tion more delicately plaintive. It is lamentable to think that one who could write so tenderly should, by a dissolute life, have been the author of many of his own mis- fortunes, and a constant barrier to every attempt for his permanent elevation. In 226 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. person, he was rather below the middle stature ; his countenance was thoughtful, but marked with the effects of bodily suffering. Owing to a club-foot, his gait was singularly awkward. He excelled in conversation, and his manner was pleasing and conciliatory. THEY SPEAK 0' WILES. AIR " Gin a bodie meet a bodie." THEY speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, An' ruin in her ee ; I ken they bring a pang at whiles That's unco sair to dree ; But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss, The first fond fa'in' tear, Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends, An" tints o' heaven here. When two leal hearts in fondness meet, Life's tempests howl in vain ; The very tears o' love are sweet When paid with tears again. Shall hapless prudence shake its pow ? Shall caulclrife caution fear ? Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe, That lichts a heaven here I What though we're ca'd a we before The stale "three score an' ten ?" When Joy keeks kindly at your door, Aye bid her welcome ben. About yon blissfu' bowers above Let doubtfu' mortals speir ; Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love," Since love makes heaven here. THE MITHERLESS BAIRK* WHEN a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin' ? 'Tis the puir doited loonie the mitherless bairn ! The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed, Naue covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head ; His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there, 0' hands thatwontkindly tokame hisdark hair; But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern, That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn ! * An Inverury correspondent writes: "Thorn gave me the following narrative as to the origin of ' The Mitherless Bairn ; ' I quote his own words ' When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, be]lowin', " Ye hussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn !" I hobbled up the stair, and wrote the sang afore sleepin'."* Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed Now rests in the mools where her mainmie is laid; The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth, Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth; Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! Oh ! speak him na' harshly he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile ; In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn! THE LASS 0' KINTORE. AIR " Oh, as I was kiss' d yestreen." AT hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone, I'm dull on the Ury, an 1 droop by the Don ; Their murmur is noisy, and fashious to hear, An' the lay o' the lintie fa's dead on my ear. I hide frae the morn, and whaur naebody sees ; I greet to the burnie, an' sich to the breeze ; Though I sich till I'm silly, an' greet till I dee, Kintore is the spot in this world for me. But the lass o' Kintore, oh ! the lass o' Kintore, Be warned awa' frae the lass o' Kintore ; There's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore. They bid me forget her, ohl how can it be? In kindness or scorn she's ever wi' me; I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue, An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue. I try to forget her, but canna forget, I 've liked her laug, an' I aye like her yet ; ily poor heart- may wither, may waste to its core, But forget her, oh never ! the lass o' Kintore ! Oh! the wood o' Kintore, the holmes o' Kin- tore 1 The love-lichtin* ee that I ken at Kintore; I'll wander afar, an' I'll never look more On the grey glance o' Peggy, or bonuie Kin- tore! WILLIAM GLEN. 227 MY HAMELESS HA'. OH ! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha' ? The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa' ; An' aye the nicht sae drearie, Ere the dowie morn daw, Whan I canna win to see you, My Jamie, ava'. Though mony miles between us, an' far, far frae me, The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld wail's ee, Its leaves may waste and wither, But its branches winna fa' ; An' hearts may haud thegither, Though frien's drap awa'. Ye promised to speak o' me to the lanesome moon, An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun' ; I doat upon that moon Till my very heart fills fu', An' aye yon birdie's tune Gars me greet for you. Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'? A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa' ! 'Tween leavin' o' you, Jamie, An' ills that sorrow me, I 'm wearie o' the war!', An' carena though I dee. WILLIAM GLEN. WILLIAM GLEN is entitled to an honourable place in the song-literature of his country. His progenitors were persons of consideration in the county of Renfrew.* His father, Alexander Glen, a Glasgow merchant in the Russian trade, married Jane Burns, sister of the Rev. Dr Burns, minister of Renfrew ; and of a family of three sons, the poet was the eldest. He was horn in Queen Street, Glasgow, on the 14th of November 1789. In 1803, when the regiment of Glasgow Volunteer Sharp-shooters was formed, he joined the corps as a lieutenant. He afterwards followed the mercantile profession* and engaged in the West India trade. For some time he resided in one of the West India Islands. In 1814 he became one of the managers of the " Merchant's House" of Glasgow, and a director of the " Chamber of Commerce/' During the same year, being unfortunate in merchandise, he was induced to abandon the concerns of business. He afterwards derived the means of support from an uncle who resided in Russia ; but his circumstances were ultimately much clouded by misfortune. During the last eight years of his career, his summers were spent at Reinagour, in the parish of Aber- foyle, where he resided with an uncle of his wife. After several years of delicate health, he died in Edwin Place, Gorbals, Glasgow, in December 1826. William Glen was about six feet in height ; his person, which was originally slender, afterwards became portly. He was of a fair complexion, and his countenance generally wore a smile. His manners were pleasing, and he cherished a keen relish for congenial society. In 1815 he published a thin duodecimo volume of verses, entitled " Poems, chiefly Lyrical ;" but the majority of his metrical compositions seem to have been confined to his repositories. A quarto volume of his MSS. is in the pos- session of Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow, who has made it available in the preparation of this work. Interspersed with the poetry in the MS. volume, are pious reflections on the trials and disappointments incident to human life. Allanus Glen, armiger, is witness to an instrument conveying the fishing of Crockat-shot to the " Monks isly," in 1452. James Glen, the successor of this person, obtained from Robert, abbot of Paisley, the lands ar, Bridge-end, and Lyntchels, within the Lordship of Paisley. James Glen of Bar joined the troops of Queen Mary at the battle of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Regent, but was restored in 1573 Queen Mary at the battle of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Kegent, but was restored in 1573 by the treaty of Perth. Archibald Glen, a younger son of the proprietor of Bar, was minister of Carmunnock, and died in February 1614. Of two sons, Robert, the elder, succeeded him in the living of Carmunnock ; the other, named Thomas, was a prosperous trader in the Saltmarket of Glasgow ; he died in 1735. His son Alex- ander was the poet's father 228 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic, WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE. An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile ; TUNE "Johnny Faa." But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the A WEE bird cam to our ha' door, He warbled sweet an' clearly, Atlantic, An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle. An' aye the owercome o' his sang Was, " Waes me for Prince Charlie ! " Oh ! whan I heard the bonnie soun', Though far frae my hame in a tropical wild- The tears cam drappin' rarely ; I took my bannet aff my head, Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view * For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie. An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood, Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, An' the vision was painful the brighter it Is that a song ye borrow ? grew. Are thae some words ye've learnt by heart, Sweet days ! when my bosom with rapture was Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?" swelling, " Oh, no, no, no !" the wee bird sang, Though I knew it not then, it was love ' ' I 've flown sin' mornin' early, made me smile ; But sic' a day o' wind and rain ! Oh ! waes me for Prince Charlie. Oh ! the snaw-wreath is pure where the moon- beams are dwelling, Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle. " On hills that are by right his ain, He roves a lanely stranger ; On every side he's press'd by want On every side is danger. Now far in the east the sun slowly rising, Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage Yestreen I saw him in a glen, tree; My heart maist burstit fairly, And sweet was the scene such wild beauties For sadly changed indeed was he comprising, Oh ! waes me for Prince Charlie. As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee. "Dark night cam on, the tempist roar'd Loud o'er the hills and valleys ; An' whare was 't that your Prince lay -doun, Whase hame should been a palace? But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion, The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd ; He roVd him in a Highland plaid, I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy Which cover'd him but sparely, An' slept beneath a bush o' broom ocean, And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle. Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie." But now the bird saw some red-coats, The orange was bathed in the dews o' the An' he shook his wings wi' anger : " Oh ! this is no a land for me, morning, An' the bright draps bespangled the cluster- I'll tarry here nae langer." He hover'd on the wing a while, niff vin6 \ White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorn- insr Ere he departed fairly ; But weel I mind the farewell strain An' brown was the apple that grew on the Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie." pine, Were I as free as an Indian chieftain, Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while ; But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin', MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.* An" a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle. THE sun hadna peep'd frae behind the dark r TI When the mirk cloud o* fortune aboon my billow, The slow -sinking moon half illumined the head gathers, An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er scene, fiii r % . As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted ion oeiore , Oh ! then I'll revisit the land of my fathers, pillow, An' wander'd to muse on the days that were An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore. Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden gane. (Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' * This song was composed while the author resided in the West Indies. It is printed for the first time in this work. guile), Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden, Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle. WILLIAM GLEN. 229 THE BATTLE-SOXG.* EAISE high the battle-song To the heroes of our land ; Strike the bold notes loud and long To Great Britain's warlike band. Burst away like a whirlwind of flame, Wild as the lightning's wing ; Strike the boldest, sweetest string, And deathless glory sing To their fame. See Corunna's bloody bed ! 'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene ; There the imperial eagle fled, And there our chief was slain. Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast, High honours seal'd his doom, And eternal laurels bloom Round the poor and lowly tomb Of his rest. Strong was his arm of might When the war-flag was unfurl'd ; But his soul, when peace shone bright, Beam'd love to all the world. And his name, through endless ages, shall endure ; High deeds are written fair In that scroll, which time must spare, And thy fame's recorded there Xoble Moore. Tender's Barossa's height Rising full upon my view, Where was fought the bloodiest fight That Iberia ever knew, Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led. With bay'nets levell'd low They rush'd upon the foe, Like an avalanche of snow From its bed. Sons of the " Lonely Isle," Your native courage rose, When surrounded for a while By the thousands of your foes. But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war; He resistless led ye on, Till the bloody field was won, And the dying battle-groan Sunk afar. Our song Balgowan share, Home of the chieftain's rest ; For thou art a lily fair In Caledonia's breast. Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain, For beauty there doth dwell In the mountain, flood, or fell, And throws her witching spell O'er the scene. But not Balgowan's charms Could lure the chief to stay ; For the foe were up in arms In a country far away. * Printed for the first time, from the author's MS. volume. He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame ; Ages may pass by, Fleet as the summer's sigh, But thy name shall never die Gallant Graeme.* Strike again the boldest strings To our great commander's praise ; Who to our memory brings " The deeds of other days." Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain ; The blaze of hope illumes Iberia's deepest glooms, And the eagle shakes his plumes There in vain. High is the foeman's pride, For they are sons of war ; But our chieftain rolls the tide Of battle back afar. A braver hero in the field ne'er shone ; Let bards, with loud acclaim, Heap laurels on his fame, " Singing glory" to the name of Wellington. Could I with soul of fire Guide my wild unsteady hand, I would strike the quivering wire, Till it rung throughout the land. Of all its war-like heroes would I sing ; Were powers to soar thus given, By the blast of genius driven, I would sweep the highest heaven With my wing. Yet still this trembling flight May point a bolder way, Ere the lonely beam of night Steals on my setting day. Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow-tree ; And when I come again, Thou wilt not sound in vain, For I '11 strike thy highest strain Bold and free. THE MAID OF ORONSEY.* OH ! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain ; Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows ; Sweet bird, oh ! warble it again, Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes ; Oh ! lull me with it to repose, I '11 dream of her who 's far away, And fancy, as my eyelids close, Will meet the maid of Oronsey. Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief, Sweet bird, thou'dst leave thy native grove, And fly to bring my soul relief, To where my warmest wishes rove ; * The "gallant Graeme," Lord Lynedoch, on hearing this song at a Glasgow theatre, was so moved by the touching reference of the poet to his achievements, and the circumstances of his joining the army, that he openly burst into tears. t Printed for the first time in this work. 230 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTKEL. Soft as the cooings of the dove, Thou'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay, And melt to pity and to love The bonny maid of Oronsey. "Well may I sigh and sairly -weep, The song sad recollections bring ; Oh ! fly across the roaring deep, And to my maiden sweetly sing ; 'Twill to her faithless bosom fling Remembrance of a sacred day ; But feeble is thy wee bit wing, And far's the isle of Oronsey. Then, bonny bird, wi' mony a tear I'll mourn beside this hoary thorn, And thou wilt find me sitting here, Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn ; Then high on airy pinions borne, Thou 'It chant a sang o' love an' wae, An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn Of the sweet maid of Oronsey. And when around my weary head, Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie, Death shall eternal poppies spread, An' close for aye my tearfu' eye ; Perch'd on some bonnie branch on high, Thou 'It sing thy sweetest roundelay, And soothe my "spirit, passing by" To meet the maid of Oronsey. THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA. TUNE " Whistle o'er the lave o't." SING a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim, High glory gi'e to gallant Graham, Heap laurels on our marshal's fame Wha conquer'd at Vittoria. Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain, An' raised her stately form again, Whan the British lion shook his mane On the mountains of Vittoria. Let blustering Suchet crousely crack, Let Joseph riu the coward's track, An' Jourdan wish his baton back He left upon Vittoria. If e'er they meet their worthy king, Let them dance roun' him in a riiiL,', An' some Scots piper play the spring He blew them at Vittoria. Gi'e truth and honour to the Dane, Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain, But aye in sic a cause as Spain Gi'e Britain a Vittoria. The English rose was ne'er sae red, The shamrock waved whare glory led, An" the Scottish thistle rear'd its head In joy upon Vittoria. Loud was the battle's stormy swell, Whare thousands fought an' many fell, But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell At the battle of Vittoria. The Paris maids may ban them a', Their lads are maistly wede awa', An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw They lie upon Vittoria. Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave, Let all their trophies for them wave, And green be our Cadogan's grave Upon thy fields, Vittoria. Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain, And fill a bumper up again, Pledge to the leading star o' Spain, The hero of Vittoria. BLINK OVER THE BURX, SWEET BETTY. AIR "Blink over the bum, sweet Betty." BLINK over the burn, sweet Betty, Blink over the burn to me ; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I '11 gang alang wi' thee ; Though father and niither forbade it, Forbidden I wadna be ; Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, An' I '11 gang alang wi' thee. The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud, Blushing red wi : the mornin' dew, Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn, Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue ; Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet, Disclosing a pearly row ; Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosom Is white as the mountain snow. But it isna her beauty that hauds me, A glitterin' chain winna lang bind ; 'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness, An' the graces adornin' her mind ; She's dear to my soul as the sunbeam Is dear to the summer's morn, An' she says, though her father forbade it, She'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn. Her father's a canker'd auld carle, He swears he will ne'er gi'e consent ; Such carles should never get daughters, Unless they can mak' them content ; But she says, though her father forbade it, Forbidden she winna be ; Blink ovei the burn, sweet Betty, An' I '11 gang alang wi' thee. DAVID VEDDER. 231 DAVID VEDDER, DAVID VEDDER was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness, Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first-officer of an armed cruiser, and in five years after was raised to the post of tide-surveyor- He first discharged the duties of this office at Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith. A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder ' experienced agreeable relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers ; but before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume, under the title of " Orcadian Sketches." This work, a melange of prose and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse ; and several of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description. In 1839, he edited the " Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced with an interesting memoir. Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled " Lays and Litho- graphs," published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh. His last work was a new English version of the quaint old story of " Reynard the Fox," which was published with elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials he was in the habit of contributing ; articles from Ms pen adorned the pages of Constable's Edinburgh Magazine, the Edinburgh Literary Journal, the Edin- burgh Literary Gazette, the Christian Herald, Tail's Magazine, and Chambers's JournaL He wrote the letterpress for Geikie's volume of " Etchings," and furnished songs for George Thomson's " Musical Miscellany," Blackie's " Book of Scottish Song," and Robertson's " Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died at jSTewington, in that city, on the llth February 1854, in his 64th year. His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery. Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive propor- tions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits, he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries. Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable specimens of vigorous composition ; and his poetry, if not characterised by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive ; his tender pieces breath a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos and genuine simplicity. 232 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME. LET wrapt musicians strike the lyre, While plaudits shake the vaulted fane ; Let warriors rush through flood and fire, A never dying name to gain ; Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing, Pursue some high or holy theme : Be't mine, in simple strains, to sing My darling Jeanie's welcome hame ! Sweet is the morn of flowery May, When incense breathes from heath and wold- When laverocks hyrnn the matin lay, t And mountain peaks are bathed in gold And swallows, frae some foreign strand, Are wheeling o'er the winding stream ; But sweeter to extend my hand, And bid my Jeanie welcome hame! Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog, Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes ; And baudrons, on the ingle rug, Will blithely churm at "auld grey -thrums. The mavis, frae our apple-tree, Shall warble forth a joyous strain ; The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy Shall welcome Jeanie hame again ! Like dew-drops on a fading rose, Maternal tears shall start for thee, And low-breathed blessings rise like those Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy. Come to my arms, my timid dove ! I '11 kiss thy beauteous brow once more ; The fountain of thy father's love Is welling all its banks out o'er ! I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER. AIR" Toddlirf Hame." I NEITHER got promise of siller nor land With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand; But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride, And that's proved the bliss of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my dear fireside, There's happiness aye at my ain fireside ! Ambition once pointed my view towards rank, To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank : Twos but for an hour ; and I cherish with pride My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside, My Jeanie's the charm of my ain fireside ! Her accents are music ; there's grace in her air ; And purity reigns in her bosom so fair ; She's lovelier now than in maidenly pride, Though she's long been the joy of my ain fireside. My ain fireside, my happy fireside ! There's harmony still at my ain fireside! Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam, I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home ; Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide, What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside? My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside, There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside ! THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART. AIR " Gratnachree." THERE is a pang for every heart, A tear for every eye ; There is a knell for every ear, For every breast a sigh. There's anguish in the happiest state, Humanity can prove ; But oh ! the torture of the soul Is unrequited love! The reptile haunts the sweetest bower, The rose blooms on the thorn ; There's poison in the fairest flower That greets the opening morn. The hemlock and the night-shade spring In garden and in grove ; But oh ! the upas of the soul Is unrequited love ! Ah ! lady, thine inconstancy Hath made my peace depart ; The unwonted coldness of thine eye Hath froze thy lover's heart. Yet with the fibres of that heart Thine image dear is wove ; Nor can they sever till I die Of unrequited love ! THE FIRST OF MAY. AIR" The Braes of Balquhidder." Now the beams of May morn On the mountains are streaming, And the dews on the corn Are like diamond-drops gleaming ; And the birds from the bowers Are in gladness ascending ; And the breath of sweet flowers With the zephyrs is blending. And the rose-linnet's thrill, Overflowing with gladness, And the wood-pigeon's bill, Though their notes seem of sadness ; And the jessamine rich Its soft tendrils is shooting, From pear and from peach The bright blossoms are sprouting. And the lambs on the lea Are in playfulness bounding, And the voice of the sea Is in harmony sounding ; DAVID VEDDER. 233 And the streamlet on nigh In the morning beam dances, For all Nature is joy As sweet summer advances. Then, my Mary, let's stray Where the wild-flowers are glowing, By the banks of the Tay In its melody flowing ; Thou shalt bathe in May dew, Like a sweet mountain blossom, For 'tis bright like thy brow, And 'tis pure as thy bosom ! SOXG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE. OH ! the sunny peaches glow, And the grapes in clusters blush ; And the cooling silver streams From their sylvan fountains rush ; There is music in the grove, And there 's fragrance on the gale ; But there's nought so dear to me As my own Highland vale. Oh ! the queen-like virgin rose, Of the dew and sunlight born, And the azure violet, Spread their beauties to the morn ; So does the hyacinth, And the lily pure and pale ; But I love the daisy best In my own Highland vale. Hark ! hark ! those thrilling notes ! 'Tis the nightingale complains ; Oh ! the soul of music breathes In those more than plaintive strains ; But they're not so dear to me As the murmur of the rill, And the bleating of the lambs On my own Highland hill. Oh ! the flow'rets fair may glow, And the juicy fruits may blush, And the beauteous birds may sing, And the crystal streamlets rush ; And the verdant meads may smile, And the cloudless sun may beam, But there's nought beneath the skies Like my own Highland home. THE TEMPEST IS RAGING. AIR "He's dear to me, thovghfarfrae me.' THE tempest is raging And rending the shrouds ; The ocean is waging A war with the clouds ; The cordage is breaking, The canvas is torn, The timbers are creaking The seamen forlorn. The water is gushing Through hatches and seams ; 'Tis roaring and rushing O'er keelson and beams ; And nought save the lightning On mainmast or boom, At intervals bright'ning The palpable gloom. Though horrors beset me, And hurricanes howl, I may not forget thee, Beloved of my soul ! Though soon I must perish In ocean beneath, Thine image I '11 cherish, Adored one ! in death. JOHN M'DIARMID, THE son of the Rev. Hugh. M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church., Glasgow, John M'Diarniid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a respectable elementary education ; but, deprived of his father at an early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some time he acted as clerk in connection with a bleachfield at Roslin, and subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He now attended some classes in the University, while his other spare time was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the College debating societies he im- proved himself as a public speaker, and subsequently took an active part in the dis- cussions of the " Forum." Fond of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling interest in the public mind ; the consequence was, the immediate establishment of his reputa- tion. His services were sought by several of the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of the Edinburgh Review offered to receive contributions from his 234 2 HE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. pen. In 1816 he compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver & Boyd, and towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated the Scotsman newspaper. In January 1817, he accepted the editorship of the Dumfries and Galloway Courier a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruth well, chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual. As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the promptitude and business-habits which, in connection with literary ability, are essential for such an office. The Dumfries Courier, which had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with illustrations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. " The Scrap-Book," a work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse, appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823 he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the " Vicar of Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. The Dumfries Magazine was originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he published " Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the illustration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and Galloway. " The Picture of Dumfries," an illustrated work, appeared in 1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered the editorship of the Caledonian Mercury, the first-established of Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He ultimately became sole proprietor of the Courier, which, under his superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November 1852, in his sixty-third year. NITHSIDE. AIR " There grows a bonny brier-tush in our kail-yard." WHEN the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree, The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee; The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied, How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside ! When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown, And schoolboys seeking nests find each nurs- ling fledged or flown, To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride, How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside ! When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue, And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue ; While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide, Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside! When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee, And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea ; And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride, How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside ! When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear, The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year ; And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide, Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside ! PETER BUG HAN. 235 And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow, And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below, You still may share the curler's joys, and find at eventide, Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside 1 PETER BUCHAN, 4 THE indefatigable collector of the elder national minstrelsy, Peter Buchan, was born in Peterhead in. the year 1790. Of a somewhat distinguished descent, he was on the father's side remotely connected with the noble house of Buchan, and his mother was a lineal descendant of the Irvines of Drum, an old powerful family in Aberdeenshire. Though he was disposed to follow a sea-faring life, and had obtained a commission in the navy, he abandoned his early intentions at the urgent solicitation of his parents, and thereafter employed himself as a copperplate engraver, and was the inventor of an ingenious revolving press for copperplate printing. At Edinburgh and Stirling, he afterwards qualified himself for the business of a letterpress printer, and in 1816 opened a printing-office in his native town. In 1819, he compiled the " Annals of Peterhead," a duodecimo volume, which he printed at a press of his own contrivance. His next publication appeared shortly after, under the title, " An historical Account of the Ancient and Noble Family of Keith, Earls-Marischal of Scotland." After a period of residence in London, where he held for sometime a remunerative situation, Buchan returned to his native town. In the metropolis, he had been pain- fully impressed by the harsh treatment freqxiently inflicted on the inferior animals, and as a corrective for the evil, he published at Peterhead, in 1824, a treatise, dedicated to his son, in which he endeavoured to prove that brutes are possessed of souls, and are immortal. His succeeding publication, which appeared in 1828, was the most successful effort of his life ; it was entitled, " Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto Unpublished, with Explanatory Notes," Edinburgh, two vols. 8vo. This work occupied upwards of ten years in preparation. Among his other publications may be enumerated, a volume of " Poems and Songs," printed in 1814 ; " The Peterhead Smugglers, an original Melodrama," published in 1834 ; " The Eglinton Tournament, &c.;" "Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads ;" and the "Wander- ings of Prince Charles Stuart and Miss Flora Macdonald," the latter being published from an old MS. At different periods Buchan resided in Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Glasgow. For a short period he owned the small property of Buchanstone, near Dennyloanhead, Stirlingshire, which being sold, he proceeded to Ireland in 1852, where he resided for some time at Strandhill, county of Leitrim. In the early part of 1S54, he went to London, with the view of effecting arrangements for the publication of another volume of " Ancient Scottish Ballads ; " he was there seized with illness, of which he died on the 19th September of the same year. His remains were interred in the beautiful cemetery of Norwood, near London. Mr Buchan was justly esteemed as an indus- trious collector of the elder Scottish minstrelsy. His labours received the special commendation of Sir Walter Scott, and he was a frequent guest at Abbotsford. He was also honoured with diplomas of membership from some of the leading literary societies of Scotland and England. 236 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THOU GLOOMY FEBERWAR.* THOTJ cauld gloomy Feberwar, Oh ! gin thou wert awa' ! I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' \vinds, I 'm wae to see thy snaw ; For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman, The lad I lo'e sae dear, Has vow'd to come and see me In the spring o' the year. A silken ban' he ga'e me To bin' my gowden hair ; A siller brooch and tartan plaid, A* for his sake to wear ; And oh ! my heart was like to break (For partin' sorrow's sair) As he vow'd to come and see me In the spring o' the year. Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky, I wander out alane, Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins, Around the trystin' stane ; 'Twas there he press'd me to his heart, And kiss'd awa' the tear, As he vow'd to come and see me In the spring o' the year. Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw, And deed anew the wuds ; Ye laverocks, lilt your cheerie sangs Amang the fleecy cluds ; Till Feberwar and a' his train, Affrighted disappear, I '11 hail wi' you the blythesome change, The spring-time o' the year. * The first stanza of this song is the composition of Robert TannahilL WILLIAM FINLAY, "WILLIAM FIXLAY was the son of an operative shawl manufacturer in Paisley, where he was born in 1792. He received a classical education at the Grammar-school, and was afterwards apprenticed to his father's trade. For a period of twenty years he prosecuted the labours of the loom ; but finding the occupation injurious to bis health, he accepted employment in the cotton mills of Duntocher. He afterwards obtained a situation in a printing-office in Paisley, where he remained during eight years. Ulti- mately, he was employed at Nethercraigs bleachfield, at the base of Gleniffer braes, about two miles to the south of Paisley. He died of fever on the 5th March 1847, leaving a family of five children. Finlay was in the practice of contributing verses to the local prints. In 1846, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled, " Poems, Humorous and Sentimental." His poetical characteristics are simplicity and pathos, combined with considerable power of satirical drollery. Delighting in music, and fond of society, he was occasionally led to indulge in excesses, of which, at other times, he was heartily ashamed, and which he has feelingly lamented in some of his poems. Few Scottish poets have more touchingly depicted the evils of intemperance. THE BREAKING HEART. I MARK'D her look of agony, I heard her broken sigh, I saw the colour leave her cheek, The lustre leave her eye ; I saw the radiant ray of hope Her sadden'd soul forsaking ; And, by these tokens, well I knew The maiden's heart was breaking. It is not from the hand of Heaven Her bitter grief proceeds ; 'Tis not for sins that she hath done, Her bosom inly bleeds ; 'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soul In shades of dark despair, But man deceitful man whose hand A thorn hath planted there. O'ER MOUNTAIN AXD VALLEY. O'ER mountain and valley Morn gladly did gleam ; The streamlets danced gaily Beneath its bright beam ; The daisies were springing To life at my feet ; The woodlands were ringing With melody sweet. But the sky became low 'ring, And clouds big with rain, Their treasures outpouring, Soon deluged the plain. The late merry woodlands Grew silent and lone : And red from the muirlands The river rush'd down. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 237 Thus life, too, is chequer' d With sunshine and gloom ; Of change 'tis the record Now blight and now bloom. Oft morn rises brightly, "With promise to last, But long, long ere noontide The sky is o'ercast. Yet much of the trouble 'Neath which mortals groan, They contrive to make double By whims of their own. Oh ! it makes the heart tingle With anguish to think, That our own hands oft mingle The bitters we drink. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART, the distinguished editor of the Quarterly Review, and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was born in the Manse of Cambusnethan, on the 12th of June 1794.* From both his parents he inherited an honourable descent. His father, John Lockhart, D.D., was the second son of William Lockhart of Birkhill, the head of an old family in Lanarkshire, lineally descended from Sir Stephen Lockhart of Cleghorn, a member of the Privy Council, and armour-bearer to James III. His mother was Elizabeth Gibson, daughter of the Rev. John Gibson, senior minister of St Cuthbert's, Edinburgh ; her maternal grandmother was the Honourable Mary Erskine, second daughter of Henry, third Lord Cardross, and sister of David, ninth Earl of Buchan. In 1796, Dr Lockhart was translated from Cambusnethan to the College church, Glasgow ; and the early education of his son was consequently con- ducted in that city. During the third year of his attendance at the Grammar-school, young Lockhart, though naturally possessed of a sound constitution, was seized Avith a severe illness, which, it was feared, might terminate in pulmonary consumption. After a period of physical prostration, he satisfactorily rallied, when it was found by his teacher that he had attained such proficiency in classical learning, during his confinement, as to be qualified for the University, without the usual attendance of a fourth session at the Grammar-school. At the University of Glasgow, his progress fully realised his excellent promise in the academy. The youngest member of his various classes, he was uniformly a successful competitor for honours. He gave indication of poetical ability in a metrical translation of a part of Lucan's " Pharsalia," which was rewarded with a prize, and received warm encomiums from the professors. On one of the Snell Exhibitions to Baliol College, Oxford, becoming vacant, during the session of 1808-9, it was unanimously conferred on him by the faculty. Entering Baliol College in 1809, his classical attainments were such, that Dr Jenkins, the master of the college, was led to predict that he would reflect honour on that institution, and on the Uni- versity of Glasgow. At his graduation, on the completion of his attendance at Baliol, he realised the expectations of his admiring preceptor ; the youngest of all who graduated on the occasion, being in his eighteenth year, he was numbered in the first class, an honour rarely attained by the most accomplished Oxonians. In the choice of a profession he evinced considerable hesitation ; but was at length induced by a relative, a member of the legal faculty, to qualify himself for practice at the Scottish Bar. Besides affording a suitable scope for his talents and acquirements, it was deemed that the Parliament House of Edinburgh had certain hereditary claims on his services. Through his paternal grandmother, he was descended from Sir James Lockhart of Lee, Lord Justice-Clerk in the reign of Charles II., and father of the celebrated Sir * "1704, John Gibson Lockhart, son of the Rev. Mr John Lockhart, minister of this parish, and Mrs Elizabeth Gibson, his spouse, was born on the i2th June." Cambusnetlian Register of Births. 238 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. George Lockhart of Carnwath, Lord President of the Court of Session ; and of another judge, Sir John Lockhart, Lord Castlehill. Having completed a curriculum of classical and philosophical study at Oxford, and made a tour on the Continent, Lockhart proceeded to Edinhurgh, to prosecute the study of Scottish law. In 1816 he passed advocate. Well-skilled in the details of legal knowledge, and in the preparation of written pleadings, he lacked a fluency of utterance, so entirely essential to success as a pleader at the Bar. He felt his de- ficiency, but did not strive to surmount it. Joining himself to a literary circle, of which John Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd were the more conspicuous members, he resolved to follow the career of a man of letters. In 1817, he became one of the original contributors to Blackwood's Magazine ; and by his learned and ingenious articles essentially promoted the early reputation of that subsequently popular periodi- cal. In 1819 appeared his first separate publication, entitled, " Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk," a work of three octavo volumes, in which an imaginary Doctor Morris humorously and pungently delineates the manners and characteristics of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the period ; and which, by exciting some angry criticism, attracted general attention to the real author.* In May of the previous year, at the residence in Edinburgh of Mr Home Drummond of Blair-Drummond, he was introduced to the personal acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. Their acquaintance ripened into a speedy intimacy ; and on the 29th April 1820, Lockhart became the son-in-law of his illustrious friend, by espousing his eldest daughter, Sophia. Con- tinuing to furnish sparkling contributions to Blackwood's Magazine, Lockhart now began to exhibit powers of prolific authorship. In the course of a few years he pro- duced " Valerius," a tale descriptive of ancient Rome ; " Reginald Dalton," a novel founded on his personal experiences at Oxford ; the interesting romance of " Matthew Wald," and "Adam Blair," a Scottish story. The last of these works, it may be interesting to notice, took origin in the following manner : During a visit to his parents at Glasgow, his father had incidentally mentioned, after dinner, that Mr Adam, a former minister of Cathcart, had been deprived for certain immoralities, and afterwards reponed, at the entreaty of his parishioners, on the death of the individual who had succeeded him after his deposition. On hearing the narrative, Lockhart retired to his apartment and drew up the plan of his tale, which was ready for the press within the short space of three weeks. In 1823, he became known as an elegant versifier, by the publication of his translations from the " Spanish Ballads." He sub- sequently published a " Life of Napoleon Bonaparte," in " Murray's Family Library;" and produced a " Life of Robert Burns," for "Constable's Miscellany." At this period he chiefly resided in Edinburgh, spending some of the summer months at Chiefswood, a cottage about two miles from Abbotsford. But Lockhart's growing reputation ere long secured him a more advantageous and lucrative position. In 1825, he was appointed to the editorship of the Quarterly Review; and thus, at the age of thirty-one, became the successor of Gifford, in conducting one of the most powerful literary organs of the age. He now removed to London. On the 15th of June 1834, the degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred on him by the University of Oxford. During the last illness of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart was eminently dutiful in his attendance on the illustrious sufferer. As the literary executor of the deceased, he was zealous even to indiscretion ; his " Life of Scott," notwithstanding its ill-judged personalities, is one of the most interesting biographical works in the language. His own latter history affords few materials for observation ; he frequented the higher literary circles of the metropolis, and well sustained the reputation of the Quarterly Review. He retired from his editorial duties in 1853, having suffered previously from * In his Life of Scott, Lockhart states that " Peter's Letters" "were not wholly the work of one hand." JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART. 239 impaired health. The progress of his malady was accelerated by a succession of family trials and bereavements, which preyed heavily on his mind. His eldest son, John Hugh Lockhart (the Hugh Littlejohn of Scott's "Tales of a Grandfather") died in 1831 ; his amiable wife in 1837 ; and of his two remaining children, a son and a daughter the former, Walter Scott Lockhart Scott, lieutenant 16th Lancers, who had succeeded to the estate of Abbotsford on the death of his uncle., the second Sir Walter Scott died in 1853. In 1847, his daughter and only surviving child was married to James Robert Hope, Esq., Q.C., son of General the Honourable Sir Alex- ander Hope, and nephew of the late Earl of Hopetoun, of Peninsular fame ; and shortly before her father's death, this lady, along with her husband, abjured the Pro- testant faith. In the autumn of 1853, in accordance with the advice of his medical advisers, Lockhart proceeded to Italy ; but on his return the following summer, he appeared rather to have lost than gained strength. Arranging his affairs in London, he took up his abode with his elder brother, Mr Lockhart, M.P., at Milton-Lockhart, on the banks of the Clyde, and in the parish adjoining that of his birth. Here he suffered an attack of cholera, which much debilitated his already wasted strength. In October he was visited by Dr now Sir William Fergusson of London, who conveyed him to Abbotsford to be tended by his daughter ; there he breathed his last on the 25th November 1854, in his 61st year. His remains were interred in Dryburgh Abbey, beside those of his illustrious father-in-law, with whom his name will continue to be associated. The estate of Abbotsford is now in the possession of Mr Hope Scott. His daughter, Mary Monica, is the only surviving lineal representative of the Author of " Waverley." Possessed of a vigorous intellect, varied talents, and accurate scholarship, Lockhart was impatient of contradiction, and was prone to censure keenly those who had offended him. To strangers his manners were somewhat uninviting, and in society he was liable to periods of taciturnity. He loved the ironical and facetious, and did not scruple to indulge in ridicule even at the expense of his intimate associates. Ardent in temperament, he was severe in resenting a real or fancied wrong ; but among those to whom he gave his confidence, he was found to be possessed of generous dispositions. He has complained, in a testamentary document, that he was often misunderstood, and the complaint is probably well-founded. He was personally of a handsome and agreeable presence, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence. BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND * TUNE "Oh, the roast beef of Old England." Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm on the sea, Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free, Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee. Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland! And oh ! the old Scottish broadswords. Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave, Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave, Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave. Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! And oh ! the old Scottish broadswords. * This song was composed by Lockhart, to be sung at the mess of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry, of which he was a member. Of the songs produced for these festive occasions, a collection for private circulation was printed in 1825, at the Ballantyne press, with the title, " Songs of the Edinburgh Troop," pp. 28. In this collection, the " Broad- swords" song bears date July 1821; it was published with music in 1822, ia the third volume of Thomson's Collection. 240 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Though he died not like him amid victory's roar, Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore ; Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. Oh, the broadswords, etc. Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim, We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name, The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham. All the broadswords, etc. Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of the north ; Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth. All the broadswords, etc. The highest in splendour, the humblest in place, Stand united in glory, as kindred in race ; For the private is brother in blood to his Grace. Oh, the broadswords, etc. Then sacred to each and to all let it be, Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free, Eight descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee. Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland ! And oh ! the old Scottish broadswords. CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.* TOUCH once more a sober measure, And let punch and tears be shed, For a prince of good old fellows, That, alack a-day ! is dead ; For a prince of worthy fellows, And a pretty man also, That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe. Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! * This humorous elegy was first published in Slack- wood's Magazine for September 1819. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow. The son of Dr David Paton, a physician in that city, he obtained a commission in a regiment raised in Scotland for the Dutch service. He afterwards resided with his two maiden sisters, and an old servant Nelly, in a tenement opposite the Old Exchange at the Cross, which had been left him by his father. The following graphic account of the Captain we transcribe from Dr Strang's " Glasgow and its Clubs:" "Every sunshine day, and sometimes even amid shower and storm, about the close of the past and the commencement of the present century, was the worthy Captain in the Dutch service seen parading the plainstanes, opposite his own residence in the Trongate, donned in a suit of snuff-coloured brown or 'genty drab,' his long spare limbs encased in blue striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, and sporting ruffles of the finest cambric at his wrists, while adown his back hung a long queue, and on his head was perched a small three-cocked hat, which, with a foli- His waistcoat, coat, and breeches Were all cut off the same web, Of a beautiful snuff-colour, Of a modest genty drab ; The blue stripe in his stocking Round his neat slim leg did go, And his ruffles of the cambric fine, They were whiter than the snow. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e 1 His hair was curled in order, At the rising of the sun, In comely rows and buckles smart, That about his ears did run ; And before there was a toupee, That some inches up did grow, And behind there was a long queue That did o'er his shoulders flow. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! And whenever we forgather'd, He took off his wee three-cockit, And he proffer'd you his snuff-box, Which he drew from his side-pocket ; And on Burdett or Bonaparte He would make a remark or so, And then along the plainstones Like a provost he would go. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e 1 In dirty days he picked well His footsteps with his rattan ; Oh ! you ne'er could see the least speck On the shoes of Captain Paton. And on entering the coffee-room About two, all men did know They would see him with his Courier In the middle of the row. Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! Now and then, upon a Sunday, He invited me to dine On a herring and a mutton chop, Which his maid dress'd very fine. tesse tout a fait Francais, he invariably took off when s.iluting a friend. Captain Paton, while a denizen of the camp, had studied well the noble art of fence, and was looked upon as a most accomplished swordsman, which might easily be discovered from his happy but threatening manner of holding his car.e, when sally- ing from his own domicile towards the coffee-room, which he usually entered about two o'clock, to study the news of the day in the pages of the Courier. The gallant Captain frequently indulged, like Othello, in speaking ' Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach.' and of his own brave doings on the tented field, ' at Minden and at Dettingen,' particularly when seated round a bowl of his favourite cold punch, made with limes from his own estate in Trinidad, and with water newly drawn from the Westport well." It remains to be added, that this "prince of worthy fellows" died in July 1807, at the age of sixty-eight. THOMAS MATHERS. 241 There was also a little Malmsey, And a bottle of Bordeaux, "\Vhich, between me and the captain, Pass'd nimbly to and fro ! Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e ! Or, if a bowl was mentioned, The captain he would ring, And bid Nelly run to the Westport, And a stoup of water bring. Then would he mix the genuine stuff, As they made it long ago, With limes that on his property In Trinidad did grow ! Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e ! And then all the time he would discourse So sensible and courteous, Perhaps talking of the last sermon He had heard from Dr Porteous ; Of some little bit of scandal About Mrs So-and-So, Which he scarce could credit, having heard The con. but not the pro. I Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! Or when the candles were brought forth, And the night was fairly setting in, He would tell some fine old stories About Minden-field or Dettingen ; How he fought with a French major, And dispatch'd him at a blow, While his blood ran out like water On the soft grass below ! Oh ! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e ! But at last the captain sickened, And grew worse from day to day, And all miss'd him in the coffee-room, From which now he staid away ; On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk Made a melancholy show, All for wanting of the presence Of our venerable beau ! Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! And in spite of all that Cleghorn And Corkindale could do, It was plain, from twenty symptoms That death was in his view ; So the captain made his test'ment, And submitted to his foe, And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk 'Tis the way we all must go ! Oh ! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! Join all in chorus, jolly boys, And let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of good old fellows That, alack-a-day ! is dead ; For this prince of worthy fellows And a pretty man also That has left the Saltmarket In sorrow, grief, and woe ! For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e ! THOMAS MATHERS, THOMAS MATHERS, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire, in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest branches, he chose the sea- faring life, and connected himself with the merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord Byron, a circumstance which he was in the habit of narrating with enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much alleviated, however, by the invoca- tion of the muse. He contributed verses for a series of years to several of the public journals ; and his compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the ambition of publishing a volume of poems ; and the desire at length was gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed a duo- decimo volume, entitled, " Musings in Verse, by Sea and Shore," which, however, had only been piit into shape when the author was called to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a song-writer, the following lyric, entitled " Early Love," is a favourable sp'ecimen. 242 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. EAKLY LOVE. THERE'S nae love like early love Sae lasting an' sae leal ; It wins upon the youthfu' heart, An' sets its magic seal. The die that's cast in early life, Is nae vain airy dream ; But makes thee still in after years The subject of my theme. But years o' shade an' sunshine Have flung alternately Their fleeting shadows as they pass'd Athwart life's changing sky. Like troubled waters, too, the mind 'S been ruffled an' distress'd ; But with the placid calm return'd Thine image to my breast. Still I ha'e seen a fairer face, Though fairer anes are few, An' I ha'e marked kinder smiles Than e'er I gat frae you. But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen, Leave not a trace behind ; While early love has forged chains The freest heart to bind. The mind from tyrant fetters Is free as air to rove ; But powerful are the links that chain The heart to early love. Affections, like the ivy In nature's leafy screen, Entwine the boughs o' early love Wi' foliage "ever green." DANIEL WEIR, DANIEL WEIR was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father, John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate constitution. His education was conducted at a private school ; and in 1809, he hecame apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own account. Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses. To the " Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith he contributed several respectable songs ; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of " The National Minstrel," " The Sacred Lyre," and " Lyrical Gems." These collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he published a " History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume, illustrated with engravings. He died on the llth November 1831, in his thirty-fifth year. Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational talents were of a re- markable description, and attracted to his shop many persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather mal-formed, he was under the middle size ; his head seemed large for his person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was dark, and his eyes hazel ; and when his countenance was lit up on the recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action, he was seriously impressed by religious principle ; some of his devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled " The Pleasures of Religion." DANIEL WEIR. 243 SEE THE MOON. SEE the moon o'er cloudless Jura Shining in the lake below ; See the distant mountain tow'ring Like a pyramid of snow. Scenes of grandeur scenes of childhood Scenes so dear to love and me ! Let us roam by bower and wildwood All is lovelier when with thee. On Leman's breast the winds are sighing ; All is silent in the grove ; And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning, Sparkle like the eye of love. Night so calni, so clear, so cloudless ; Blessed night to love and me ! Let us roam by bower and fountain All is lovelier when with thee. OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS. AIR "Oh! tlie days are past -when beauty bright." OH ! our childhood's once delightful hours Ne'er come again Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers, And primrose plain ! With other days, Ambitious rays May flash upon our mind ; But give me back the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined, As it sweetly broke on bower and hill, And youth's gay mind! Oh ! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot On life's dark sea, And memory hails that sacred spot Where'er we be ; It leaves all joys, And fondly sighs As youth comes on the mind, And looks upon the morn of life With fond thoughts twined, etc. When age will come, with locks of grey, To quench youth's spark, And its stream runs cold along the way Where all seems dark, 'Twill smiling gaze, As memory's blaze Breaks on its wavering mind ; But 'twill never bring the morn of life, With fond thoughts twined, etc. IN THE MORNING OF LIFE. IN the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest ; We may look on the -world as a gay fairy isle, Where sorrow's unknown, and the weary have rest ! But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy 'd, Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away ; While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide, Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray ! Then where are those bowers, in some gay happy plain, Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true ; Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain A sunshine as bright and as promising too ? Oh ! ask for it not in this valley of sighs, Where we smile ' but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest ; For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies, Where sorrow's unknown 'tis the home of the blest! ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD. OH! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved, Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on ; 'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is un- moved, And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone : Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs, Has fled like a dream when the morn appears ; While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies, No more to revisit this valley of tears : Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! Few, few were his years ; but, had they been more, The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away, And he might have fallen on some far friend- less shore, Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay : Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn, Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here; But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn, Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere : Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! 244 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er, Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes; Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more Can start on his dreams, or disturb his re- pose: Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! Who would not recline on the breast of a friend, When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day ? Who would not rejoice at his journey's end, When perils and toils encompass'd his way? Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest ! THE MIDNIGHT WIND. I'VE listen'd to the midnight wind, Which seem'd, to fancy's ear, The mournful music of the mind, The echo of a tear ; And still methought the hollow sound Which, melting, swept along, The voice of other days had found, With all the powers of song. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And thought of friends untrue Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined, That nought could e'er undo ; Of cherish'd hopes once fondly bright Of joys which fancy gave Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light Were darken'd in the grave. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind When all was still as death ; When nought was heard before, behind- Not e'en the sleeper's breath. And I have sat at such an hour And heard the sick man's sigh ; Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r, At that lone moment die. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And wept for others' woe ; Nor could the heart such music find To bid its tear-drops flow. The melting voice of one we loved, Whose voice was heard no more, Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved, Still breathing as before. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead, And felt those movingsx>f the mind Which own a secret dread. The ticking clock, which told the hour, Had then a sadder chime ; And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r, Which sung the dirge of time. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Its rudest blasts did rave. Oh ! there was something in the sound A mournful, melting tone Which led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone. I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. And even when slumber, soft and deep, Has seen the eyelid close, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, Has stray'd till morning rose. ROBERT DAVIDSON, ROBERT DAVIDSON was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had re- ceived at the parish school a limited education ; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distafl's, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through, life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. " My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, " oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, lie published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer ; " and to which was prefixed a well- written auto- biographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty ; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April PETER ROGER. 245 1855 ; and his remains rest in the churchyard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment. In private live he was sober, pru- dent, and industrious. FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA. AriEU ! a lang and last adieu, My native Caledonia! For while your shores were in my view, I steadfast gazed upon ye, ! Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold, Fit emblem of your sons of old, Whose valour, more than mines of gold, Has honour'd Caledonia. I think how happy I could be To live and die upon ye, ! Though distant many miles from thee, My heart still hovers o'er ye, ! My fancy haunts your mountains steep, Your forests fair, an' valleys deep, Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep To gladden Caledonia. Still mem'ry turns to where I spent Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonny, ! Though by misfortune from it rent, It's dearer still than ony, ! In vain I 'm told our vessel hies To fertile fields an' kindly skies ; But still they want the charm that ties My heart to Caledonia. My breast had early learned to glow At name of Caledonia ; Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe, She never bow'd to ony, ! A land of heroes, famed an' brave A land our fathers bled to save, Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave Adieu to Caledonia ! PETER ROGER, PETER ROGER, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the pre- paration of this volume. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792. For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he purchased a small cottage. He died at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied by the Rev. James Murray, minister of Cumnock : "Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man. He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excel- lent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting ; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one pos- sessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired ; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes' crack with his ' friend Peter, ' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds Dr Craig, for example ; or Mr Thomas Smibert ; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud whose appear- ance would be the welcome signal for the ' tinkling ' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them ' to stand before kings. ' ' ' My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood ; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm- hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister 246 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts for he was a man of some sub- stance, and hospitable withal you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour to Picus himself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. The in-door entertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain ; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air and he could sing well ; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad. " Peter was altogether one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud." LOVELY JEAN. AIR "Miss Forbes' Farewell" 'HANG a' the lasses young an' braw, An' fair as summer's rosy beam, There 's ane the bonniest o' them a' That dwells by Manor's mountain stream. Oft ha'e I gazed on her sweet face, An' ilka time new beauties seen ; For aye some new discover'd grace Endears to me my lovely Jean. An* oh! to list her ev'ning sang, When a' alane she gently strays Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear, Afar in yonder bower sae green, The mavis quits her lay to hear A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean. But it's no her peerless face nor form, It's no her voice sae sweet and clear, That keeps my love to her sae warm, An' mak's her every day mair dear ; It's just the beauties o' her mind, Her easy, winning, modest mien, The yellow waving broom amang, Her truth and constancy, which bind That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes , My heart and soul to lovely Jean. JOHN MALCOLM, JOHN MALCOLM was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795. Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (after- wards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign. Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed to Constable's Magazine and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal. In 1828, he published " Scenes of War, and other Poems ;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from his pen, under the title of " Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of the Edinburgh Observer newspaper, which he ERSKINE CO NOLLY. 247 held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835. Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification. THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT. THE music of the night, Upon its lonely flight Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands ; That muffled music seems Like voices heard in dreams, Sigh'd back from long-lost years a,nd distant lands. Amid the stillness round, As 'twere the shade of sound, Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones ; Such as from trembling wire Of sweet ^Eolian lyre, "With winds awake in murmurs and in moans. Oh ! melting on the ear, What solemn chords are there ! The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh ; And thine, majestic main ! Great Nature's organ strain, Deep pealing through the temple of the sky. And songs unsung by day The nightingale's lone lay, From lady's bower, the lover's serenade ; And dirge of hermit-bird From haunts of ruin heard, The only voice that wails above the dead. To them that sail the deep, When winds have sunk to sleep, The dreamy murmurs of the night, steal on ; Say, does their mystic hum, So vague and varied, come From distant shores unseen, and lands un- known? In them might fancy's ear Earth's dying echoes hear, Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods ; Or song of festal halls, Or sound of waterfalls, Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods. Joy breathes in morning song, And happy things among Her choral bowers wake matins of delight ; But dearer unto me The dirge-like harmony Of vesper voices, and of wailing night. THE SEA. THE sea the deep, deep sea That awful mystery ! Was there a time of old ere it was born, Or e'er the dawn of light, Coeval with the night Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn? Till the Great Spirit's word Its sullen waters heard, And their wild voices, through the void pro- found, Gave deep responsive roar ; But silent nevermore Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound ! Earth's echoes faint and die ; Sunk down into a sigh, Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way ; And desert silence reigns Upon the mighty plains Where battles' thunders peal'd and where are they? But still from age to age Upon its pilgrimage, When many a glorious strain the world hath flown; And while her echoes sleep In darkness, the great deep, Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on. ERSKINE CONOLLY, ERSKINE CONOLLY was born at Grail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh ; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, 248 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messen- ger in Edinburgh ; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dis- positions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His song of " Mary Macneil," appeared in the Edinburgh Intelligencer of the 23d December 1840 ; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness. MARY MACNEIL. AIR " Kinloch of Kinloch." THE last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel ; An' thousands o' stars in tlie heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil. A* glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover, Her een tellin' secrets she thought to con- ceal, And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover The tryst o' young Eonald an' Mary Macneil. Oh ! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily That dew-draps o' morniu' in fragrance reveal ; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her ; She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill ; She sang, and the mavis cam'listenin'in wonder, To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil. But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal ; An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in', Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal. The simmer saw Eonald on glory's path hiein' ; The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel'; The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyiu' ; An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil. GEORGE MENZIES. GEORGE MENZIES was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts ; acted some time as clerk to the contrac- tors of the Forth and Clyde Canal ; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine ; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connection with a succession of public journals. He iilti- mately became proprietor and editor of the Woodstock Herald newspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty- first year. Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he pub- lished, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled, " Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854. JOHN SIM. 249 FARE THEE WEEL. FARE thee weel, my bonnie lassie ; Fare tliee weel for ever, Jessie ! Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I '11 forget thee. By yon starry heavens I vow it ! By my love! (I mayna rue it) By this hour in which we sever ! I will love but thee for ever. Should the hand of death arrest me, Think my latest prayer hath blest thee ; As the parting pang draws nearer, I will love thee aye the dearer. Still my bosom's love I '11 cherish 'Tis a spark that winna perish ; Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that 1 '11 forget thee. THE BKAES OF AUCH1NBLAE. As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, As gay the grove, the vale as green ; But, oh ! the days that we have seen Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary ! Oh ! we have often fondly stray'd In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade, And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary. Since then, full many a year and day "With me have slowly pass'd away, Far from the braes of Auchinblae, And far from love and thee, Mary ! And we must part again, my dear, It is not mine to linger here ; Yes, we must part and, oh ! I fear, We meet not here again, Mary ! For on Culloden's bloody field, Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd Last night to me it was reveal'd Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary ! And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine Upon the heights of Galloquhine, A thousand victims at the shrine Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary ! Hark! hark ! they come thefoemen come I go ; but wheresoe'er I roam, "With thee my heart remains at home. Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary ! JOHN SIM. JOHN SIM was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlisle & Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in classical learning ; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as a surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire ; but he removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown. Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the " Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweet- ness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment. XAE MAIR WE'LL MEET. AIR" We'll meet beside the dusky glen." mair we '11 meet again, my love, by yon burn side Nae mair we'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side Ne'er again the mavis' lay will we hail at close o' day, Nor ne'er again we'll stray, down by yon burn side. Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn iside, O'er haunts which we sae saft ha'e trod, by yon burn side ; Still the walk wi' me thou'lt share, though thy foot can never mair Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side. 250 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side, Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side ; And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow, Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side. BONNIE PEGGY.* AIR "Bonnie lassie, O!" OH, we aft ha'e met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, ! On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, ! Where the waters smoothly rin, Far aneath the roarin* linn, * This song is much in the strain of the popular song of " Kelvin Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously ascribed to Sim. It was con- tributed to the " Harp of Renfrewshire," then under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and pro- fessional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter from him, attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work, Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song by the poet Mother- well, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to the original editor those songs which ap- peared anonymously in the earlier portion of the volume. The sons being afterwards published with music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See Memoir of Mr Lyle, f>ostea.~) Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, ! When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, ! In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, ! And a sky of azure blue, Deck'd with stars of golden hue, Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, ! When the sound of flute or horn, bounie Peggy, ! On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, ! We have heard in echoes die, While the wave that rippled by Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, ! Than how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, ! Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, 0! Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast, To my beating heart I press'd, Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, ! Now, alas ! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, 0! Now, alas ! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, ! Oh ! never again, I ween, Will we meet at summer e'en On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, ! Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, ! As I still ha'e been to thee, bonnie Peggy, ! Then with bosom, oh, how light, Had I hail'd the coming night, And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, 0! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797.* For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Janet Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a consider- able fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh ; but was soon after placed at the Grammar- school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view ef obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of SherifF-clerk-depute of the county of Kenfrew. " I3th Oct. 1797, William Motherwell, merchant, and Janet Barnet, a lawful son, William." Glasgow Register of Births. WILLIAM MO THER WELL. 25 1 From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to read- ing and composition. He evinced poetical talent as early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of " Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock ; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the " Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of a quarto volume, entitled " Minstrelsy, Ancient ,and Modern," a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly corres- pondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the Paisley Magazine, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of the Paisley Advertiser, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the Glasgow Courier a more influential journal in the same political interests. On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. To Tlie Day, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches ; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson. Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of " Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' "Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow ; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died on the 1st of November 1835, at the age of thirty -eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monu- ment, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory. Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse ; his cheek-bones were promi- nent, and his eyes small, siink in his head, and surmounted by thick eyelashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable ; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published in Glasgow soon after his death. WEAKIE'S WELL. IK a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met, By Wearie's cauld well. "\Ve sat on the broom bank, And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And $ie wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky ; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour. We heard and we saw nought, Above or around ; We felt that our hive lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on j'our sweet face Till tears fill'd my ee, And they drapt on your wee loof A warld's wealth to me. Now the winter snaw's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the cauld wind is strippin' Ilk leaf aff the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart. You Ve waled out anither Your bridegroom to be ; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee? Ye '11 get biggings and mailing, And mony braw claes ; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days. Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last ; May thy joys be to come Mine live in the past. In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me ; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee! JEANIE MORRISON.* I 'VE wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way, But never, never can forget The love o' life's young day 1 * The heroine of this song. Miss Jane Morrison, after- wards Mrs Murdoch, was daughter of Mr Ebenezer Morrison, brewer in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months occupied the same class- room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which she had excited m the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as " a pretty girl, and of good capacity." " Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression ; her temper was mild, and her manners unassuming " In 1823, Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, com- mission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1829. She never met the poet in after-life, and the ballad of "Jeanie Morrison had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygone years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears ; They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears ; And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blythe blinks o' langsyne. 'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time sad time ! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Eemember'd evermair. 1 wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said We cleek'd thegether hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skailt at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes The broomy braes o' June ? My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thoughts rush back 0' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life ! oh, mornin' luve ! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang ! Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, " Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegether sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. DA VID MACBETH MOIR. 253 Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time, "When hearts were fresh and young, "When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled unsung ! I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I ha'e been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye ha'e been to me ! Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine heart, as it does mine ; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? I 've wander 'd east, I Ve wander'd west, I 've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way, And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 0' bygane days and me ! WAE BE TO THE ORDEES. OH ! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa', Oh ! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie. For they ha'e ta'eii my luve, and left a broken heart to me. The drums beat in the morn in', afore the screich o' day, And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie. Oh ! lang, lang is travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh ! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' snaw drift in the teeth ! And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my ee, "When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie. I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in ; But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie, And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me. I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring ; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three. My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be ; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my ee, Oh! they ha'e nae winsome love like mine in the wars o' Germanie. DAVID MACBETH MOIR, DAVID MACBETH MOIR was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical prac- tice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the Clieap Magazine, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem entitled " The Bombard- ment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. Soon after the establishment of BlacJcu-ood's Magazine, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors ; and his 254 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary nom de guerre, the Greek letter Delta (A), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the title of " Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." " The Autobiography of Mansie "Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chapters to Blackwood, and after- wards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his " Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled, " Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera ;" and a further publication, with the title, " Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled " Domestic verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philo- sophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the " Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of some- what impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching ; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratifi- cation of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable droller}' in the adventures of " Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple ; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utter- ance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829 ; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Black- wood, under the editorial superintendence of Mr Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir. HEIGH-HO ! A PRETTY young maiden sat on the grass Sing heigh-lio! sing heigh-ho ! And by a blythe yonng shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, " My lass will you go with me, My cot to keep, and my bride to be ; Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely?" " ! no, no, no !" the maiden said Sing heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! And bashfully turn'd aside her head, The shepherd took her lily-white hand Sing heigh-ho ! sing high-ho ! And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave Alone in her frail old age to grieve ; But my home can hold us all, believe Will that not please thee fairly?" "0! no, no, no! I am all too yonng" Sing heigh-ho ! sing heigh-ho ! " I dare not list to a young man's tongue On that summer morning so early. On a summer morning so early." " My mother is old, my mother is frail, But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent; Our cottage it lies in yon green dale ; Oft she strove to go, but she never went ; I dare not list to any such tale, And at length she fondly blush'd consent For I love my kind mother rarely. " Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly. ROBERT FRASER. 255 FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND. FAREWELL, our fathers' land, Valley and fountain ! Farewell, old Scotland's strand, Forest and mountain ! Then hush the drum and hush the flute, And be the stirring bagpipe mute Such sounds may not with sorrow suit And fare thee well, Lochaber ! This plume and plaid no more will see, Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee, Nor even the broadswords which Dundee Bade flash at Killiecrankie. Farewell, our fathers' land, etc. Now when of yore, on bank and brae, Our loyal clansmen marshal!' d gay ; Far downward scowls Ben Nevis grey, On sheep-walks spreading lonely. Farewell, our fathers' land, etc. For now we cross the stormy sea, Ah ! never more to look on thee, Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free, From Etive glens to llorven. Farewell, our fathers' land, etc. Thy mountain air no more we '11 breathe ; The household sword shall eat the sheath, While rave the wild winds o'er the heath Where our grey sires are sleeping. Then farewell, our fathers' land, etc. ROBERT FRASER, EGBERT FRASER was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the 24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was pros- perous in merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed both in prose and verse to the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and other periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the Fife Herald newspaper, when he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His " Poetical Remains," with a memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable power. OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL. OH, I lo'ed my lassie weel, How weel I canna tell ; Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd, Lang ere I wist mysel'. At the school amang the lave, If I wrestled or I ran, I cared na' for the prize, If she saw me when I wan. Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, When thae gleesome days were gane ; 'Slang a' the bonnie an' the gude, To match her saw I nane. Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam', Wi' its cumber an' its toil, My day -tide dool was a' forgot, In her blythe e'enin' smile. Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain ; An' though mony cam' to woo, Wha to win her wad been fain, Yet to me she aye was true. She grat wi' very joy When our waddin' day was set ; An' though twal' gude years sinsyne ha'e fled, She's my darling lassie yet. 256 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JAMES HISLOP, JAMES HISLOP, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798. Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety and worth, he taught himself to read. "When little more than a child, be became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his birthplace. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling, which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he became a shepherd, and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II. and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of poetry ; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of " The Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of in- discriminate reading, he now followed a system of regular study ; and ere his twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble pastoral associates ; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to the Edinburgh Magazine, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been interested by his poetry. The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed " The Cameronian's Dream," which appearing in the Edinburgh Magazine for February 1821, attracted much atten- tion. He now commenced teaching in Edinburgh ; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to mental improvement ; and on his return from a three years' cruise along the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the Edinburgh Magazine, a series of papers, under the title of " Letters from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In 1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaint- ance of Allan Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and other literary celebrities. For some time, he reported to one of the London newspapers ; but this employment proving uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London an ollice which, at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of school-master on board the "Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands, Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the island of St Jago. Sleep- ing a night on shore, they were all seized with fever, which, in the case of six of the JAMES HI SLOP. 257 party, including poor Hislop, proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year. Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character, Hislop was much beloved ; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of " The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of his country. THE CAMEROXIAX'S DREAM. Ix a dream of the night, I was wafted away To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green. Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood, And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying. 'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast ; On "\Vardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue. And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud The song of the lark was melodious and loud ; And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep. Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep. And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness ; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning. But ah ! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow. 'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying ; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering. Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd, But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed ; With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of sal- vation. The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing ; But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter, As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter. Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded ; Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending. The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling, As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling. When the righteous had fallen, and the com- bat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended : Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness. A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining ; And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of sal- vation. On the arch ef the rainbow the chariot is gliding ; Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding ; Glide swiftly, bright spirits ! the prize is before ye A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory ! 258 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ROBERT GILFILLAN, A RESPECTABLE contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan was born at Dunfennline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble circumstances ; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith ; and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native town. From his twenty- third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the office of collector of poor's rates in Leith, and continued to hold this appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December 1850, in his fifty-second year. A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed through two editions ; and several of his songs have been set to music, and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for graceful simplicity. MANOR BRAES. TUNE "Logan Water." WHERE Manor stream rins blythe an' clear, And Castlehill's white wa's appear, I spent ae day, aboon a' days, By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. The purple heath was just in bloom, And bonnie waved the upland broom, The flocks on flowery braes lay still, Or, heedless, wander'd at their wilL 'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose, Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, I met a maiden fair to see, Wi' modest look and bashfu' ee : Her beauty to the mind did bring A morn where summer blends wi' spring, So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 'Twas bliss to look to linger there! Ilk word cam' frae her bosom warm, Wi' love to win and sense to charm, So much of nature, nought of art, She'll live enthroned within my heart! Aboon her head the laverock sang, And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang ; Oh ! let me dwell, where beauty strays, By Manor stream an' Manor braes. I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair Knew aught of love, wi' a* its care? She said her heart frae love was free, But aye she blush 'd wi' downcast ee. The parting cam' as partings come, Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb ; Yet I '11 return, ere many days, To live an' love 'mang Manor braes. FARE THEE WELL. TUNE " Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch." FARE THEE WELL, for I must leave thee ; But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee ; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine believe me ! We part but by those dew-drops clear, My love for thee will last for ever ; I leave thee but thy image dear, Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. Fare thee well, etc. Oh ! dry those pearly tears that flow One farewell smile before we sever ; The only balm for parting woe Is fondly hope 'tis not for ever. Fare thee well, etc. Though dark and dreary lowers the night, Calm and serene may be the morrow ; The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright Without some mingling drops of sorrow ! Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee ; Happier days may yet be mine, At least 1 wish them thine believe me ! THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew ; It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne 'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone. ROBERT GILFILLAN. 259 Oh ! why, lovely stranger ! thus early in bloom, Art thou here to assure us that summer is come? The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, But tidings of summer the young roses bring. Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon), Was't the lark of the morning that woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky, The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie. Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er would'st decay, But, alas ! soon thou 'It perish and wither away; And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair Yet I '11 mourn, lonely rosebud ! when thou art not there. THE EXILE'S SOXG. TUNE " My ain countrie" OH ! why left I my hame, Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea ; But I canna get a blink 0' my ain countrie ! The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings ; But I dinna see the broom "Wi" its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang 0' my ain countrie ! Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Xor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn ; For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie, But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie ! There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain ; But the first joys o' our youth Come never back again ! There's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie ! THE HAPPY DAYS 0' YOUTH. OH ! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky ; An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw, "When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'? They said that wisdom cam' wi' manhood's riper years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears; Oh ! I 'd gi'e a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine, For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne. I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, For the blythe happy days that never can return; When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue, An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young. Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet, Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet ; The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree. Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain There was owre meikle joy and owre little pain ; Sae fareweel, happy days ! an'fareweel, youthfu' glee! The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me. 'TIS SAIR TO DREAM. 'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sail never see ; Yet oh ! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me ! I thought we sat beside the burn That wimples down the flowery glen, Where, in our early days o' love, We met that ne'er sail meet again. The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave, And gladden'd wi' his parting ray The woodland wild and valley green, Fast fading into gloamin' grey. He talk'd of days o' future joy, And yet my heart was haflins sair ; For when his eye it beam'd on me, A withering death-like glance was there ! I thought him dead, and then I thought That life was young and love was free ; For o'er our heads the mavis sang, And hameward hied the janty bee ! We pledged our love and plighted troth, But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave ; When, starting from my dream, I found His troth was plighted to the grave ! 260 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. I canna weep, for hope is fled, And nought would do but silent mourn, "Were't no for dreams that should na come, To whisper back my love's return. "Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sail never see ; Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me ! THE BONNIE BRAES OF SCOTLAND. ! the bonnie braes of Scotland, Ny blessings on them a', May peace be found in ilka cot And joy in ilka ha ! Whaure'er a beild, however laigh, By burn or brae appears, Be there the gladsome smile o' youth, And dignity of years. ! the bonnie braes of Scotland Sae blooming and sae fair, There's mony a hame o' kindness And couthie dwallin' there ; And mair o' warldly happiness Than folk wad seem to ken, For the leal and happy heart Mak's the canty but and ben. ! wha wad grasp at fame or power, Or walth seek to obtain, Be't 'mang the busy scenes o' life, Or on the stormy main ; When the shepherd on his hill, Or the peasant at his plew, Finds sic a share o' happiness Wi' unco sma' ado ? The wind may whistle loud and cauld, And sleety blasts may blaw, Or swirlin' round in whitening wreathes, May drift the wintry snaw : But the gloamin' star comes blinkin" Afdre he maist does ken, And his wine's cheerfu' smile Maks the canty but and ben. ! the bonnie braes of Scotland To my remembrance bring The lang, lang simmer sunny day, When life was in its spring ; When, 'mang the wild flowers wandering, The happy hours went by, The future wakening no a fear, Nor yet the past a sigh. ! the bonnie braes of Scotland, Hame o' the fair and free, And hame it is a kindly word, Whaure'er that hame may be ; My weary steps I'd fain retrace Back to the sunny days, When youthfu' hearts together joy'd 'Mang Scotland's bonuie braes. THE MAID OF ALLAN. AIR "Gala. Wafer." FAIR was the morn, an' clear the sky, On every flower the dew had fallen, While I, to join in summer's joy, Stray'd by the bonnie Brig of Allan ; And there, in beauty's artless guise, A maiden fair did blooming wander, Pure as the morning light that lies On Allan stream o' sunny splendour. The saft winds breathed amang the woods, Whaur ne'er a leaf was scared or fallen ; The sun flung gowd adown the cluds, To please the bonnie maid of Allan. Sweet bloom'd the flowers in simmer bowers, While birdies, in their leafy dwallin', Together sang, an' echoes rang For joy around the maid of Allan. How sweet the voice of wakening spring On bud an' blossom fondly callin' ! But nature lists when she does sing, For nane sing like the maid of Allan. I canna boast of fortune's smile, For aft her frown has on me fallen, Yet walth could ne'er my care beguile Like her, the bonnie maid of Allan. ! for a cot by Allan's stream, Wi' her whose love could banish sorrow, Then days would glide in blissfu' dream ! Wi' ne'er a dread of coming morrow. 1 've wander'd far by burn an' brae, Through mony a Highland glen an Lawlan' ; But had I her that I wad ha'e, 'Twould be the bonnie maid of Allan. BONNIE PEGGIE GORDON. TUNE " Highland Harry back again." Now simmer walks in robes o' green, On ilka flowery bank she's seen, Then come, my love, thou'rt simmer's queen, Bonuie Peggie Gordon. We'll wander where the primrose springs, Where the rose-bud dewy hings, Where the burnie murmuring sings, ' ' Bonnie Peggie Gordon ! " I '11 lead thee down yon sunny lea, Where the scented hawthorn tree Sheds its fragrant sweets for thee, Bonnie Peggie Gordon. The bee has left its foggy den, An' comes 0! weel its notes I ken Saft humming frae the moorland glen, " Bonnie Peggie Gordon ! " 0, saft's the burnie's rocky fa', An' saft's the winds that owre it blaw, But love has tales mair saft than a', Bonnie Peggie Gordon. MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS. 2G1 The flowery earth, the sunny sky, May please the sense, may charm the eye, But, to my heart, nought gives sic joy As bonnie Peggie Gordon. Down yon birken shaw amang, Where the blackbird wakes his sang, There, my fairest, wilt thou gang ? Bonnie Peggie Gordon. There I '11 woo thee, seen by nane, Gaze on thy fair charms alane, Forgetting a' this warld o' pain In bonnie Peggie Gordon. 0! TAKE ME TO YON SUNNT ISLE. TUNE " Gramachree. " ! take me to yon sunny isle That stands in Fortha's sea, For there, all lonely, I may weep, Since tears my lot must be. The caver n'd rocks alone shall hear My anguish and my woe, But can their echoes Mary bring? Ah ! no, no, no ! I '11 wander by the silent shore, Or climb the rocky steep, And list to ocean murmuring The music of the deep ; But when the soft moon lights the waves In evening's silver glow, Shall Mary meet me 'neath its light ? Ah ! no, no, no ! I '11 speak of her to every flower And lovely flowers are there ; They'll maybe bow their heads and weep, For she, like them, was fair. And every bird I '11 teach a song, A plaintive song of woe ; But Mary cannot hear their strains ? Ah! no, no, no! Slow steals the sun adown the sky, As loath to part with day, But airy morn, with carolling voice, Shall wake him forth as gay ; Yet Mary's sun rose bright and fair, And now that sun is low : Shall its fair beam e'er grace the morn? Ah ! no, no, no ! But I must shed the hidden tear, Lest Mary mark my care : The stifling groan may break my heart, But it shall linger there ! I'll even feign the outward smile, To hide my inward woe : I would not have her weep in heaven? Ah! no, no, no! HURRAH FOR THE LAND OF THE BRAVE! THE glory of England shall rise, As riseth the sun o'er the wave, In the temple of Fame they shall echo her name Hurrah for the land of the brave ! Here freedom hath gladdened the soil That never was trod by a slave, And beauty's fair smile gives a charm to the isle Hurrah for the land of the brave ! Tread light where our battle-fields lie, Each spot is a warrior's grave ; Their bold deeds we'll tell, while the chorus shall swell Hurrah for the land of the brave ! Old ocean encircles the free, And liberty's banner shall wave In pride o'er the main, while the harp sounds the strain Hurrah for the land of the brave ! MRS MARGARET M, INGLIS, THE writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis, was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner, who latterly accepted a small Government situation in the town of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October 1774. and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her family in Dumfries ; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of 262 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. composition both in prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, entitled " Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy. Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society ; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information, and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. She left some MSS. of poems and songs, which are now in the possession of the editor of this work. SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.* AIR "Banks of the Devon." SWEET bard of Ettrick's glen ! Where art thou wandering ? Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea. Why round yon craggy rocks Wander thy heedless flocks, While Iambics are list'ning and bleating for thee? Cold as the mountain stream, Pale as the moonlight beam, Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine ee, Wild may the tempest's wave Sweep o'er thy lonely grave; Thou art deaf to the storm it is harmless to thee. Like a meteor's brief light, Like the breath of the morning, Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by; Till thy soft numbers stealing O'er mem'ry's warm feeling, Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh. Sweet was thy melody, Rich as the rose's dye, Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee ; Love laugh'd on golden wing, Pleasure's hand touch'd the string, All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee. Cold on Benlomond's brow Flickers the drifted snow, While down its sides the wild cataracts foam ; Winter's mad winds may sweep Fierce o'er each glen and steep, Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home. And when on dewy wing Comes the sweet bird of spring, Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree ; The Bird of the Wilderness, Low in the waving grass, Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee. * This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death. CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE. AIR" Tullymet" LET Highland lads, wi' belted plaids, And bonnets blue and white cockades, Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades, And conquest fell begin ; And let the word be Scotland's heir : And when their swords can do nae mair, Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie. Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather ; Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie, Draw yer dirk and rin. Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light, And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might, And Murray Botliwell's gallant knight, And Ruthven light and trim Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack Laid Cressingham upon his back, Garr'd Edward gather up his pack, And ply his spurs and rin, laddie. Charlie's bonnet's down, etc. YOUNG JAMIE.* AIR " Drummond Castle." LEAFLESS and bare were the shrub and the flower, Cauld was the drift that blew over yon moun- tain, But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour, Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e. saft is the tint o" the gowan sae bonny, The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony, But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue ee, And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie. Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie, Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean, Rougli rows the wave on whose bosom I see The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me. * Here first printed. JAMES KING. 263 Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary, And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary, And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree, Ere I see the blythe blink o' his bonnie blue ee. Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn, Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin, He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see ; Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me. Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow, And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow; Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see, But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE? HEARD ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie ; Saw ye the broadswords, the shields, and the tartan hose, Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie? Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid. Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie ; Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clan- donachil, Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie? Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up, Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely ; Saw ye the chiefs o' Lochiel and Clanronald, Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie? But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Cul- loden, Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly; Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing, That mourn 'd for the chieftains that fell lor Prince Charlie. Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless, Pillows his head on the heather sae barely ; Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light, Borne down by lawless might gallant Prince Charlie? Wha, like the stricken deer, Chased by the hunter's spear, Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly ; Biit wha, by affection's chart, reins in auld Scotland's heart Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie? JAMES KING, JAMES KING was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes. Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight, required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books ; he early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to the loom at Paisley, where he con- tinued till 1803, when he became a recruit in the Eenfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and Londpn, and subsequently to Leith, the French prisoners' depot at Penicuick, and the Castle of Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended bim to some attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several others of the poets of the capital. Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge, fearing the vengeance of the adjutant who was hostile to him, contrived to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of Gal- loway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when, on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the charge preferred against him, and 264 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. granted his discharge. He now settled as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 28th September 1849, in his seventy-third year. Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his own. His mind was of fine devotional cast, and his poetical compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and sentiment. THE LAKE IS AT REST. THE lake is at rest, love, The sun's on its breast, love, How bright is its water, how pleasant to see ; Its verdant banks showing The richest flowers blowing, A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee ! Then, fairest maiden ! When earth is array 'd in The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea, Let me still delight in The glories that brighten, For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee. But, Anna, why redden? I would not, fair maiden, My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray; The traitor, the demon, That could deceive woman, His soul's all unfit for the glories of day. Believe me then, fairest, To me thou art dearest ; And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree, With flower blooming mountains, And crystalline fountains, I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee. LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW. AIR "Scotfs Boat Song-." No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley, Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell, Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily, That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale. At length from the hill I heard, Plaintively wild, a bard, Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow ; "Remember what Morard says, Morard of many days, Life's like the dew on the hUl of the roe. " Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain, Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing ; Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain, Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing. Hard are the laws that bind Poor foolish man and blind ; But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow, Thy cheek's with health's roses spread, Till time clothes with snow thy head, Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe. " Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary, Shun vice 's paths in the days of thy bloom ; Innocence leads to the summit of glory, Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb. The tyrant, whose hands are red, Trembles alone in bed ; But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow, No horror fiends haunt his rest, Hope fills his placid breast, Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe. " Ceased the soft voice, for grey mist was de- scending, Slow rose the bard, and retired from the hill, The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending, Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill ; Yet still from the hoary bard, Methought the sweet song I heard, Slix'd with instruction and blended with woe ; And oft as I pass along, Chimes in mine ear his sonp, " Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe." ISOBEL PAGAN, THE author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical notice. She wag born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, in 1743, and assumed her mother's family name. Possessing only an imperfect education, she was led into a course of irrcgu- JOHN MITCHELL. 265 larities which an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a mode of sub- sistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on the third November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave. CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.* CA' the yowes to the knowes, Ca' them where the heather grows, Ca' them where the burnie rows, My bonnie dearie. As I gaed down the water side, There I met my shepherd lad ; He row'd me sweetly in his plaid, An' he ca'd me his dearie. ' ' Will ye gang down the water side, And see the waves sae sweetly glide Beneath the hazels spreading wide ? The moon it shines ru' clearly. ' ' Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet, Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet, And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep, And ye shall be my dearie. " "If ye '11 but stand to what ye've said, I 'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad, And ye may row me in your plaid, And 1 shall be your dearie." " While water wimples to the sea, While day blinks in the lift sae hie, Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee, Ye shall be my dearie." * Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original chorus being retained. Burns' version timences "Hark the mavis' evening sang." JOHN MITCHELL. JOHN MITCHELL, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August 1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour of shoemaking he re- lieved by the composition of verses. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840 by " The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter being dedi- cated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1848, he produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the " Philosophy of Witchcraft," a work which, published by Messrs Oliver & Boyd, was well received. His next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, " One Hundred Original Songs." His last work, " My Grey Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs," was published in 1852. Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and with occasional power. His songs, which we have selected for the present work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. His manners were eccentric, and he was not uncon- scious of his poetical endowments. BEAUTY. WHAT wakes the Poet's lyre? 'Tis Beauty; What kindles his poetic fire? 'Tis Beauty ; What makes him seek, at evening's hour, The lonely glen, the leafy bower, When dew hangs on each little flower Oh ! it ia Beauty. 266 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. What melts the soldier's soul? 'Tis Beauty ; What can his love of fame control ? 'Tis Beauty ; For oft, amid the battle's rage, Some lovely vision will engage His thoughts, and war's rough ills assuage ; Such power has Beauty. What tames the savage mood ! 'Tis Beauty ; What gives a polish to the rude ? 'Tis Beauty ; What gives the peasant's lowly state A charm which wealth cannot create, And on the good alone will wait? Tis faithful Beauty. Then let our favourite toast Be Beauty; Is it not king and peasant's boast ? Yes, Beaiaty; Then let us guard with tender care The gentle, th' inspiring fair, And Love will a diviner air Impart to Beauty. OH ! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME. OH ! waft me to the fairy clime Where Fancy loves to roam, Where Hope is ever in her prime, And Friendship has a home ; There will I wander by the streams Where Song and Dance combine, Around my rosy waking dreams Ecstatic joys to twine. On Music's swell my thoughts will soar Above created things, And revel on the boundless shore Of rapt imaginings. The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken My fancy will explore, And seek, far from the haunts of men, The Poet's mystic lore. Love will add gladness to the scene, And strew my path with flowers ; And Joy with Innocence will lean Amid my rosy bowers. Then waft me to the fairy clime Where Fancy loves to roam, Where Hope is ever in her prime, And Friendship has a home. THE LOYE-SICK MAID. THE love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, Ah ! who will bring comfort to the love-sick maid? Can the doctor cure her woe When she will not let him know Why the tears incessant flow From the love-sick maid ? The flaunting day, the flaunting day, She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day ! For she sits and pines alone, And will comfort take from none ; Nay, the very colour's gone From the love-sick maid. The secret's out, the secret's out, A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out ! For she finds at e'ening's hour, In a rosy woodland bower, Charms worth a prince's dower To a love-sick maid. JOHN GOLDIE, A SHORT-LIVED poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant to a grocer in Paisley ; he sub- sequently held a similar situation in a stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr ; but proving unfortunate in business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being devoted to literature, he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant editor of the Ayr Courier, and shortly after obtained the entire literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he pub- lished a pamphlet of respectable verses ; and in the following year appeared as the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter publication, the greater portion, JOHN G OLDIE. 267 he intimates in the preface, " were composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and twenty ; " and as the production of a very young man, the volume is altogether creditable to his genius and taste. Deprived of the editorship of the Courier, in consequence of a change in the pro- prietary, Goldie proceeded to London, in the hope of forming a connection with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis. Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing TJie London Scotsman, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the third publica- tion, and in very reduced circumstances returned to Scotland. He now projected the Paisky Advertiser, of which the first number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the 27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year. Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste, Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet and song- writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his compositions, while others are marked by a plain- tive tenderness. Of sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his counte- nance wore the aspect of intelligence. AND CAN THY BOSOM? AIR " Loudons Bonnie Woods and Braes." AND can thy bosom bear the thought To part frae love and me, laddie ? Are all those plighted vows forgot, Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie ? Canst thou forget the midnight hour, When in yon love-inspiring bower, You vow'd by every heavenly power You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie? Wilt thou wilt thou gang and leave me Win my heart and then deceive me? Oh ! that heart will break, believe me, Gin ye part wi' me, laddie. Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek, Aft praised my sparkling ee, laddie, Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek, But love and live wi' me, laddie. But soon those cheeks will lose their red, Those eyes in endless sleep be hid, And 'neath the turf the heart be laid That beats for love and thee, laddie. Wilt thou wilt thou gang and leave me Win my heart and then deceive me? Oil ! that heart will break, believe me, Gin ye part frae me, laddie. You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair, Where rarer beauties shine, laddie, But, oh ! the heart can never bear A love sae true as mine, laddie. But when that heart is laid at rest Thai; heart that lo'ed ye last and best Oh ! then the pangs that rend thy breast Will sharper be than mine, laddie. Broken vows will vex and grieve me, Till a broken heart relieve me Yet its latest thought, believe me, Will be love an' thine, laddie. SWEET 'S THE DEW. SWEET'S the dew-deck'd rose in June And lily fair to see, Annie, But there's ne'er a flower that blooms Is half so fair as thee, Annie. Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine The opening rose its beauties tine, Thy lips the rubies far outshine, Love sparkles in thine ee, Annie. The snaw that decks yon mountain top Nae purer is than thee, Annie ; The haughty mien and pridefu' look Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie. And in thy sweet angelic face Triumphant beams each modest grace ; And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace A form sae bright as thine, Annie. WTia could behold thy rosy cheek And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie ? What heart could view thy smiling looks, And plot to do thee wrang, Annie ? Thy name in ilka sang I '11 weave, My heart, my soul, wi' thee I '11 leave, And never, till I cease to breathe, I '11 cease to think on thee, Annie. 2G8 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. J, C, DENOVAN, J. C. DENOVAN was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh. He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer ; and he subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters. OH DERMOT, DEAK LOVED OXE! THOU hast left me, dear Dermot ! to cross the wide seas, And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness for- lorn, She laments and looks back on the past happy When thy presence had left her no object to mourn ; Those days that are past,. Too joyous to last, A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree ; No joy now is mine, In sadness I pine, Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me. Dermot, dear Dermot ! why, why didst thou leave The girl who holds thee so dear in her heart? Oh ! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve, Or think for one moment from Xorah to part? Couldst thou reconcile To leave this dear isle, In a far unknown country, where dangers there be ? Oh ! for thy dear sake This poor heart will break, If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me. In silence I '11 weep till my Dermot doth come, Alone will I wander by morn, noon, and night, Still praying of Heaven to send him safe home To her who'll embrace him with joy and delight. Then come, like a dove, To thy faithful love, Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free ; From danger's alarms Speed to her open arms, Dermot, dear loved one ! return back to me. JOHN IMLAH, JOHN IMLAH, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, on the 15th November 1799.* His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his father followed the profession of an inn- keeper. Of seven sons, born in succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner, he, in this capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached to his native country, he tqpk delight in celebrating her strains. He composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827 he published " May ilowers," a duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he " Nov. 15, 1799. Peter Imlah, stabler, and Elizabeth Imlah, his wife, had a son born named John." Aberdeen Register of Births. JOHN IMLAH. 269 followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed to Macleod's " National Melodies " and the Edinburgh Literary Journal. On the 9th January 1846 his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had gone on a visit to one of his brothers. Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy. KATHLEEN. AIR "T/te Humours of Glen." DISTANT but dear is that sweet island, wherein My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide ; And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin! No space can the links of my love-chain divide. Fairest spot of the earth ! brightest gem of the ocean! How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee! "\Vliile, with eyes of expression, and heart of emotion, Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree ! The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning, The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye ; "What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen? "What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye? Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness, And white is her brow as the surf of the sea ; Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness, Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree ! Fair muse of the minstrel ! beloved of my bosom ! As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed, Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom, Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed ; While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on, That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea ; And oh ! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree ! HIELAN' HEATHEE. AIR " O'er ttie Muir amang the HeatJier." HEY for the Hielan' heather ! Hey for the Hielan' heather ! Dear to me, an' aye shall be, The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather ! The moss-muir black an' mountain blue, "Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather ; The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue, Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather 1 Whare mony a wild bird wags its wing, Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather ; While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather ! Hey for the Hielan' heather ! Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel, Young lads and lasses trip thegether The native Norlan' rant and reel Amang the halesome Hielan' heather ! Hey for the Hielan' heather ! The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin, Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather ; How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair The purple bells o' Hielan' heather ! Hey for the Hielan' heather ! Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range, My fancy fondly travels thither ; Nae country charms, nae customs change My feelings frae the Hielan' heather! Hey for the Hielan' heather ! FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND. AIR " Kinloch." LOVED land of my kindred, farewell and for ever! Oh ! what can relief to the bosom impart ; When fated with each fond endearment to sever, And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart! Farewell, thou fair land ! which, till life's pulse shall perish, Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget ; Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish The dearest regard and the deepest regret. Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested ! Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight ; Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones where have rested The snow-falls of ages eternally white. 270 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Ah ! never again shall the falls of your fountains Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear; No more the lake's lustre that mirrors your mountains, I'll pore on with pleasure deep, lonely, yet dear. Yet yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me, Oh ! oft will I dream of thee, far, far away ; But vain are the visions that rapture restore me, To waken and weep at the dawn of the day. Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean, Where yet my heart dwells where it ever shall dwell, While tongue, sigh, and tear, speak my spirit's emotion, My country my kindred farewell, oh, farewell ! THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE. A BONNIE Rose bloom 'd wild and fair, As sweet a bud, I trow, As ever breathed the morning air, Or drank the evening dew. A Zephyr loved the blushing flower, With sigh and fond love tale ; It woo'd within its briery bower The Rose of Seaton Vale. With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd This bud at morning light ; At noon it fann'd its glowing breast, And nestled there at night. But other flowers sprung up thereby, And lured the roving gale ; The Zephyr left to droop and die The Rose of Seaton Vale. A matchless maiden dwelt by Don, Loved by as fair a youth ; Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one Wi' tenderness and truth. Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour For Ellen's type and tale Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower, The Rose of Seaton Vale. KATHERINE AND DONALD. YOUNG Donald dearer loved than life The pnnid Dunallan's daughter ; But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife, In vain he loved and sought her. She loved the Lord of Garry's glen, The chieftain of Clanronald ; A thousand plaided Highlandmen Clasp'd the claymore for Donald. On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes, Dunallan met his foenien ; Beneath him bared ten thousand swords Of vassal, serf, and yeomen. The fray was fierce and at its height Was seen a visor'd stranger, Withered lance foremost in the fight, Unfearing Dane and danger. "Be praised brave knight 1 thy steel hath striven The sharpest in the slaughter ; Crave what thou wilt of me though even My fair my darling daughter ! He lifts the visor from his face The chieftain of Clanronald! And foes enclasp in friends' embrace, Dunallan and young Donald. Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee The feast-cup glads Glengarry The joy that should for ever be When mutual lovers marry. The shout and shell the revellers raise, Dunallan and Clanronald ; And minstrel measures pour to praise Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald ! GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'. GUID night, and joy be wi' you a' ! Since it is sae that I maun gang ; Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah ! To gang again as wearie lang. Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang That I sae sune sou'd haste awa' ; But since its sae that I maun gang, Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a' 1 This night, I ween, we've had the heart To gar auld Time tak' to his feet ; That makes us a' fu' laith to part, But aye mair fain again to meet! To dree the winter's drift and weet For sic a night is nocht ava, For hours the sweetest o' the sweet ; Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a' ! Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen, In younker revels fidgin' fain; Oiir grey-hair'd grannies here ha'e been, Like daflin hizzies, young again ! To mony a merry auld Scot's strain We've deftly danced the time awa' : We met in mirth we part wi' pain Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a' ! M} r nimble grey neighs at the yett, My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw ; I 'vc clapt the spur upon my buit, The guid braid bonnet on my brow ! Then night is wearing late, I trow . JI y liame lies mony a mile awa' ; The mair's my need to mount and go Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a' ! JOHN IMLAH. 271 THE GATHERING.* RISE, rise ! Lowland and Highlandmen, Bald sire to beardless son, each, come and early ; Rise, rise ! mainland and islandmen, Belt on your broad claymores fight for Prince Charlie; Down from the mountain steep, Up from the valley deep, Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling, Bugle and battle-drum Bid chief and vassal come, Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing. Men of the mountains descendants of heroes ! Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers ; Say, shall the Southern the Sassenach fear ns When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers ? Too long on the trophied walls Of your ancestral halls, Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin ; Seize, then, ye mountain Macs, Buckler and battle-axe, Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin ! "When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward? When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal ? Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart, Follow your leader the rightful the royal ! Chief of Clanronald, Donald Macdonald! Lovat ! Lochiel ! with the Grant and the Gordon ! Rouse every kilted clan, Rouse every loyal man, Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on! MARY. AIR" TJie Dawtie." THERE lives a young lassie Far down yon lang glen, How I lo'e that lassie There's nae ane can ken! Oh ! a saint's faith may vary, But faithfu' I '11 be For weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me. Red, red as the rowan Her smiling wee mou', An' white as the gowan Her breast and her brow; Wi' the foot o' a fairy She links o'er the lea Oh ! weel I lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me. * A MS. copy of this song had been sent by the author to the Ettrick Shepherd. Having been found among the Shepherd's papers after his decease, it was regarded as his own composition, and has consequently been in- cluded in the posthumous edition of his songs, published by the Messrs Blackie. The song appears in Imlah's " May Flowers," published in 1827. Where yon tall forest timmer, An' lowly broom bower, To the sunshine o' simmer, Spread verdure an' flower ; There, when night clouds the cary, Beside her I 'H be For weel 1 lo'e Mary, An' Mary lo'es me ! OH! GIN I WERE WHERE GADIE RINS.* OH ! gin I were where Gadie rins, Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins By the foot o' Bennachie ! I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd by Tay, By Border Kith, and Highland Spey, But dearer far to me than they The braes o' Bennachie. When blade and blossoms sprout in spring, And bid the burdies wag the wing, They blythely bob, and soar, and sing By the foot o' Bennachie. When simmer deeds the varied scene Wi' licht o' gow'd and leaves o' green, I fain would be where aft I've been At the foot o' Bennachie. When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn, And barn-yards stored wi' stocks o' corn, 'Tis blythe to toom the clyack horn At the foot o' Bennachie. When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill O'er icy burn and sheeted hill, The ingle neuk is gleesome still At the foot o' Bennachie. Though few to welcome me remain, Though a' 1 loved be dead and gane, I'll back, though I should live alane, To the foot o' Bennachie. Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins, Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins By the foot o' Bennachie. * The chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally connected with a plaintive Jacobite ditty, now lost, has suggested several modern songs similar in man- ner and sentiment. Imlah composed two songs with this chorus. The earlier of these compositions appears in the " May Flowers." It is evidently founded upon a rumour, which prevailed in Aberdeenshire during the first quarter of the century, to the effect that a Scottish officer, serving in Egypt, had been much affected on hearing a soldier's wife crooning to herself the original words of the air. We have inserted in the text Imlah's second version, as being somewhat smoother in versi- fication. It is the only song which we have transcribed from his volume, published in 1841. The Gadie is a rivulet, and Bennachie a mountain in Aberdeenshire. See article, John Park, D.D., posted. 272 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THOMAS ATKINSON, THOMAS ATKINSON, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at Glasgow about the year 1800. Having completed an apprenticeship to Mr Turnbull, bookseller, Trongate, he entered into copartnership with Mr David Robertson, subsequently King's publisher in the city. Of active business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant literature. At an early age he published " The Sextuple Alliance," a series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, which afforded considerable promise, and re- ceived the commendation of Sir Walter Scott. In 1827, he published " The Ant," a work in two volumes, one of which consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. " The Chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, com- menced in 1831, and extended to three octavo volumes. Of this work, a melange of prose and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own composition. The last volume appeared in September 1833, shortly before his death. Deeply interested in the public affairs, Atkinson was distinguished as a public speaker. At the general election, subsequent to the passing of the Reform Bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal interest for the parliamentary representa- tion of the Stirling burghs, in opposition to Lord Dalmeny, who was returned. Naturally of a sound constitution, the exertions of his political canvass superinduced an illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. During a voyage he had undertaken to Barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at sea on the 10th October 1833. His remains placed in an oaken coffin, which he had taken along with him, were buried in-the deep. He bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after accumula- tion, in erecting a building in Glasgow for scientific purposes. A monument to his memory has been erected in the Glasgow Necropolis. The following stanzas were composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than three weeks prior to his decease ; they are dated the " River Mersey," 21st September 1833 : I could not, as I gazed my last there was on me a spell, In all its simple agony breathe that lone word " Farewell," Which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies, In song alone 'twould pass the lips that loved the dear disguise. I go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark, As forth the dove went trembling but to my Father's ark Shall I return ? I may not ask my doubting heart, but yet To hope and wish in one how hard the lesson to forget. ***** But drooping head and feeble limbs and, oh ! a beating heart, Remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part ; Yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell, In this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe " Farewell." In the " Chameleon" several of Mr Atkinson's songs are set to music, but, with the exception of " Mary Shearer," none of them are likely to obtain popularity. MARY SHEARER. SHE'S aff and awa', like the lang summer-day, And our hearts and our hills are now lane- some and dreary ; The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae, But lang for blythe Mary fu'mony may weary. For mair hearts than mine Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer ; But nane mair will pine For the sweet Mary Shearer ! ROBERT HOGG. 273 She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers, And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegether ; The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours, But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither. Their sweet breath is fled Her kind looks still endear her ; For the heart matin be dead That forgets Mary Shearer! Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung; An ee that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover ; Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue, Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover. Oh ! he maun be bless'd Wha 's allow'd to be near her ; For the fairest and best 0' her kind's Mary Shearer! But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven, My country and kin since I've sae lov'd the stranger ; Whare she's been maun be either a pine or a heaven Sae across the braid warld for a while 1 'm a ranger. Though I try to forget, In my heart still I '11 wear her, For mine may be yet Name and a' Mary Shearer ! ROBERT HOGG. EGBERT HOGG was born in the parish of Stobo, about the close of the century. His father \vas William Hogg, eldest brother of the Ettrick Shepherd. "William Hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. Receiving a classical education at the grammar-school of Peebles, Eobert proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the Church. Abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press, or reader, in the printing-office of Messrs Ballantyne. John Wilson, the future vocalist was his yoke-fellow in office. His official duties were arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in prose and verse, to the periodicals. His literary talents attracted the favourable notice of Mr J. G. Lockhart, who, on being appointed, in 1825, to conduct the Quarterly Review, secured his services as secretary or literary assistant. He therefore proceeded to London, but as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his former situation. For a 'short period he acted as amanu- ensis to Sir Walter Scott, while the " Life of Napoleon " was in progress. According to his own account,* this must have been no relief from his ordinary toils, for Sir Walter was at his task from early morning till almost evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. When Chambers's Edinburgh Journal was commenced, Hogg was asked by his former schoolfellow, Mr Robert Chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant-editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received ; but this office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give satisfaction, he was led to decline. He was an extensive contributor, both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular periodical ; but before the work had gone further, his health began to give way, and he retired to his father's house in Peeblesshire, where he died in 1834. He left a young wife and one child. Robert Hogg was of low stature, and of retiring manners. He was fond of humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of heart. His com- positions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary periodical literature. He contributed songs to the " Scottish and Irish Minstrels " and " Select Melodies " of R. A. Smith ; and a ballad, entitled " The Tweeddale Raide," composed in his youth, * See Lockhart's " Life of Sir Walter Scott." 274 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. was inserted by his uncle in the " Mountain Bard." Those which appear in the present work are transcribed from a small periodical, entitled " The Rainbow," pub- lished at Edinburgh, in 1821, by R. Ireland ; and from the Author's Album, in the possession of Mr Scott Riddell, to whom it was presented by his parents after his decease. In the " Rainbow," several of Hogg's poetical pieces are translations from the German and from the Latin of Buchanan. All his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression, but they are defective in startling originality and power.* * We have to acknowledge our obligations to Dr Robert Chambers for many of the particulars contained in this memoir. WHEN AUTUMN COMES. WHEN autumn comes an' heather bells Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells, An' corn that waves on lowland dales Is yellow ripe appearing ; Bonnie lassie will ye gang Shear wi' me the hale day lang ; An' love will mak' us eithly bang The weary toil o' shearing? An' if the lasses should envy, Or say we love, then you an* I Will pass ilk ither slyly by, As if we werena caring. But aye I wi' my heuk will whang The thistles, if in prickles strang Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang, When we gang to the shearing. An' aye we '11 haud our rig afore, An' ply to ha'e the shearing o'er, Syne you will soon forgot you bore Your neighbours' gibes and jeering. For then, my lassie, we'll be wed, When we ha'e proof o' ither had, An' nae mair need to mind what 's said When we 're thegether shearing. BONNIE PEGGIE, 0! GANG wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, 0! Down ayontthe gowanknowe, bonnie Peggie, 0! When the siller burn rins clear, When the rose blooms on the brier, An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, ! I ha'e lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, ! You ha'e laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, 0! My heart's been sick and sair, But it shall be sae nae mair, I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, ! Yuu ha'e said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, 0! An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, ! Let the world ga'e as it will, Be it weel or be it ill, Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, ! Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, ! Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, 0! Nae mair my love is cross'd, Sorrow's sairest pang is past, I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, ! I LOVE THE MERRY MOONLIGHT.* I LOVE the merry moonlight, So wooingly it dances, At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers, On which the fresh dew glances. I love the merry moonlight, On lake and pool so brightly It pours its beams, and in the stream's Rough current leaps so lightly. I love the merry moonlight, It ever shines so cheerily When night clouds flit, that, but for it, Would cast a shade so drearily. I love the merry moonlight, For when it gleams so mildly, The passions rest that rule the breast At other times so wildly. I love the merry moonlight, For 'neath it I can borrow Such blissful dreams, that this world seems Without a sin or sorrow. OH, WHAT ARE THE CHAINS OF LOVE MADE OF?t On, what are the chains of love made of, The only bonds that can,. As iron gyves the body, thrall The free-born soul of man? Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun, Or have you power to seize, And round your hand, like threads of silk, Wind up the wandering breeze? * Printed from the author's MS., in the possession of Mr H. S. Riddell. t From the original MS. JOHN WRIGHT. 275 Can you collect the morning dew And, with the greatest pains, Beat every drop into a link, And of these links make chains ? More fleeting in their nature still, And less substantial are Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew, Smile, sigh, and tear by far. And yet of these Love's chains are made, The only bonds that can, As iron gyves the body, thrall The free-born soul of man. JOHN WRIGHT. AN unfortunate but accomplished poet, John Wright was born on the 1st September 1805, at the farm-house of Auchincloigh, in the parish of Sorn, Ayrshire. From his mother, a -woman of much originality and shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclina- tion towards intellectual culture. His school education was circumscribed, but he experienced delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities of the vicinity of Galston, a village to which his father had removed. At the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of a coal driver ; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the loom. His master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity, and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for mutual literary improvement ; b\it his chief happiness was still experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. He fell in love, was accepted, and ultimately cast off incidents which afforded him opportunities of celebrating the charms and deploring the inconstancy of the fair. He composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled " Mahomet, or the Hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort of retain- ing the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to write. "The Retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in 1824. At the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to Edinburgh to seek the counsel of men of letters, he sub- mitted the MS. of his poem to Professor Wilson, Dr M'Crie, Mr Glassford Bell, and others, who severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. " The Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers, and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang, near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving. He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a young woman of respectable connections and considerable literary tastes. The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife, who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course of his can- vass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated from his wife and children, and became the victim of dis- sipation. In 1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed. He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance. As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages ; and some of his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive. 276. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE MAIDEN FAIR. THE moon hung o'er the gay greenwood, The greenwood o'er the mossy stream, That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood, And flutter'd in the fairy beam. Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam O'er hill and dell, all Nature lay Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream Of her that charm'd my homeward way ! Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair ! And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye, And still, to feed my fond despair, Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by, I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh, In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine, On that fair breast to live and die, O'erpower'd with transport so divine ! Still sacred be that hour to love, And dear the season of its birth, And fair the glade, and green the grove, Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth Of melody and woodland mirth ! The hour, the spot, so dear to me 1 That wean'd my soul from all on earth, To be for ever bless'd in thee. THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN. ALL night, by the pathway that crosses the moor, I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn, Yet thought her not false she had ever been true To her tryst by the old blighted thorn. I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart, Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn; Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long, And wept 'ueath the old blighted thorn. The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread, I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn ; I sped to the valley I found her deep sunk, On her way to the old blighted thorn! I whisper'd, "My Mary!" she spoke not: I caught Her hand, press'd her pale cheek 'twas icy and cold ; Then sunk on her bosom its throbbings were o'er Nor knew how I quitted my hold. THE WRECKED MARINER. STAY, proud bird of the shore ! Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff, Where waits our shatter'd skiff One that shall mark nor it nor lover more. Fan with thy plumage bright Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine ; And, gently to divine The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light. Again swoop out to sea, With lone and lingering wail then lay thy head, As thou thyself wert dead, Upon her breast, that she may weep for me. Now let her bid false Hope For ever hide her beam, nor trust again The peace-bereaving strain Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop. Oh ! bid not her repine, And deem my loss too bitter to be borne, Yet all of passion scorn But the mild, deep'niug memory of mine. Thou art away, sweet wind ! Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing, And o'er her bosom fling The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find! JOSEPH GRANT. JOSEPH GRANT, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardineshire, on the 26th of May 1805. He was in- structed in the ordinary branches at the parish school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's farm. From boyhood he cherished a passionate love for reading, and was no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some merit. In 1828, lie published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems and songs; and in 1830, " Kincardineshire Traditions" a small volume of ballads both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of emanating from the retirement of his native parish, JOSEPH GRANT. 277 he accepted, in 1831, the situation of assistant to a shopkeeper in Stonehaven, and soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office of the Dundee Guardian newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a respectable writer. Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for Chambers'^ Edinburgh Journal. In 1834, he published a second small volume of " Poems and Songs ;" and sub- sequently, in the same year, committed to the press a prose work, entitled " Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however, siirvive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire, where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected to his memory. The " Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of Dundee, editor of the Northern Warder news- paper ; and, in 1836, an edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a biographical preface by the poet Nicol. Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing "A kinder, warmer heart than his Was ne'er to minstrel given ; And kinder, holier sympathies Ne'er sought their native heaven." LOVE'S ADIEU. THE ee o' the dawn, Eliza, Blinks over the dark green sea, An' the moon's creepin' down to the hill-tap, Richt dim and drowsilie. An' the music o' the mornin' Is murmurin' alang the air ; Yet still my dowie heart lingers To catch one sweet throb mair. We've been as blest, Eliza, As children o' earth can be, Though my fondest wish has been knit by The bonds of povertie ; An' through life's misty sojourn, That still may be our fa', But hearts that are link'd for ever Ha'e strength to bear it a'. The cot by the mutterin' biirnie, Its wee bit garden an' field, May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven Than lichts o' the lordliest bield ; There's many a young brow braided Wi' jewels o' far-off isles, But woe may be driukin' the heart-springs While we see nought but smiles. But adieu, my ain Eliza ! Where'er my wanderin's be, Undyin' remembrance will make thee The star o' my destinie ; An' well I ken, thou loved one, That aye, till I return, Thou 'It treasure pure faith in thy bosom, Like a gem in a gowden urn. THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET. THE blackbird's hymn is sweet At fall of gloaming, When slow, o'er grove and hill, Night's shades are coming ; But there is a sound that far More deeply moves us The low sweet voice of her Who truly loves us. Fair is the evening star Rising in glory, O'er the dark hill's brow, Where mists are hoary ; But the star whose rays The heart falls nearest, Is the love-speaking eye Of our heart's dearest. Oh, lonely, lonely is The human bosom, That ne'er has nursed the sweets Of young Love's blossom ! The loveliest breast is like A starless morning, When clouds frown dark and cold, And storms are forming. 278 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, DUGALD MOORE, A POET of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden & Son, booksellers, Queen Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale: and other Poems." Of this work a second edition was required in the following year, when he likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title " Scenes from the Flood ; the Tenth Plague ; and other Poems." " The Bridal Night, and other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city. His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters, and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of their custom. In 1833 Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The Hour of Retribu- tion, and other Poems;" and in 1839, " The Devoted One, and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his per- sonal friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets. Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is everywhere impressed with the most decided indications ' of genius. He has chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary popularity ; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times. RISE, MY LOVE. RISE, my love ! the moon unclouded, "Wanders o'er the dark -blue sea ; Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded, Hynda comes to set thee free 1 Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow, On the long and dreaming deep ; A bower will greet us ere to-morrow, Where our eyes may cease to weep. Oh ! some little isle of gladness, Smiling in the waters clear, "Where the dreary tone of sadness Never smote the lonely ear Soon will greet us, and deliver Souls so true, to freedom's plan ; Death may sunder us, but never Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can. Then our lute's exulting numbers, Unrestrain'd will wander on, While the night has seal'd in slumbers, Fair creation, all her own. And we '11 wed, while music stealeth Through the starry fields above, While each bounding spirit feeleth All the luxury of love. REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON. 279 Then we '11 scorn oppression's minions, All the despot's bolts and powers ; While Time wreathes his heavy pinions With love's brightest passion-flowers. Rise, then ! let us fly together, Now the moon laughs on the sea ; East or west, I care not whither, When with love and liberty ! THE FORGOTTEN BEAVE. 'Tis finish'd, they've died for their forefathers' land, As the patriot sons of the mountain should die, With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand, On the heath of the desert they lie. Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight, Like the oaks of their desert they braved its rude blast ; Theij blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright, But red when the battle was past. They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met The foes of their country in battle array ; But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set, And the flowers of the forest are faded away ! Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep, No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near, To add a grey stone to their cairns on the steep, Or drop o'er their ashes a tear. THE FIRST SHIP. THE sky in beauty arch'd The wide and weltering flood, While the winds in triumph march'd Through their pathless solitude Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest, That like space in darkness slept, When his watch old Silence kept, Ere the earliest planet leapt From its breast. A speck is on the deeps, Like a spirit in her flight ; How beautiful she keeps Her stately path in light ! She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee The sun has on her smiled, And the waves, no longer wild, Sing in glory round that child Of the sea. 'Twas at the set of sun That she tilted o'er the flood, Moving like God alone O'er the glorious solitude The billows crouch around her as her slaves. How exulting are her crew Each sight to them is new, As they sweep along the blue Of the waves ! Fair herald of the fleets That yet shall cross the wave, Till the earth with ocean meets One universal grave, What armaments shall follow thee in joy ! Linking each distant land With trade's harmonious band. Or bearing havoc's brand To destroy ! WEEP NOT. THOUGH this wild brain is aching, Spill not thy tears with mine ; Come to my heart, though breaking, Its firmest half is thine. Thou wert not made for sorrow, Then do not weep w r ith me ; There is a lovely morrow That yet will dawn on thee. When I am all forgotten When in the grave I lie When the heart that loved thee's broken, And closed the sparkling eye ; Love's sunshine still will cheer thee, Unsullied, pure, and deep ; For the God who's ever near thee, Will never see thee weep. REV, T, G, TORRY ANDERSON, THE author of the deservedly popular words and air of " The Araby Maid," Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson, was the youngest son of Patrick Tony, D.D., bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother, Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr "William Young, of Fawside, Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his elementary education at the parish school of that- place. He subsequently prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the Univer- sity of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was admitted to the incum- 280 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. bency of St Jolm's Church, Portobello. He subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church, Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's Episcopal Church, Dundee. Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry Anderson ex- perienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in 1833, the words and air of " The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled " The Maiden's Vow," and " I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854, respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms," published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of 1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency. He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawside, to which he had succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three times married first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw, whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail ; secondly, he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter, K.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he married in 1854. He left a widow and six children. THE ARABY MAID. AWAY on the wings of the wind she flies, Like a thing of life and light And she bounds beneath the eastern skies, And the beauty of eastern night. Why so fast flies the bark tlirough the ocean's foam, Why wings it so speedy a flight? "Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home, To fly with her Christian knight. She hath left her sire and her native land, The land which from childhood she trode, And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand, To worship the Christian's God. Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight, It were death one moment's delay ; For behind there is many a blade glancing bright Then away away away ! They are safe in the land where love is divine, In the land of the free and the brave They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine. Nought can sever them now but the grave. THE MAIDEN'S VOW. THE maid is at the altar kneeling, Hark the chant is loudly pealing Now it dies away ! Her prayers are said at the holy shrine, No other thought but thought divine Doth her sad bosom fill. The world to her is nothing now, For she hath ta'en a solemn vow To do her father's wilL But why hath one so fair, so young, The joys of life thus from her flung Why hath she ta'en the veil ? Her lover fell where the brave should fall, Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call Proclaim 'd the victory. He fought, he fell, a hero brave And though he fill a lowly grave, His name can never die. The victory's news to the maiden came They loudly breath'd her lover's name, Who for his country fell. But vain the loudest trumpet tone Of fame to her, when he was gone To whom the praise was given ! Her sun of life had set in gloom Its joys were wither'd in his tomb She vow'd herself to Heaven. I LOVE THE SEA. I LOVE the sea, I love the sea, My childhood's home, my manhood's rest, My cradle in my infancy The only bosom I have press'd. I cannot breathe upon the land, Its manners are as bonds to me, Till on the deck again I stand, I cannot feel that I am free. Then tell me not of stormy graves Though winds be high, there let them roar ; I 'd rather perish on the waves Than pine by inches on the shore. I ask no willow where I lie, My mourner let the mermaid be, My only knell the sea-bird's cry, My winding-sheet the boundless sea ! GEORGE ALLAN. 281 GEORGE ALLAN, GEORGE ALLAN was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes, near Edin- burgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had completed his four- teenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to, the Signet. He became a member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829 he accepted an appoint- ment in Jamaica ; but, his health suffering from the climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the editorship of the Dumfries Journal, a respectable Conservative news- paper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor, is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels : "Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure readers ; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free and generous ; and local intelligence pertaining to the district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land. These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs you can easily scatter about ; these attract booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements where they find their works are noticed. Above all things, write cautiously concerning all localities ; if you praise much, a hundred will grumble ; if you are severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake the head. You will have friends on one side of the water desiring one thing, friends on the other side desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good conscience, will enable you to get well through all." On terminating his connection with the Dumfries Journal, Allan proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend, about this period, he thus expresses him- self regarding his enterprising employers : " They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive to their business, and they go through their labours with a spirit and cheerfulness, which show how consonant these are with their dispositions. "Mr Robert Chambers, " he adds, " is the most mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The interest which he has shown in my welfare has been beyond everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks for. " Besides contribiiting many interesting articles to Chamlers's Edinburgh Journal, and furnishing numerous communications to the Scotsman newspaper, Allan wrote a " Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the public press. In preparing that elegant work, the " Original National Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that publication with suit- able music. In 1834, some of his relatives succeeded, by political influence, in obtain- ing for him a subordinate situation in the Stamp Office, one which at once afforded him. a certain subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on 282 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. the 15th August 1835, in his thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow, eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion, and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a handsome, intelligent counte- nance. An enthusiast in the concerns of literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are largely imbued with the national spirit. I WILL THINK OF THEE YET. I WILL think of thee yet, though afar I may be, In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone, Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me, And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone ; I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night Wilt oft bring thine image again to my sight, And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by, A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye. I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that low'rs on the lea, And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still, While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me. Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round, Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found ; But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew. I will think of thee : oh ! if I e'er can forget The love that grew warm as all others grew cold, 'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set, Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold ; But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom, Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom; And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been, A light to my soul when no other is seen. LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE. LASSIE, dear lassie, the dew's on the gowan, And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin', But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary, Ere they match the sweet ee or the cheek o' my dearie ! I wander alane, when the grey gloamin' closes, And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses ; But there's nought which the earth or the sky can discover Sae fair as thysel' to thy fond-hearted lover ! The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it's shaken, And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken, Oh, sae pure is the heart I ha'e won to my keepin' ! But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin' ! Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou'rt pressing Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in con- fessing, For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over, And the tale still seem new to thy fond -hearted lover. IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?* I. (CLANSMAN.) Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crim- man? Ts your war-pipe asleep, and for ever? Shall the pibroch, that welcomed the foe to Benaer, Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair, To give back oxir wrongs to the giver? To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone, Like the course of the fire-naught the clansmen pass'd on, With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them, And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them ; * In Blackie's " Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the Ettrick Shepherd, pub- lished by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This song, with the two immediately following, ap- peared in M'Leod's" National Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS. CHARLES DOYNE SILLER Y, 283 Then raise your wild slogan-cry on to the foray ! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen ; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomond's re-echo the challenge again ! II. (M 'CRIMMAN.) Youth of the daring heart ! bright be thy doom As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now, But the fate of M 'Crimman is closing in gloom, And the breath of the grey wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow ; Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer, And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there, But M 'Crimman, M 'Crimman, M 'Crimman, never Never! Never! Never! III. (CLANSMAN.) "Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou can'st shun not, M 'Crimman? Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou can'st shun not? If thy course nrast be brief, let the proud Saxon know That the soul of M 'Crimman ne'er quail' d when a foe Bared his blade in the land he had won not ! Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind, And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind, There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing, . 'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war- weapons glancing, Thenraise yourwildslogan-cry ontotheforay ! Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen ; Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray, Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again ! CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY, THOUGH a native of Ireland, Charles Doyne Sillery has some claim to enrolment among the minstrels of Caledonia. His mother was a Scotswoman, and he was him- self brought up and educated in Edinburgh. He was born at Athlone, in Ireland, on the 2d of March. 1807. His father, who bore the same Christian and middle names, was a captain of the Koyal Artillery.* He distinguished himself in the engagements of Talavera on the 27th and 28th of July 1809 ; but from his fatigues died soon after. His mother, Catherine Fyfe, was the youngest daughter of Mr Barclay Fyfe, merchant in Leith. She subsequently became the wife of James Watson, Esq., now of Tontley Hall, Berkshire. Of lively and playful dispositions, Sillery did not derive much advantage from scholastic training. His favourite themes were poetry and music, and these he assiduously cultivated, much to the prejudice of other important studies. At a sub- sequent period he devoted himself with ardour to his improvement in general know- ledge. He read extensively, and became conversant with the ancient and some of the modern languages. Disappointed in obtaining a commission in the Eoyal Artillery, on which he had calculated, he proceeded to India as midshipman in a merchant vessel. Conceiving a dislike to a seafaring life, after a single voyage, he entered on the study of medicine in the University of Edinburgh. From early youth he composed verses. In 1829, while only in his twenty-second year, he pub- lished, by subscription, a poem, in nine cantos, entitled " Vallery ; or, the Citadel of the Lake." This production, which refers to the times of Chivalry, was well received ; and, in the following year, the author ventured 011 the publication of a second poem, in two books, entitled " Eldred of Erin." In the latter composition, * Captain Doyne Sillery, sen., was born in Drogheda, Ireland, of which place his father was mayor during the Rebellion of 1798, and where he possessed considerable property. He was descended from one of the most ancient and illustrious families in France, of which the representative took refuge in England during the persecution of the Protestants in the sixteenth century. On the reduction of priestly power in Ireland by Cromwell, the family settled in that portion of the United Kingdom. The family name was originally Brulart. Nicolas Brulart, Marquis de Sillery, Lord de Pinsieux, de Marinis. and de Berny, acquired much reputation from the many commissions in which he served in France. (See " L'Histoire G6n6alogique et Chronologique des Chanceliers de France," torn. vi. p. 524). On the maternal side Captain Sillery was lineally descended from Edward Hyde, Earl of Clarendon, the famous Chancellor. 284 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. which is pervaded by devotional sentiment, the poet details some of his personal experiences. In 1834 he published, in a small duodecimo volume, " The Exiles of Chamouni ; a Drama," a production which received only a limited circulation. About the same period he became a contributor of verses to the Edinburgh Literary Journal. He ultimately undertook the editorial superintendence of a religious periodical. Delicate in constitution, and of a highly nervous temperament, Sillery found the study of medicine somewhat uncongenial, and had formed the intention of qxialii'ying himself for the Church. He calculated on early ecclesiastical preferment through the favour of Her Majesty Queen Adelaide, to whom he had been presented, and who had evinced some interest on his behalf. But his prospects were soon clouded by the slow but certain progress of an. insidious malady. He was seized with pul- monary consumption, and died at Edinburgh on the 16th May 1836, in his twenty- ninth year. Of sprightly and winning manners, Sillery was much cherished in the literary circles of the capital. He was of the ordinary height, and of an extremely slender figure ; and his eye, remarkably keen and piercing, was singularly indicative of power. Poetry, in its every department, he cherished with the devotion of an enthu- siast ; and though sufficiently modest on the subject of his poetical merits, he took delight in singing his own songs. Interested in the history of the Middle Ages, he had designed to publish an "Account of Ancient Chivalry." Latterly, his views were more concentrated on the subject of religion. Shortly before his death, he composed a "Discourse on the Sufferings of Christ," the proof-sheets of which he corrected on his deathbed. As a poet, with more advanced years, he would have obtained a dis- tinguished place. "With occasional defects, the poem of " Vallery " is possessed of much boldness of imagery, and force arid elegance of expression. THE SCOTTISH BLUE BELLS. LET the proud Indian boast of his jessamine bowers, His pasture of perfume, and rose-cover'd dells ; While humbly I sing of those wild little flowers The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue- bells. Wave, wave your dark plumes, ye proud sons of the mountain, For brave is the chieftain your prowess who quells, Aud dreadful your wrath as the foam-flashing fountain, That calms its wild waves 'mid the Scottish blue-bells. Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, Ami shout in the chorus for ever and ever The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue- bells. Sublime are your hills when the young day is beaming, And green are your groves with their cool crystal wells, And bright are your broadswords, like morning dews gleaming On blue-bells of Scotland, on Scottish blue- bells. Awake! ye light fames that trip o'er the heather, Ye mermaids, arise from your coralline cells Come forth with your chorus, all chanting to- gether The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue- bells. Then strike the loud harp to the land of the river, The mountain, the valley, with all their wild spells, And shout in the chorus, for ever and ever The blue-bells of Scotland, the Scottish blue- bells. SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. SHE died in beauty ! like a rose Blown from its parent stem ; She died in beauty ! like a pearl Dropp'd from some diadem. ROBERT MILLER. 285 She died in beauty ! like a lay Along a moonlit lake ; She died in beauty ! like the song Of birds amid the brake. She died in beauty ! like the snow On flowers dissolved away ; She died in beauty ! like a star Lost on the brow of day. She lives in glory ! like night's gems Set round the silver moon ; She lives in glory ! like the sun Amid the blue of June ! ROBERT MILLER, ROBERT MILLER, the author of the two following songs, was a native of Glasgow, and was educated for the legal profession. He contributed verses to the periodicals, but did not venture on any separate publication. He died at Glasgow, in September 1834, at the early age of twenty-four. His "Lay of the Hopeless" was written within a few days of his decease. WHERE ARE THEY? THE loved of early days ! Where are they ? where ? Not on the shining braes, The mountains bare ; Not where the regal streams Their foam-bells cast Where childhood's time of dreams And sunshine pass'd. Some in the mart, and some In stately halls, With the ancestral gloom Of ancient walls ; Some where the tempest sweeps The desert waves ; Some where the myrtle weeps On Roman graves. And pale young faces gleam With solemn eyes ; Like a remember'd dream The dead arise ; In the red track of war The restless sweep ; In sunlit graves afar The loved ones sleep. The braes are dight with flowers, The mountain streams Foam past me in the showers Of sunny gleams ; But the light hearts that cast A glory there, In the rejoicing past, Where are they? where? LAY OF THE HOPELESS. OH ! wotild that the wind that is sweeping now O'er the restless and weary wave, Were swaying the leaves of the cypress bough O'er the calm of my early grave ; And my heart with its pulses of fire and life, Oh ! would it were still as stone. I am weary, weary, of all the strife, And the selfish world I 've known. I've drunk up bliss from a mantling cup, When youth and joy were mine ; But the cold black dregs are floating up, Instead of the laughing wine ; And life hath lost its loveliness, And youth hath spent its hour, And pleasure palls like bitterness, And hope hath not a flower. And love ! was it not a glorious eye That smiled on my early dream? It is closed for aye, where the long weeds sigh, In the churchyard by the stream : And fame oh ! mine were gorgeous hopes Of a flashing and young renown : But early, early the flower-leaf drops From the withering seed-cup down. And beauty ! have I not worshipp'd all Her shining creations well ? The rock the wood the waterfall, Where light or where love might dwell. But over all, and on my heart, The mildew hath fallen sadly ; I have no spirit, I have no part In the earth that smiles so gladly ! I only sigh for a quiet bright spot In the churchyard by the stream, Whereon the morning sunbeams float, And the stars at midnight dream ; Where only Nature's sounds may wake The sacred and silent air, And only her beautiful things may break Through the long grass gathering there. 286 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ALEXANDER HUME, ALEXANDER HUME was born at Kelso on the 1st of February 1809. His father, Walter Hume, occupied a respectable position as a retail trader in that town. Of the early history of our author little has been ascertained. His first teacher was Mr Ballantyne of Kelso, a man somewhat celebrated in his vocation. To his early pre- ceptor's kindness of heart, Hume frequently referred with tears. While under Mr Ballantyne's scholastic superintendence, his love of nature first became apparent. After school hours it was his delight to wander by the banks of the Tweed, or reclin- ing on its brink, to listen to the music of its waters. From circumstances his family were induced to remove from Kelso to London. The position they occupied we have not learned ; but young Hume is remembered as being a quick, intelligent, and most affectionate boy ; eager, industrious, self-reliant, and with an occasional dash of inde- pendence that made him both feared and loved. About this period (1822 or 1823), when irritated by those who had authority over him, he suddenly disappeared from home, and allied himself to a company of strolling players, with whom he associated for several months. He had an exquisite natural voice, and sung the melting melodies of Scotland in a manner seldom equalled. With the itinerant manager he was a favourite, because he was fit for anything tragedy, comedy, farce, a hornpipe, and, if need be, a comic song, in which making faces at the audience was an indispensable accomplishment. Getting tired of his new profession, and disgusted with his associates, poorly clad and badly fed, he slipped away when his companions were fast asleep, and returned to London. Here, weary and footsore, he presented himself to a relative, who received him kindly, and placed him in a position where by industry he might provide for his necessities. In 1827, he obtained a situation with Forbes & Co. of Mark Lane, the highly re- spectable agents for Berwick & Co. of Edinburgh, the celebrated brewers of Scotch ale. His position being one of considerable responsibility, he was obliged to find security in the sum of 500, which he obtained from the relative who had always stood his friend. But such was his probity and general good conduct, that his employers cancelled the security, and returned the bond as a mark of their apprecia- tion of his integrity and worth. About this period it was that he first gave utterance to his feelings in verse. Impulsive and impassioned naturally, his first strong attachment roxised the deepest feelings of the man, and awoke the dormant passion of the poet. The non-success of his first-wooing only made his song the more vehement for a while, but as no flame can burn intensely for ever, his love became more subdued, and his song gradually assumed that touching pathos which has ever characterised the best lyrics of Scotland. Some time between the years 1830 and 1833, he became a member of the Literary and Scientific Institution, Aldersgate Street, where he made the acquaintance of many kindred spirits, young men of the same standing as himself, chiefly occupied in the banks, offices, and Ararehouses of the city of London. There they had classes estab- lished for the study of history, for the discussion of philosophical and literary subjects, and for the practice of elocution. The recitations of the several members awoke the embers that smouldered in his heart from the time he had left the stage. His early experience had made him acquainted with the manner in which the voice ought to be modulated to make the utterance effective ; and although he seldom ventured to recite, he was always a fair critic and a deeply interested auditor. The young ambi- tion of a few had led them to aspire to authorship, and they established a monthly ALEXANDER HUME. 287 magazine. Although, the several articles were not of the highest order, they were, nevertheless, quite equal to the average periodical writings of the day. In this maga- zine it is believed that Hume published his first song. It had been sent in the ordinary way, signed Daft Wattie, and the editor, not appreciating the northern dialect in which it was written, had tossed it aside. Shortly afterwards, one of the managers on turning over the rejected papers was attracted by the verses, read them, and was charmed. He placed them back in the editor's box, certifying them as fit for publication by writing across them, " Musical as is Apollo's lute," to which he signed his name, "William Raine." This circumstance soon led to an intimate acquaintance with Mr Raine, who was a man of considerable original power, excellent education, and of a social and right manly nature. This new acquaintance coloured the whole of Hume's future life. They became fast friends, and were in- separable. The imagination of Hume was restrained by the acute judgment and critical ability of Mr Raine. When Hume published his first volume of " Songs," it would perhaps be difficult to determine whether their great success and general popularity resulted from the poet whose name they bore, or from the friend who weighed and suggested corrections in almost every song, until they finally came before the public in a collected form. The volume was dedicated to Allan Cunning- ham, and in the preface he says : " I composed them by no rules excepting those which my own observation and feelings formed ; I knew no other. As I thought and felt, so have I written. Of all poetical compositions, songs, especially those of the affections, should be natural, warm gushes of feeling brief, simple, and con- densed. As soon as they have left the singer's lips they should be fast around the hearer's heart." In 1837 Hume married Miss Scott, a lady well calculated to attract the eye and win the heart of a poet. He remained connected with the house of Berwick & Co. until 1840, when, to recover his health, which had been failing for some time, he was advised to visit America, where he travelled for several months. On his return to England he entered into an engagement with the Messrs Lane, of Cork, then the most eminent brewers in the south of Ireland. To this work he devoted himself with great energy, and was duly rewarded for his labour by almost immediate success. The article he sold became exceedingly popular in the metropolis ; nor was he dis- appointed in the hope of realising considerable pecuniary advantages. For several years he had written very little. The necessity to make provision for a rapidly increasing family, and the ambition to take a high position in the business he had chosen, occupied his every hour, and became with him a passion as strong as had ever moved him in works of the imagination. In 1847 there were slight indications of a return of the complaint from which he had suffered in 1840, and he again crossed the Atlantic. Although he returned considerably improved in health, he was by no means well. Fortunately he had secured the services of a Mr Macdonald as an assistant in his business, whose exertions in his interest were unremitting. Mr Hume's health gradually declined, and ulti- mately incapacitated him for the performance of any commercial duty. In May 1851 he died at Northampton, leaving a widow and six children. As a song writer, Hume is entitled to an honourable place among those authors whose writings have been technically called "the Untutored Muse of Scotland." His style is eminently graceful, and a deep and genuine pathos pervades his com- positions. In 1845 a complete edition of his " Songs and Poems" was published at London in a thin octavo volume. 288 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. MY WEE, WEE WIFE. Am" The BoatU Rows." MY wee wife dwells in yonder cot, My bonnie bairnies three ; Oh ! happy is the husband's lot, AVi' bairnies on his knee. My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three ; How bright is day how sweet is life ! When love lights up the ee. The king o'er me may wear a crown, Have millions bow the knee, But lacks he love to share his throne, How poor a king is he ! My wee, wee wile, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three, Let kings ha'e thrones, 'mang warld's strife, Your hearts are thrones to me. I 've felt oppression's galling chain, I 've shed the tear o' care, But feeling ay lost a' its pain, When my wee wife was near. My wee, wee wife, my wee, wee wife, My bonnie bairnies three, The chains we wear are sweet to bear, How sad could we go free ! POVERTY! AIR" The Posie." ELIZA was a bonnie lass, and ! she lo'ed me weel, Sic love as canna find a tongue, but only hearts can feel ; But I was poor, her faither doure, he wadna look on me ; poverty ! poverty ! that love should bow to thee. 1 went unto her mother, and I argued and I fleech'd, I spak' o' love and honesty, and mair and mair beseech'd, But she was deaf to a' my grief, she wadna look on me; poverty ! poverty 1 that love should bow to thee. 1 next went to her brother, and I painted a' my pain, I told.him o' our plighted troth, but it was a' in vain ; Though he was deep in love himsel', nae feeling he'd for me ; poverty ! poverty ! that love should bow to thee. Oh ! wealth it makes the fool a sage, the knave an honest man, And canker'd grey locks young again, if he has gear and Ian' ; To age maun beauty ope her arms, though wi' a tearfu' ee ; poverty ! poverty ! that love should bow to thee. But wait a wee, oh ! love is slee, and winna be said nay, It breaks a' chains, except its ain, but it will ha'e its way ; In spite o' fate we took the gate, now happy as can be ; poverty 1 poverty ! we're wed in spite o' thee. NANNY. AIR "Fee hint, Father." THERE'S mony a flower beside the rose, And sweets beside the honey ; But laws maun change ere life disclose A flower or sweet like Nanny. Her ee is like the summer sun, When clouds can no conceal it, Ye 're blind if it ye look upon, Oh ! inad if ere ye feel it. I 've mony bonnie lassies seen, Baith blythesome, kind, an' canny ; But oh ! the day has never been I 've seen another Nanny ! She 's like the mavis in her sang, Amang the brakens bloomin' ; Her lips ope to an angel's tongue, But kiss her, oh! she's woman. MY BESSIE. AIR" The Posie." MY Bessie, oh! but look upon these bonnie budding flowers, Oh ! do they no remember ye o' mony happy hours, When on this green and gentle hill we aften met to play, An' ye were like the morning sun, an' life a nightless day? The gowans blossom'd bonnilie, I 'd pu' them from the stem, An' rin in noisy blythesomeness to thee, my Bess, wi' them, To place them in thy lily breast, for ae sweet smile on me, I saw nae mair the gowans then, then saw I only thee. Like two fair roses on a tree, we flourish'd an' we grew, An' as we grew, sweet love grew too, an' strong 'tween me an' you ; How aft ye 'd twine your gentle arms in love about my neck, An' breathe young vows that after years o' sorrow has na brak' ! ALEXANDER HUME. 289 We'd raise our lisping voices in auld Coila's melting lays, An' sing that tearfu' tale about Boon's bonnie banks and braes ; But thoughtna' we o' banks and braes, except those at our feet, Like yon wee birds we sang our sang, yet ken'd no that 'twas sweet. Oh ! is na this a joyous day, a' Nature's breathing forth In gladness an' in loveliness owre a' the wide, wide earth? The Unties they are lilting love, on ilka bush an' tree ; Oh! may such joy be ever felt, my Bess, by thee and me ! MENIE HAY. AIR "Heigh-ho ! for Somebody". A WEE bird sits upon a spray, And aye it sings o' Menie Hay ; The burthen o' its cheery lay Is ' ' Come away, dear Menie Hay ! Sweet art thou, Menie Hay ! Fair, I trow, Menie Hay! There 's not a bonnie flower in May Shows a bloom wi' Menie Hay. " A light in yonder window's seen, And wi' it seen is Menie Hay ; Wha gazes on the dewy green, "Where sits the bird upon the spray ? " Sweet art thou, Menie Hay! Fair, I trow, Menie Hay ! At sic a time, in sic a way, "What seek ye there, Menie Hay?" ' ' "What seek ye there, my daughter dear ? What seek ye there, Menie Hay?" " Dear mother, but the stars sae clear Around the bonnie Milky Way." " Sweet are thou, Menie Hay! Slee, I trow, Menie Hay! Ye something see ye daurna say, Pawkie, winsome Menie Kay ! " The window's shut, the light is gone, And wi' it gane is Menie Hay ; But wha is seen upon the green, Kissing sweetly Menie Hay ? " Sweet art thou, Menie Hay ! Slee, I trow, Menie Hay ! For ane sae young ye ken the way, And far from^>late, Menie Hay ! " " Gae scour the country, hill and dale ; Oh ! waes me, where is Menie Hay ? Search ilka nook, in town or vale, For my daughter, Menie Hay." " Sweet are thou, Menie Hay! Slee, I trow, Menie Hay ! I wish you joy, young Johnnie Fay, 0' your bride, sweet Menie Hay." I'VE WANDER'D ON THE SUNNY HILL. I'VE wander'd on the sunny hill, I've wander'd in the vale, Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale ; But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee. The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom ; But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea, Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee. I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand, When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering band ; The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free, Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee, I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun, I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone ; Ye smiled in look, but no in heart your heart was no for me ; Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee. OH! YEARS HA'E COME. OH ! years ha'e come, an' years ha'e gane, Sin' first I sought the warld alane, Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain On the hills o' Caledonia. But oh ! behold the present gloom My early friends are in the tomb, And nourish now the heather bloom On the hills o' Caledonia. My father's name, my father's lot, Is now a tale that's heeded not, Or sang unsung, if no forgot On the hills o' Caledonia. 0' our great ha' there's left nae stane A' swept away, like snaw lang gane ; Weeds flourish o'er the auld domain On the hills o' Caledonia, The Ti'ot's banks are bare and high, The stream rins sma' an' mournfu' by, Like some sad heart maist grutten dry On the hills o' Caledonia. The wee birds sing no frae the tree, The wild flowers bloom no on the lea, As if the kind things pitied me On the hills o' Caledonia. 290 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. But friends can live, though cold they lie, j An 1 howsoever changed the scene, An' mock the mourner's tear an' sigh, "When we forget them, then they die On the hills o' Caledonia. While ruem'ry and my feeling's green, Still green to my auld heart an' ecu Are the hills o' Caledonia. THOMAS SMIBERT. A POET and indefatigable prose-writer, Thomas Smibert was born in Peebles on the 8th February 1810. Of his native town his father held for a period the office of chief magistrate. With a view of qualifying himself for the medical profession, he became apprentice to an apothecary, and afterwards attended the literary and medical classes in the University of Edinburgh. Obtaining license as a surgeon, he commenced practice in the village of Innerleithen, situated within six miles of his native town. He was induced to adopt this sphere of professional labour from an affection which he had formed for a young lady in the vicinity, who, however, did not recompense his devotedness, but accepted the hand of a more prosperous rival. Disappointed in love, and with a practice scarcely yielding emolument sufficient to pay the annual rent of his apothecary's store, he left Innerleithen after the lapse of a year, and returned to Peebles. He now began to turn his attention to literature, and was fortunate in pro- curing congenial employment from the Messrs Chambers, as a contributor to their popular Journal. Of this periodical he soon attained the position of sub-editor ; and in evidence of the indefatigable nature of his services in this literary connection, it is worthy of record that, during the period intervening between 1837 and 1842, he con- tributed to the Journal no fewer than five hundred essays, one hundred tales, and about fifty biographical sketches. Within the same period he edited a new edition of Paley's " Natural Theology," with scientific notes, and wrote extensively for a work of the Messrs Chambers, entitled " Information for the People." In 1842, he was appointed to the sub-editorship of the Scotsman newspaper. The bequest of a relative afterwards enabled him to relinquish stated literary occupation, but he con- tinued to exhibit to the world pleasing evidences of his learning and industry. He became a frequent contributor to Hogg's Instructor, an Edinburgh weekly periodical ; produced a work on " Greek History ;" and collated a " Khyming Dictionary." A large, magnificently illustrated volume, the " Clans of the Highlands of Scotland," was his most ambitious and successful effort as a prose- writer. His poetical composi- tions, which were scattered among a number of the periodicals, he was induced to collect and publish in a volume, with the title, " lo Anche! Poems chiefly Lyrical ;" Edinburgh, 1851, 12mo. An historical play from his pen, entitled " Conde's Wife," founded on the loye of Henri Quatre for Marguerite de Montmorency, whom the young Prince of Cfende had wedded, was produced in 1842 by Mr Murray in the Theatre Royal, Edinburgh, and during a run of nine nights was received with applause. Smibert died at Edinburgh on the 16th January 1854, in his forty-fourth year. With pleasing manners, he was possessed of kindly dispositions, and was much cherished for his intelligent and interesting conversation. In person he was strongly built, and his complexion was fair and ruddy. He was not undesirous of reputation both as a poet and prose-writer, and has recorded his regret that he had devoted so much time to evanescent periodical literature. His poetry is replete with patriotic sentiment, and his strain is forcible and occasionally brilliant. His songs indicate a fine fancy and deep pathos. THOMAS SMI BERT. 291 Lang ere the March winds blaw, THE SCOTTISH WIDOWS LAMENT. May she, far, far frae here, Meet them a' that's awa' AFORE the Lammas tide Sin' the fa' o' the year ! Had dun'd the birken-tree, In a' our water side Nae wife was bless'd like me. A kind gudeman, and twa Sweet bairns were 'round me here, THE HERO OF ST JEAN D'ACRE. But they're a' ta'en awa' ONCE more on the broad-bosom'd ocean ap- Sin' the fa' o' the year. pearing Sair trouble cam' our gate, The banner of England is spread to the breeze, And made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, And loud is the cheering that hails the up- rearing A ewe without a lamb. Our hay was yet to maw, And our corn was to shear, When they a" dwined awa' Of glory's loved emblem, the pride of the sear. No tempest shall daunt her, No victor-foe taunt her, What manhood can do in her cause shall be In the fa' o' the year. done I downa look a-field, For ave I trow I see Britannia's best seaman, The boast of her freemen, The form that was a bield Will conquer or die by his colours and gun. To my wee bairns and me ; But wind, and weet, and suaw, On Acre's proud turrets an ensign is flying, Which stout hearts are banded till death to They never mair can fear, uphold ; Sin' they a' got the ca' And bold is their crying, and fierce their de- In the fa* o' the year. fying. Aft on the hill at e'ens, When trench' d in their ramparts, uncon- | J -1J I see him 'mang the ferns The lover o' my teens, The faither o' my bairns ; For there his plaid I saw, As gloamin' aye drew near, But my a's now awa' Sin' the fa' o' the year. quer d of old. But lo ! in the offing, To punish their scoffing, Brave Napier appears, and their triumph is done; No danger can stay him, No foeman dismay him, He conquers or dies by his colours and gun. Our bonnie rigs theirsel' Reca' my waes to mind ; Now low in the dust is the Crescent flag Our puir dumb beasties tell 0' a' that I ha'e tyned ; hum bled, Its warriors are vanquish' d, their freedom is For wha our wheat will saw, And wha our sheep will shear, Sin' my a' gaed awa' In the fa' o' the year? sjon6 i The strong walls have tumbled, the proud towers are crumbled, And England's flag waves over ruin'd St Jean. My hearth is growing cauld, And will be caulder still, And sair, sair in the fauld But Napier now tenders To Acre's defenders The aid of a friend when the combat is won ; Will be the winter's chill ; For mercy's sweet blossom For peats were yet to ca', Our sheep they were to smear, Blooms fresh in his bosom, Who conquers or dies by his colours and gun. When my a' pass'd awa' In the fa' o' the year. " All hail to the hero ! " his country is calling, And "hail to his comrades!" the faithful I ettle whiles to spin, But wee, wee patterin' feet and brave, They fear'd not for falling, they knew no Come rinnin' out and in, And then I just maun greet ; appalling, But fought like their fathers, the lords of I ken it's fancy a' the wave. And faster rows the tear, That my a' dwined awa' In the fa" o' the year. And long may the ocean, In calm and commotion, Rejoicing convey them where fame may be won ; And when foes would wound us, Be kind, Heaven abune ! May Napiers be round us, To ane sae wae and lane, To conquer or die by their colours and gun ! And tak* her hamewards sunc In pity o' her maen. * Admiral Sir Charles Napier. 292 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. OH! BONNIE AKE THE HOWES. OH ! bonnie are the howes, And sunny are the knowes That feed the kye and yowes Where my life's morn dawn'd ; And brightly glance the rills That spring amang the hills, And ca' the merry mills In my ain dear land. But now I canna see The lammies on the lea, Nor hear the heather bee On this far, far strand. I see nae father's ha', Nae burnie's waterfa', But wander far awa' Frae my ain dear land. My heart was free and light, My ingle burning bright, When ruin cam' by night Through a foe's fell hand, I left my native air, I gaed to come nae mair ; And now I sorrow sair For my ain dear land. But blythely will I bide Whate'er may yet betide, When ane is by my side On this far, far strand. My Jean will soon be here This waefu' heart to cheer, And dry the fa'ing tear For my ain dear land. OH! SAY NA YOU MAUN GANG AWA' OH ! say na you maun gang awa', Oh ! say na you maun leave me ; The dreaded hour that parts us twa Of peace and hope will reave me. When you to distant shores are gane, How could I bear to tarry, Where ilka tree and ilka stane Would mind me o' my Mary ? I couldna wander near yon woods That saw us oft caressing, And on our heads let fa' their buds In earnest o' their blessing. Ilk stane wad mind me how we press 'd Its half-o'erspreading heather, And how we lo'ed the least the best That made us creep thegether. I couldna bide, when you are gane, My ain, my winsome dearie ; I couldna stay to pine my lane I live but when I 'm near ye. Then say na you maun gang awa', Oh ! say na you maun leave me ; For ah ! the hour that parts us twa Of life itself will reave me. JOHN BETHUNE. THE younger of two remarkable brothers, whose names are justly entitled to remem- brance, John Bethune was born at the Mount, in the parish of Monimail, Fifeshire, during the summer of 1810. The poverty of his parents did not permit his attend- ance at a public school ; he was taught reading by his mother, and writing and arithmetic by his brother Alexander,* who was considerably his senior. After some years' employment as a cow-herd, he was necessitated, in his twelfth year, to break stones on the turnpike-road. At the recommendation of a comrade, he apprenticed himself, early in 1834, to a weaver in a neighbouring village. In his new profession lie rapidly acquired dexterity, so that, at the end of one year, he could earn the respectable weekly wages of fifteen shillings. Desirous of assisting his aged parents, Alexander Bethune, the elder brother of the poet, and his constant companion and coadjutor in literary * Alexander Bethune, the elder roter o te poet, and s constant companon an coautor n litera work, was born at Upper Rankeillor, parish of Monimail, in July 1804. His education was limited to a f months' attendance at a subscription school in his sixth year, with occasional lessons from his parents. Li his younger brother, he followed the occupation of a labourer, frequently working in the quarry or breaking ew Like Alexander, was published in 1838 : their joint treatise on " Practical Economy" in the year following. In 1843, Alexander published a volume of tales, entitled "The Scottish Peasant's Fireside," which was favourably received. During the same year he was offered the editorship of the Dumfries Standard newspaper, with a salary of ;ioo a-year, but he was unable to accept the appointment from impaired health. He died at Mount chu Lite alary of AIOO a-year, but he was unable to accept trie appointment irom impaired nealtn. He died at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, on the i3th June 1843, and his remains were interred in his brother's grave in Abdie :hurchyard. An interesting volume of his Memoirs, embracing "Selections from his Correspondence and ^iterary Memoirs," was published in 1845 by Mr William M'Combie. JOHN BETHUNE. 293 he now purchased a loom and settled as a weaver on his own account, with his elder brother as his apprentice. A period of mercantile embarrassments which followed} severely affecting the manufacturing classes, pressed heavily on the subject of this notice ; his earnings became reduced to six shillings weekly, and he was obliged to exchange the labours of the shuttle for those of the implements of husbandry. During the period of his apprenticeship his thoughts had been turned to poetical composition, but it was subsequent to the commercial disasters of 1825 that he began earnestly to direct his attention towards the concerns of literature. Successive periods of bad health unfitting him for continued labour in the fields, were improved by extensive reading and composition. .Before he had completed his nineteenth year he had produced upwards of twenty poetical compositions, each of considerable length, and the whole replete with power, both of sentiment and expression. Till consider- ably afterwards, however, his literary productions were known only to his brother Alexander, or at furthest to his parents. " Up to the latter part of 1835," writes his brother in a biographical sketch, " the whole of his writing had been prosecuted as stealthily as if it had been a crime punishable by law. There being but one apart- ment in the house, it was his custom to write by the fire, with an old copy-book, upon which his paper lay, resting on his knee, and this, through life, was his only writing-desk. On the table, which was within reach, an old newspaper was kept constantly lying, and as soon as the footsteps of any one were heard approaching the door, pens and inkstand were thrust under this covering, and before the visitor came in, he had, in general, a book in his hand, and appeared to have been reading." For a number of years Bethune had wrought as a day-labourer in the grounds of Inchrye, in the vicinity of his birthplace. On the 'death of the overseer on that property he was appointed his successor, entering on the duties at the term of Mar- tinmas 1835, his brother accompanying him as his assistant. The appointment yielded 26 yearly, with the right of a cow's pasturage emoluments which con- siderably exceeded the average of his previous earnings. To the duties of his new situation he applied himself with his wonted industry, still continuing to dedicate his evenings and the intervals of toil to literary occupation. But his comparative prosperity was of short duration. . During the summer following his appointment at Inchrye the estate changed owners, and the new proprietor dispensed with his services at the next term. In another year the landlord required the little cottage at Loch- end, occupied by his parents. Undaunted by these reverses, John Bethune and his brother summoned stout courage ; they erected a cottage at Mount Pleasant, near Newburgh, the walls being mostly reared by their own hands. The future career of Bethune was chiefly occupied in literary composition. He became a contributor to the Scottish Christian Herald, " Wilson's Tales of the Borders," and other serial publica- tions. In 1838 appeared " Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," the mutual production of the poet and his brother a work which, published in Edinburgh, was well received. A work on " Practical Economy," on which the brothers had bestowed much pains, and which had received the favourable opinion of persons of literary eminence, was published in May 1839, but failed to attract general interest. This unhappy result deeply affected the health of the poet, whose constitution had already been much shattered by repeated attacks of illness. He was seized with a complaint which proved the harbinger of pulmonary consumption. He died at Mount Pleasant on the 1st September 1839, in his thirtieth year. With a more lengthened career John Bethune would have attained a high reputa- tion, both as an interesting poet and an elegant prose writer. His genius was versatile and brilliant ; of human nature, in all its important aspects, he possessed an intuitive perception, and he was practically familiar with the character and habits of the sons 294 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. of industry. His tales are touching and simple ; his verses lofty and contemplative. In sentiment eminently devotional, his life was a model of genuine piety. His Poems, prefaced by an interesting Memoir, were published by his surviving brother in 1840 ; and from the profits of a second edition, published in the following year, a handsome tombstone has been erected at his grave in the churchyard of Abdie. A SPKING SONG. THERE is a concert in the trees, There is a concert on the hill, There's melody in every breeze, And music in the murmuring rill. The shower is past, the winds are still, The fields are green, the flow'rets spring, The birds, and bees, and beetles fill The air with harmony, and fling The rosied moisture of the leaves In frolic flight from wing to wing, Fretting the spider as he weaves His airy web from bough to bough ; In vain the little artist grieves Their joy is his destruction now. Alas ! that, in a scene so fair, The meanest being e'er should feel The gloomy shadow of despair Or sorrow o'er his bosom steal. But in a world where woe is real, Each rank in life, and every day, Must pain and suffering reveal, And wretched mourners in decay When nations smile o'er battles won, When banners wave and streamers play, The lonely mother mourns her son Left lifeless on the bloody clay ; And the poor widow, all undone, Sees the wild revel with dismay. Even in the happiest scenes of earth, When swell'cl the bridal song on high, When every voice was tuned to mirth, And joy was shot from eye to eye, I 've heard a sadly-stifled sigh ; And, 'mid the garlands rich and fair, I 've seen a cheek, which once could vie In beauty with the fairest there, Grown deadly pale, although a smile Was born above to cloak despair. Poor maid ! it was a hapless wile Of long-concealed and hopeless love To hide a heart, which broke the while With pangs no lighter heart could prove. I The joyous spring and summer gay With perfumed gifts together meet, And from the rosy lips of May Breathe music soft and odours sweet ; And still my eyes delay my feet To gaze upon the earth and heaven, And hear the happy birds repeat Their anthems to the coming even ; Yet is my pleasure incomplete ; I grieve to think how few are given To feel the pleasures I possess, While thousand hearts, by sorrow riven, Must pine in utter loneliness, Or be to desperation driven. Oh ! could we find some happy land, Some Eden of the deep blue sea, By gentle breezes only fann'd, Upon whose soil, from sorrow free, Grew only pure felicity ! Who would not brave the stormiest main Within that blissful isle to be, Exempt from sight or sense of pain ? There is a land we cannot see, Whose joys no pen can e'er portray ; And yet, so narrow is the road, From it our spirits ever stray Shed light upon that path, God ! And lead us in the appointed way. There only joy shall be complete, More high than mortal thoughts can reach, For there the just and good shall meet, Pure in affection, thought, and speech ; No jealousy shall make a breach, Nor pain their pleasure e'er alloy ; There sunny streams of gladness stretch, And there the very air is joy. There shall the faithful, who relied On faithless love till life would cloy, And those who sorrow'd till they died , O'er earthly pain and earthly woe, See Pleasure, like a 'whelming tide, From an unbounded ocean flow. ALLAN STEWART, ALLAN STEWART, a short-lived poet of no inconsiderable merit, was born in the village of Houston, Renfrewshire, on the 30th January 1812. His father prosecuted the humble vocation of a sawyer. Deprived of his mother in early life, the loss was in some degree repaired by the kind attentions of his maternal aunt, Martha Muir, whose letters on religious subjects have been published. Receiving an ordinary education J ALLAN STEWART. 295 at school, lie followed the trade of a weaver in Paisley. His leisure hours were em- ployed in reading, and in the composition of verses. He died of typhus fever, at Paisley, on the 12th November 1837, in his twenty-sixth year. His "Poetical Remains" were published in 1838, in a thin duodecimo volume, with a well-written biographical sketch from the pen of his friend, Mr Charles Fleming. Stewart was a person of modest demeanour, and of a thoughtful and somewhat melancholy cast. His verses are generally of a superior order ; his songs abound in sweetness of expression and elegance of sentiment. THE SEA-BOY. AIR" The Soldier's Tear." THE storm grew faint as daylight tinged The lofty billows' crest ; And love-lit hopes, with fears yet fringed, Danced in the sea-boy's breast. And perch'd aloft, he cheer'ly sung To the billows' less'ning roar ' ' Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I'll see thee yet once more!" And what joy beam'd in his eye, When, o'er the dusky foam, He saw, beneath the northern sky, The hills that mark'd his home ! His heart with double ardour strung, He sung this ditty o'er " Ellen, so fair, so free, and young, I '11 see thee yet once more ! " Now towers and trees rise on his sight, And many a dear-loved spot ; And, smiling o'er the blue waves bright, He saw young Ellen's cot. The scenes on which his memory hung A cheerful aspect wore ; He then, with joyous feeling, sung, " I '11 see her yet once more ! " The land they near'd, and on the beach Stood many a female form ; But, ah ! his eye it could not reach His hope in many a storm. He through the spray impatient sprung, And gain'd the wish'd-for shore ; But Ellen, so fair, so sweet, and young, Was gone for evermore ! MENIE LORN. WHILE beaus and belles parade the streets On summer gloamings gay, And barter 'd smiles and borrow'd sweets, And all such vain display ; My walks are where the bean-field's breath On evening's breeze is borne, With her. the angel of my heart My lovely Menie Lorn. Love's ambuscades her auburn hair, Love's throne her azure eye, Where peerless charms and virtues rare In blended beauty lie. The rose is fair at break of day, And sweet the blushing thorn, But sweeter, fairer far than they, The smile of Menie Lorn. tell me not of olive groves, Where gold and gems abound ; Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves, With every virtue crown'd. 1 ask no other ray of joy Life's desert to adorn, Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy- The love of Menie Lorn. THE YOUNG SOLDIER. AIR " The Banks of the Devon." SAY not o' war the young soldier is weary, Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame ; Remember his daring when danger was near ye, Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame. Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming, Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free ; But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming ; He turns to the north wi' the tear in bjs ee. 'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted, 'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear ; The warm fondled hopes his first love had im- planted, He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear. An' aften he thinks on the bonny clear burnie, Whar oft in love's fondness they daff 'd their young day ; Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey 'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blae- berry brae. An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing, In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea; His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing 'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e. 296 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The black downy plume on his bonny cheek j babbit, As he stood at the door an* shook hands wi' them a' ; But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit, Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'. Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them, "Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream ; Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them, Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream. An' wha couldna sigh when memory's reveal- ing The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame? The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling His nature is harsh, and not worthy the ROBERT L MALONE, ROBERT L. MALONE was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where lie was born in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute. Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig Marshall, which attended, the Fisheries department in the west ; next in the Mediterranean Sea ; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health, to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long Room of the Customs at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, " The Sailor's Dream, and other Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock on the 5th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and retiring dispositions, Malone was un- ambitious of distinction as a poet. His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince considerable power. THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND. AIR " Humours o' Glen" THOUGH fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers, And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea, The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers, Is the thistle the thistle of Scotland, for me ! Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorn- ing, And breathing perfume over moorland andlea, But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning Like the thistle the thistle of Scotland, for me! What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken, Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free, And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken ; The thistle the thistle of Scotland, for thee ! Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers, And cold as the grave my affections must be, Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers ; The thistle the thistle of Scotland for me ! On the fields of their fame, wliile proud laurels she gathers, Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e, Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers ; The thistle the thistle of Scotland for me ! HAME IS AYE HAMELY. AIR "Love's Young Dream." OH 1 hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea ; Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame, There's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame! Oh! there's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame ! PETER STILL. 297 There's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand, Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land ? I'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name, And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame. 'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream, And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream ; His good sword won him wealth and power, and loud and loud acclaim ; But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame. No ! the peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still, For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill; And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game, As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame. Oh ! in the Brahmin, mild and grey, his father's face he saw ; He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa' ; And her he loved his Hieland girl there's magic in the name They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame. He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands, And where his father's cottage stood, a stately palace stands ; And with his grandchild on his knee the old man's heart on flame 'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame. Oil ! hame is aye namely, dear, though poor at times it be Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands be- yond the sea ; Oh ! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame, But there's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame. PETER STILL. PETER STILL was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth bis father rented a farm, but, being unfortu- nate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. "When somewhat older, he found employment as a farm servant ; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day- labourer. Of a delicate constitution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which be gave to the world in three separate publications. His last work " The Cottar's Sunday, and other Poems" appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. He closed a life of much priva- tion and suffering at Peterhead, on the 21st March 1848. Of sound religious principles and devoted Christian feeling, Still meekly submitted to the bitterness of his lot in life. He was fortunate in arresting the attention of some, who occasionally administered to bis wants, and contributed, by their patronage, to the increase of Ms reputation. His verses are largely pervaded with poetical fer- vour and religious sentiment, while his songs are generally true to nature. In person he was tall and slender, of a long thin countenance, large dark blue eyes, and curling black hair. JEAXIE'S LAMENT. AIR "Lord Gregory." I NEVER thocht to thole the waes It's been my lot to dree ; 1 never thocht to sigh sae sad AVhan first I sigh d for thee. I thocht your heart was like mine ain, As true as true could be ; I couldna think there was a stain In ane sae dear to me. 298 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Whan first amang the dewy flowers, Aside yon siller stream, My lowin' heart was press'd to yours, Nae purer did they seem ; Nae purer seem'd the draps o' dew, The flowers on whilk they hung, Than seem'd the heart I felt in you As to that heart I clung. But I was young an* thochtless then, An' easy to beguile ; My mither's warnin's had nae weight 'Bout man's deceitfu' smile. But noo, alas ! whan she is dead, I 've shed the sad, saut tear, And hung my heavy, heavy head Aboon my father's bier ! They saw their earthly hope betray'd, They saw their Jeanie fade ; They couldna thole the heavy stroke, An' baith are lowly laid ! Oh, Jamie ! but thy name again Shall ne'er be breathed by me, For, speechless through yon gow'ny glen, I '11 wander till I die. YE NEEDNA' BE COURTIN' AT ME. AIR "John Todd" " YE needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needua' be courtin' at me ; Ye 're threescore an' three, an' ye 're blin' o' an ee, Sae ye needna' be courtin' at me, auld man, Ye needna' be courtin' at me. "Stan 1 aff, noo, an' just lat me be, auld man. Stan' aff, noo, an' just lat me be ; Ye 're auld an' ye're cauld, an' ye 're blin' an' ye 're bald, An' ye 're nae for a lassie like me, auld man, Ye're nae for a lassie like me." " Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee, sweet lass, Ha'e patience, an' hear me a wee ; I've gowpens o' gowd, an' an aumry weel stow d, An' a heart that lo'es nane but thee, sweet lass, A heart that lo'es nane but thee. "I'll busk you as brawas a queen, sweet lass, I'll busk you as braw as a queen ; I've guineas to spare, an', hark ye, what's mair, I 'm only twa score an' fifteen, sweet lass, Only twa score an' fifteen." "Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear, auld man, Gae hame to your gowd an' your gear ; There's a laddie I ken has a heart like mine ain, An' to me he shall ever be dear, auld man, To me he shall ever be dear. " Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair, auld man, Get aff, noo, an' fash me nae mair ; There's a something in love that your gowd canna move I '11 be Johnie's although I gang bare, auld man, I '11 be Johnie's although I gang bare. " THE BUCKET FOR ME. The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me ! Awa' wi' your bickers o' barley bree ; Though good ye may think it, I'll never mair drink it The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me ! There's health in the bucket, there's wealth in the bucket, There 's mair i' the bucket than mony can see ; An' aye whan I leuk in't, I find there's a beuk in't That teaches the essence o' wisdom to me. Whan whisky I swiggit, my wifie aye beggit, An' aft did she sit wi' the tear in her e'e ; But noo wad you think it? whan water I drink it, Right blythesome she smiles on the bucket an' me. The bucket 's a treasure nae mortal can measure, It 's happit my wee bits o' bairnies an' me ; An' noo roun' my ingle, whare sorrows did mingle, I 've pleasure, an' plenty, an' glances o' glee. The bucket's the bicker that keeps a man sicker, The bucket's a shield an' a buckler to me ; In pool or in gutter nae langer I '11 splutter, But walk like a freeman wha feels he is free. Ye drunkards, be wise noo, an' alter your choice noo Come, cling to the bucket, an' prosper like me; Ye '11 find it is better to swig " caller water," Than groan in a gutter without a bawbee ! ROBERT NICOLL. 299 ROBERT NICOLL OXE of the most gifted and hopeful of modern Scottish song writers, Robert Nicoll was born at Little Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, on the 7th January 1814.* Of a family of nine children, he was the second son. His father, who bore the same Christian name, rented a farm at the period of his birth and for five years afterwards, when, involved in an affair of cautionary, he was reduced to the condition of an agricultural labourer. Young Nicoll received the rudiments of his education from his mother, a woman of superior shrewdness and information ; sub- sequently to his seventh year he tended cattle in the summer months, to procure the means of attending the parish school during the other portion of the year. From his childhood fond of reading, books were his constant companions in the field, on the highway, and during the intervals of leisure in his father's cottage. In his thirteenth year, he wrote verses, and became the correspondent of a newspaper. Apprenticed to a grocer and wine-merchant in Perth, and occupied in business from seven o'clock morning till nine o'clock evening, he prosecuted mental culture by abridging the usual hours of rest. At the age of nineteen he communicated a tale to Johnstone's Magazine, an Edinburgh periodical, which was inserted, and attracted towards him the notice of Mr Johnstone, the ingenious proprietor. By this gentleman he was in- troduced, during a visit he made to the capital, to some men of letters, who sub- sequently evinced a warm interest in his career. In 1834, Nicoll opened a small circulating library in Dundee, occupying his spare time in reading and composition, and likewise taking part in public meetings convened for the support of Radical or extreme liberal opinions. To the liberal journals of the town he became a frequent contributor both in prose and verse, and in 1835 appeared as the author of a volume of " Poems and Lyrics." This publication was highly esteemed by his friends, and most favourably received by the press. Abandoning business in Dundee, which had never been prosperous, he meditated proceeding as a literary adventurer to London, but was induced by Mr Tait, his friendly publisher, and some other well-wishers, to remain in Edinburgh till a suitable opening should occur. In the summer of 1836 he was appointed editor of the Leeds Times newspaper, with a salary of 100. The politics of this journal were Radical, and to the exposition and advocacy of these opinions he devoted himself with equal ardour and success. But the unremitting labour of conducting a public journal soon began materially to undermine the energies of a constitution which, never robust, had been already impaired by a course of untiring literary occupation. The excitement of a 'political contest at Leeds, during a general parliamentary election, completed the physical pros- tration of the poet ; he removed from Leeds to Knaresborough, and from thence to Laverock Bank, near Edinburgh, the residence of his friend Mr Johnstone. His case was hopeless ; after lingering a short period in a state of entire prostration, he de- parted this life in December 1837, in his twenty-fourth year. His remains, attended by a numerous assemblage, were consigned to the churchyard of North Leith. Possessed of strong poetical genius, Robert Nicoll has attained a conspicuous and honoured niche in the temple of the national minstrelsy. Several of his songs, espe- cially " Bonnie Bessie Lee" and " Orde Braes," have obtained an equal popularity with the best songs of Burns. Since the period of his death, four different editions of his "Poems" have been called for. The work has latterly been published by the Messrs Blackie of Glasgow in a handsome form, prefaced by an interesting memoir. " 1814, January 7. Robert Nicoll, Tullybeltane, had a child by his wife, Grace Fenwick, bom and bap- tized, named Robert." Auchtergaven Register o/Biri/is. 300 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Nicoll's strain is eminently smooth and simple ; and, though many of his lyrics published after his decease had not the benefit of his revision, he never falls into mediocrity. Of extensive sympathies, he portrays the loves, hopes, and fears of the human heart ; while he depicts nature only in her loveliness. His sentiments breathe a devoted and simple piety, the index of an unblemished life. In person Nicoll was rather above the middle height, with a slight stoop. His countenance which was of a sanguine complexion, was thoughtful and pleasing ; his eyes were of a deep blue, and his hair dark brown. In society he was modest and unobtrusive, but was firm and uncompromising in the maintenance of his opinions. His political views were founded on the belief that the industrial classes had suffered oppression from the aristocracy. The solace of his hours of leisure were the songs and music of his country. He married shortly prior to his decease, but was not long survived by his widow. A monument to his memory has been erected on the Orde Braes, in his native parish. ORD BRAES. THERE'S nae hame like the harne o' youth, Nae ither spot sae fair ; Nae ither faces look sae kind As the smilin' faces there. An' I ha'e sat by mony streams, Ha'e travell'd mony ways ; But the fairest spot on the earth to me Is on bonnie Orde Braes. An ell-lang wee thing then I ran "WT the ither neebor bairns, To pu' the hazel's shining nuts, An' to wander 'mang the ferns ; An' to feast on the bramble-berries brown, An* gather the glossy slaes, By the burnie's side, an' aye sinsyne I ha'e loved sweet Orde" Braes. The memories o* my father's hame, An' its kindly dwellers a', 0' the friends I loved wi' a young heart's love Ere care that heart could thraw, Are twined wi' the stanes o' the silver burn, An' its fairy crooks an' bays, That onward sang 'neath the gowden broom Upon bonnie Orde Braes. Aince in a day there were happy hames By the bonnie Orde's side : Nane ken how meikle peace an' love In a straw-roof d cot can bide. But the hames are gane, an' the hand o' time The roofless wa's doth raze ; Laneness an' sweetness hand in hand Gang ower the Onl( Braes. Oh ! an' the sun were shinin' now, An' oh! an' I were there, Wi' twa three friends o' auld langsyne, My wanderin 1 joy to share ! For though on the hearth o' my bairnhood's hame The flock o' the hills doth graze, Some kind hearts live to love me yet Upon bonnie Orde Braes. THE MUIR 0' GORSE AN' BROOM. I WIXXA bide in your castle ha's, Nor yet in your lofty towers ; My heart is sick o' your gloomy hame, An' sick o' your darksome bowers ; An' oh ! I wish I were far awa' Frae their grandeur an' their gloom, Where the freeborn Untie sings its sang On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom. Sae weel as I like the healthfu' gale That blaws fu' kindly there, An' the heather brown, an' the wild blue-bell That wave on the muirland bare ; An' the sinking birds, an' the humming bees, An' the little lochs that toom Their gushing burns to the distant sea O'er the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom. Oh ! if I had a dwallin' there, Biggit laigh by a burnie's side, Where ae aik tree, in the summer time, Wi' its leaves that hame might hide ; Oh ! I wad rejoice frae day to day, As blythe as a young bridegroom ; For dearer than palaces to me Is the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom ! In a lanely cot on a muirland wild, My mither nurtured me ; 0' the meek wild flowers I playmates made, An' my hame wi' the wandering bee. An' oh ! if I were far awa' Frae your grandeur an' your gloom, Wi' them again, an' the bladden gale, On the Muir o' Gorse an' Broom. THE BONNIE HIELAND HILLS. OH ! the bonnie Hieland hills, Oh ! the bonnie Hieland hills. The bonnie hills o 1 Scotland ! The bonnie Hieland hills. There are lands on the earth where the vine ever blooms, Where the air that is breathed the sweet orange perfumes ; ROBERT NICOLL. 301 But mair dear is the blast the lane shepherd that chills As it wantons along o'er our am Hieland hills. Oh ! the honnie Hieland hills. There are rich garden lands wi' their skies ever fair ; But o' riches or beauty we mak' na our care ; "Wherever we wander ae vision aye fills Our hearts to the burstin' our ain Hieland hills. Oh ! the bonnie Hieland hills. In our lone and deep valleys fair maidens there are, Though born in the midst o' the elements' war ; O sweet are the damsels that sing by our rills, As they dash to the sea frae our ain Hieland hills. Oh ! the bonnie Hieland hills. On the moss-cover'd rock wi' their broadswords in hand, To fight for fair freedom, their sons ever stand ; A storm-nursed bold spirit each warm bosom fills, That guards frae a' danger our ain Hieland hills. Oh ! the bonnie Hieland hills, Oh ! the bonnie Hieland hills ; The bonnie hills o' Scotland ! The bonnie Hieland hills. THE BONNIE ROWAN BUSH. THE bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen, Where the burnie clear doth gush In yon lane glen ; My head is white and auld, An' my bluid is thin an' cauld ; But I lo'e the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen. My Jeanie first I met In yon lane glen, When the grass wi' dew was wet In yon lane glen ; The moon was shining sweet, An' our hearts wi' love did beat, By the bonnie, bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen. Oh ! she promised to be mine, In yon lane glen ; Her heart she did resign, In yon lane glen ; An' mony a happy day Did o'er us pass away, Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen. Sax bonnie bairns had we In yon lane glen Lads an' lassies young an' spree, In yon lane glen ; An' a blyther family Than ours there cou'dna be, Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen. Now my auld wife's gane awa' Frae yon lane glen, An' though summer sweet doth fa' On yon lane glen To me its beauty's gane, For, alake ! I sit alane Beside the bonnie rowan bush In yon lane glen. BONNIE BESSIE LEE. BONNIE Bessie Lee had a face fu' o' smiles, And mirth round her ripe lip was aye dancing slee ; And light was the footfa', and winsome the wiles, 0' the flower o' the parochin, our ain Bessie Lee! Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school laddies paik, And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy would flee, Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love for her sake There was life in the Wythe blink o' bonnie Bessie Lee ! She grat wi' the waefu', and laughed wi' the glad, And light as the wind 'mang the dancers was she ; And a tongue that could jeer, too, the little limmer had, Wliilk keepit aye her ain side for bonnie Bessie Lee ! She could sing like the lintwhite that sports 'mang the whins, An' sweet was her note as the bloom to the bee It has aft thrilled my heart whaur our wee burnie rins, Where a' thing grew fairer wi' bonnie Bessie Lee.* And she whiles had a sweetheart, and some- times had twa, A limmer o' a lassie ; but atween you and me, Her warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw awa', Though mony a ane had sought it frae bonnie Bessie Lee. But ten years had gane since I gazed on her last For ten years had parted my auld hame and me And I said to niysel', as her mither's door I passed, Will I ever get anither kiss frae bonnie Bessie Lee? * The last four lines of this stanza are not the pro- duction of Nicoll, but have been contributed for the of this popular song. 302 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. But Time changes a' thing the ill-natured loon! AVere it ever sae rightly, he '11 no let it be ; And I rubbit at my een, and I thought I would swoon, How the carle had come roun' about our ain Bessie Lee ! The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife grown auld, Twa weans at her apron, and ane on her knee, She was douce too, and wise-like and wisdom's sae cauld ; I would rather hae the ither ane than this Bessie Lee. ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING. ARCHIBALD STIRLING IRVING was born in Edinburgh on the 18th of December 1816. His father, John Irving, "Writer to the Signet, was the intimate early friend of "Walter Scott, and is " the prosperous gentleman" referred to in the general introduction to the "Waverley Novels. Having a delicate constitution, young Irving was unable to follow any regular profession, but devoted himself, when health permitted, to the concerns of literature. He made himself abundantly familiar with the Latin classics, and became intimately conversant with the more distinguished British poets. Pos- sessed of a remarkably retentive memory, he could repeat some of the longest poems in the language. Receiving a handsome annuity from his father, he resided in various of the more interesting localities of Scottish scenery, some of which he celebrated in verse. He published anonymously, in 1841, a small volume of " Original Songs," of which the song selected for the present work may be regarded as a favourable speci- men. He died at Newmills, near Ardrossan, on the 20th September 1851, in his thirty-fifth year. Some time before his death, he exclusively devoted himself to serious reflection and Scriptural reading. He married in October 1850, and his widow still survives. THE WILD-ROSE BLOOMS. TUNE " CaUdonia." THE wild-rose blooms in Drummond woods, The trees are blossom'd fair, The lake is smiling to the sun, And Mary wand ring there. The powers that watch'd o'er Mary's birth Did Nature's charms despoil ; They stole for her the rose's blush, The sweet lake's dimpled smile. The lily for her breast they took, Nut-brown her locks appear ; But when they came to make her eyes, They robb'd the starry sphere. But cruel sure was their design, Or mad-like their device For while they fill'd her eyes with fire, They made her heart of ice. ALEXANDER A, RITCHIE, ALEXANDER ABERNETHT RITCHIE, author of " The Wells o' "Wearie," was born in the Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1816. In early youth he evinced a lively appreciation of the humorous and the pathetic, and exhibited remarkable artistic talent, sketching from nature with fidelity and ease. His parents being in humble circumstances, he was apprenticed as a house-painter, and soon became distinguished for his skill in the decorative branch of his profession. On the expiry of his apprenticeship, he culti- vated painting in a higher department of the art, and his pictures held a highly ALEXANDER A. RITCHIE. 303 respectable place at the annual exhibitions of the Scottish Academy. Among his pictures which became favourites may be mentioned the "Wee Raggit Laddie," "The Old Church Road," " The Gaberlunzie," " Tak' your Auld Cloak about ye," and " The Captive Truant." His illustrations of his friend, Mr James Ballantine's works, " The Gaberlunzie's Wallet" and " The Miller of Deanhaugh," and of some other popular works, evince a lively fancy and keen appreciation of character. He executed a number of water-colour sketches of the more picturesque and interesting lanes and alleys of Edinburgh ; and contributed to the Illustrated London News representations of remarkable events as they occurred in the Scottish capital. He died suddenly at St John's Hill, Canongate, Edinburgh, in 1850, in the thirty-fourth year of his age. Ritchie was possessed of a vast fund of humour, and was especially esteemed for the simplicity of his manners and his kindly dispositions. He excelled in reading poetry, whether dramatic or descriptive, and sung his own songs with intense feeling. He lived with his aged mother, whom he regarded with dutiful affection, and who sur- vives to lament his loss. Shortly before his death he composed the following hymn, which has been set to appropriate music : Father of blissfulness, Grant me a resting-place Now my sad spirit is longing for rest. Lord, I beseech. Thee, Deign Thou to teach me Which, path to heaven is surest and best : Lonely and dreary, Laden and weary, Oh ! for a home in the land of the blest ! Father of holiness, Look on my lowliness ; From this sad bondage, Lord, set me free ; Grant that, 'mid love and peace, Sorrow and sin may cease, While in the Saviour my trust it Shall be. When death's sleep comes o'er me, On waking before me The portals of glory all open I '11 see. THE WELLS 0' WEARIE. AIR "Bonnie House o' Airlie." SWEETLY shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun, j Or the fairy will change you into a wee, wee And mak's her look young and cheerie ; flower, Yet I maun awa' to spend the afternoon And you '11 grow by the Wells o' Wearie. At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie. And you maun gang wi' me, my winsome Mary Grieve, There's nought in the world to fear ye ; For I ha'e ask'd your minuie, and she has gi'en ye leave To gang to the Wells o' Wearie. Oh, the sun winna blink in thy bonnie blue een, Nor tinge the white brow o' my dearie ; For I'll shade a bower wi' rashes lang and green By the lanesome Wells o' Wearie. But, Mary, my love, beware ye dinna glower At your form in the water so clearly, Yestreen as I wander'd there a' alane, I felt unco douf and drearie, For wanting my Mary, a' around me was but pain At the lanesome Wells o' Wearie. Let fortune or fame their minions deceive, Let fate look gruesome and eerie ; True glory and wealth are mine wi' Mary Grieve, When we meet by the Wells o' Wearie. Then gang wi' me, my bonnie Mary Grieve, Nae danger will daur to come near ye ; For I ha'e ask'd your minnie, and she has gi'en ye leave To gang to the Wells o' Wearie. 304 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ALEXANDER LAING, ALEXANDER LAIXG was born at Brechin on the 14th May 1787. His father, James Laing was an agricultural labourer. With the exception of two winters' schooling, he was wholly self-taught. Sent to tend cattle so early as his eighth year, he regularly carried books and writing-materials with him to the fields. His books were procured by the careful accumulation of the halfpence bestowed on him by the admirers of his juvenile tastes. In his sixteenth year, he entered on the business of a flax-dresser, in his native town an occupation in which he was employed for a period of fourteen years. He afterwards engaged in mercantile concerns, and some years before his death was enabled to retire from business. Mr Laing early wrote verses. In 1819, several songs from his pen appeared in the "Harp of Caledonia" a respectable collection of minstrelsy, edited by John Struthers. He subsequently became a contributor to the "Harp of Renfrewshire" and the " Scottish Minstrel," edited by R. A. Smith. His lyrics likewise adorn the pages of Robertson's "Whistle Binkie" and the "Book of Scottish Song." He published, in 1846, a collected edition of his poems and songs, in a duodecimo volume under the designation of " Wayside Flowers." A second edition appeared in 1850. He was a contributor to the local journals ; furnished a number of anecdotes for the " Laird of Logan," a humorous publication of the west of Scotland ; and compiled some useful elementary works for the use of Sabbath-schools. His lyrics are per- vaded by a graceful simplicity, and the chief themes of his inspiration are love and patriotism. Than his song entitled " My Ain Wife," we do not know a lay more beautifully simple. His "Hopeless Exile" is the perfection of tenderness. Mr Laing died at Brechin, after a short illness, on the 14th October 1857. AE HAPPY HOUR. AIR" The Cock Laird" THE dark grey o' gloamin', The lone leafy shaw, The coo o' the cushat, The scent o' the ha ; The brae o' the burnie, A' bloomin' in flower, An* twa faithfu' lovers, Make ae happy hour. A kind winsome wifie, A clean canty hame, An' smilin' sweet babies To lisp the dear name ; Wi' plenty o' labour, An' health to endure, Make time to row round aye The ae happy hour. Ye lost to affection, Whom avarice can move To woo an' to man-}' For a' thing but love ; Awa' wi' your sorrows, Awa' wi' your store, Ye ken na the pleasure 0' ae happy hour. LASS, GIN YE WAD LO'E ME. AIR "Lass, gin I come near you." " LASS, gin ye wad lo'e me, Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me, Ye'se be ladye o' my ha', Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me. A canty but, a cosie ben, Weel plenish'd ye may trow me ; A brisk, a blythe, a kind gtuleman Lass, gin ye wad lo'e me!" " Walth there's little doubt ye l>a'e, An' bidin' bein an' easy ; But brisk an' blythe ye canna be, An' you sae auld an' crazy. Wad marriage mak' you young again? Wad woman's love renew you? Awa', ye silly, doitet man, I canna, winna lo'e you!' "Witless hizzie, e'en's you like, The ne'er a doit I 'm carin' ; But men maun be the first to speak, An' wauters maun be speerin'. Yet, lassie, I ha'e lo'ed you lang, AJI' now I'm come to woo you ; I'm no sae auld as clashes gang, I think you'd better lo'e me." ALEXANDER LAING. 305 "Doitet bodie ! auld or young, Ye needna langer tarry, Gin ane be loutin' o'er a rung, He 's no for me to marry. Gae hame an' ance bethink yoursel' How ye wad come to woo me, An' mind me i' your latter-will, Bodie, gin ye lo'e me! " LASS OF LOGIE. AIR "Lass of Arrcmteenie." I 'VE seen the smiling summer flower Amang the braes of Yarrow ; I've, heard the raving winter wind Amang the hills of Barra ; I 've wander'd Scotland o'er and o'er, Frae Teviot to Strathbogie ; But the bonniest lass that I ha'e seen Is bonnie Jean of Logic. Her lips were like the heather bloom, In meekest dewy morning ; Her cheeks were like the ruddy leaf, The bloomy brier adorning ; Her brow was like the milky flower That blossoms in the bogie ; And love was laughing in her een The bonnie lass of Logie. I said, "My lassie, come wi' me, My hand, my hame are ready ; I ha'e a lairdship of my ain, And ye shall be my ladye. I've ilka thing baith out and in, To make you blythe and vogie :" She hung her head and sweetly smiled The bonnie lass of Logie ! But she has smiled, and fate has frown'd, And wrung my heart with sorrow ; The bonnie lass sae dear to me Can never be my marrow. For ah ! she loves another lad The ploughman wi' his cogie ; Yet happ3 r , happy may she be, The bonnie lass of Logie ! MY AIN WIFE. AIR "John Anderson, my Jo." I WADNA gi : e my ain wife For ony wife I see ; For, oh ! my dainty ain wife, She's aye sae dear to me. A bonnier yet I 've never seen, A better canna be ; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see. Though beauty is a fadin' flower, As fadin' as it's fair, It looks fu' well in ony wife, An' mine has a' her share. She ance was ca'd a bonnie lass She 's bonnie aye to me ; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see. Oh, couthy is my ingle-cheek, An' cheery is my Jean ; I never see her angry look, Nor hear her word on ane. She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roun'. An' aye gude wi' me ; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see. But oh, her looks sae kindly, They melt my heart outright, When ower the baby at her breast She hangs wi' fond delight. She looks intil its bonnie face An' syne looks to me ; I wadna gi'e my ain wife For ony wife I see. JEAN OF ABERDEEN. AIR " Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff." YE VE seen the blooming rosy brier, On stately Dee's wild woody knowes ; Ye've seen the op'ning lily fair, In streamy Don's gay broomy howes ; An' ilka bonnie flower that grows Amang their banks and braes sae green- These borrow a' their finest hues Frae lovely Jean of Aberdeen. Ye've seen the dew-eyed bloomy haw, When morning gilds the welkin high ; Ye've heard the breeze o' summer blaw, When e'ening steals alang the sky. But brighter far is Jeanie's eye When we're amang the braes alane, An' softer is the bosom-sigh Of lovely Jean of Aberdeen. Though I had a' the valleys gay Around the airy Bennochie, An' a' the fleecy flocks that stray Amang the lofty hills o' Dee ; ' While Mem'ry lifts her melting ee, An' Hope unfolds her fairy scene, My heart wi' them I'd freely gi'e To lovely Jean of Aberdeen. THE HOPELESS EXILE. AIR "Alas! for Poor Teddy Macshane. " OH ! where has the exile his home? Oh! where has the exile his home? Where the mountain is steep, Where the valley is deep, Where the waves of the Ohio foam ; Where no cheering smile His woes may beguile. Oh ! there has the exile his home. 306 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Oh! when will the exile return? Oh ! when will the exile return ? When our hearts heave no sigh, When our tears shall be dry, When Erin no longer shall mourn ; When his name we disown, When his mem'ry is gone Oh I then will the exile return ! ALEXANDER CAROLE, ALEXANDER CARLILE was born at Paisley in the year 1788. His progenitors were remarkable for tbeir acquaintance with the arts, and relish for elegant literature. His eldest brother, the late Dr Carlile of Dublin, attained much eminence as a profound thinker and an accomplished theologian. Having received a liberal education, first at the grammar-school of Paisley, and afterwards in the University of Glasgow, the sub- ject of this sketch settled as a manufacturer in his native town. Apart from the avocations of business, much of his time was devoted to the concerns of literature ; he contributed to various periodicals, and composed verses for several works on the national minstrelsy. At an early period he wrote the spirited and popular song, beginning " Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha ?" which has since obtained a place in all the collections. His only separate publication, a duodecimo volume of " Poems," appeared in 1855. Mr Carlile was much devoted to the interests of his native town, and sedulously endeavoured to promote the moral and social welfare of his fellow- townsmen. He died at Paisley on the 4th August 1860. WHA'S AT THE WINDOW?* OH, wha's at the window, wha, wha? Oh, wha's at the window, wha, wha* Wha but blythe Jamie Glen, He's come sax miles and ten, To tak' bonnie Jeannie awa, awa, To tak 1 bonnie Jeannie awa. He has plighted his troth, and a', and a', Leal love to gi'e, and a', and a', And sae has she dune, By a' that 's abune, For he lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bnne a', 'bune 'a, He lo'es her, she lo'es him, 'bune a'. Bridal-maidens are braw, braw, Bridal-maidens are braw, braw, But the bride's modest ee, And warm cheek are to me 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a', and a', 'Bune pearlins, and brooches, and a'. It's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha', It's mirth on the green, in the ha', the ha'; There's quaffing and lathing, There's dancing and dalling, And the bride's father's blythest of a', of a 1 , The bride's father's blythest of a'. * The title of this song seems to have been suggested by that of a ballad recovered by Cromek, and published in his "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," p. zip. The first line of the old ballad runs thus : " Oh, who is this under my window." ED. It 's no that she 's Jamie's ava, ava, It's no that she's Jamie's ava, ava, That my heart is sae eerie When a' the lave 's cheerie, But it's just that she'll aye be awa, awa, It 's just that she '11 aye be awa. THE VALE OF KILLEAX. YES, there's a valley as calm and as sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet; So bland in its beauty, so rich in its green, 'Mid Scotia's dark mountains the Vale of Kill can. The flocks on its soft lap so peacefully roam, The stream seeks the deep lake as the child seeks its home, That has wander'd all day, to its lullaby close, Singing blythe 'mid the wild-flowers, and fain would repose. How solemn the broad hills that curtain around This sanctuary of nature, 'mid a wilderness found, Whose echoes low whisper, ' ' Bid the world farewell, And with lowlv contentment here peacefully dwell ! " THOMAS LYLE. 307 Then build me a cot by that lake's verdant And pale Eve, with her rapture tear, soft will shore, impart 'Mid the world's wild turmoil I'll mingle no ; To the soul her own meekness a rich glow to more. the heart. And the tidings evoking the sigh and the tear, Of man's crimes and his follies, no more shall I hear. The heavings of passion all rock'd to sweet rest, As repose its still waters, so repose shall this breast ; | And 'mid brightness and calmness my spirit Young Morn, as on tiptoe he ushers the I shall rise, day, , Jake the mist from the mountain, to blend \VillteachfadingHopetorekindleherray; j with the skies. THOMAS LYLE, THOMAS LYLE was born at Paisley in 1792. Attending the philosophical and medical classes in the University of Glasgow, he obtained the diploma of surgeon in the year 1S16. He commenced medical practice in Glasgow, where he remained till 1826> when he removed to Airth, Stirlingshire. The latter locality afforded him abundant opportunities for prosecuting his favourite study of botany ; and he frequently pro- ceeded at early dawn to great distances in quest of curious or rare plants, so as to gratify his peculiar tastes without interfering with the duties of his profession. At an earlier period of life, having cherished a love for the ancient national music, he was in the habit of collecting and noting such of the older airs as were rapidly passing into oblivion. He was particularly struek with one of these airs, which he deemed worthy of more suitable words than those to which it was commonly sung.* At this period he often resorted, in his botanical rambles, to the wooded and sequestered banks of the Kelvin, about two miles north-west of Glasgow ; and in consequence he was led to compose for his favourite tune the words of his beautiful song, "Kelvin Grove." " The Harp of Renfrewshire " was now in the course of being published, in numbers, under the editorship of his college friend and professional brother, John Sim, and to this work he contributed his new song. In a future number of the work, the song appeared without his name, as was requested, but with some unauthorised alterations. Of these he complained to Mr Sim, who laid the blame on Mr John Murdoch, who had succeeded him in the editorship, and Mr Lyle did not further prosecute inquiry on the subject. On the retirement of Mr Murdoch, the editorship of " The Harp of Renfrewshire" was intrusted to the poet Motherwell, who incautiously ascribed the song to Mr Sim in the index of the work. Sim died in the West Indies before this period ;t and, in the belief that the song had been composed by him, Mr Purdie, music-seller in Edinburgh, made purchase of the copyright from his representatives, and published the words, with music arranged for the piano by Robert Archibald Smith. Mr Lyle now asserted his title to the authorship, and on Mr Sim's letter regarding the alterations being submitted to Messrs Motherwell and Smith, a decision in favour of his claim was pronounced by these gentlemen. Mr Lyle was shortly after invited by Mr Smith to contribute songs for the " Irish Minstrel," one of his numerous musical publications. In 1527 Mr Lyle published the results of his researches into the song literature of his country in a duodecimo volume, entitled " Ancient Ballads and Songs, chiefly from Tradition, Manuscripts, and scarce Works, with Biographical and Illustrative Notices." Of this work, the more interesting portion consists of " Miscellaneous * The former words to this air commenced, "Oh ! the shearing's no for you, bonnie lassie, O !" i See article " John Sim," ante. 308 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Poems, by Sir William Mure, Knight of Eowallan," together with several songs of various merit by the editor. Having acted as medical practitioner at Airth during the period of twenty-eight years, Mr Lyle, in the close of 1853, returned to Glasgow, where he actively pro- secuted the duties of his profession. His death took place in Glasgow, on the 19th April 1859. KELVIN GROVE. Lsf us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, ! Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, ! Where the rose in all her pride, Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fames glide, bonnie lassie ! Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, ! To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, ! Where the glens rebound the call Of the roaring water's fall, Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie ! Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, ! When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, ! There the May pink's crimson plume Throws a soft but sweet perfume Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, ! Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie ! As the smile of fortune's thine, bonuie lassie, ! Yet with fortune on my side, I could stay thy father's pride, And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, ! But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, ! On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, ! Ere yon golden orb of day Wake the warblers on the spray, From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, ! Then farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, ! And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O ! To the river winding clear, To the fragrant-scented breer, Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, ! When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, ! Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonuie lassie, ! Then, Helen ! shouldst thou hear Of thy lover on his bier, To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, ! JAMES HOME. JAMES HOME was born in 1804, on the farm of Hollybush, about a mile south of Galashiels. During a period of about thirty years, he was employed in the humble capacity of a dry-stone mason in Peebleshire. He ultimately received the office of postmaster at Kachan Mill in Ms native county. Home did not venture on a publication, and latterly abandoned the composition of verses. In youth he was, writes a correspondent, " an enthusiast in love, music, and poetry." A number of his songs and poetical pieces, which he had addressed to friends, have long been popular in the south of Scotland. His song entitled " This Lassie o' Mine" has enjoyed an uncommon measure of general favour. His composi- tions are replete with pathos ; he has skilfully told the lover's tale ; and has most truthfully depicted the joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, of human life. Some of his best pieces appear in the " Unknown Poets " of Mr Alexander Campbell, a work which only reached a single number. Of mild dispositions, modest manners, and industrious habits, Home was much respected in private life. He died at Rachan Mill, on the 27th September 1868. JAMES HOME. 309 MARY STEEL. I 'LL think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the lark begins to sing, And a thousan', thousan' joyfu' hearts Are welcoming the spring : When the merle and the blackbird build their nest In the bushy forest tree, And a' things under the sky seem blest, My thoughts shall be o' thee. I '11 think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the simmer spreads her flowers, And the lily blooms and the ivy twines In beauty round the bowers ; When the cushat coos in the leafy wood, And the lambs sport o'er the lea, And every heart's in its happiest mood, My thoughts shall be o' thee. I '11 think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When har'st blythe days begin, And shearers ply, in the yellow ripe field The foremost rig to win ; When the shepherd brings his ewes to the fauld, Where light-hair'd lasses be, And mony a tale o' love is tauld, 31 y thoughts shall be o' thee. I '11 think o' thee, my Mary Steel, When the winter winds rave high, And the tempest wild is pourin' doun Frae the dark and troubled sky ? When a hopeless wail is heard on land, And shrieks frae the roaring sea, And the wreck o' nature seems at hand, My thoughts shall be o' thee ! OH, HAST THOU FORGOTTEN? OH, hast thou forgotten the birk tree's shade, And this warm, true heart o' mine, Mary ? Oh, hast thou forgotten the promise thou made, When so fondly 'twas pressed to thine, Mary ? Oh, hast thou forgotten, what I ne'er can forget, The hours we have spent together ? Those hours which, like stars in my memory, yet Shine on as brightly as ever! Oh, hast thou forgotten that moment of bliss, So fraught with the heart's full feeling? As we clung to each other in the last embrace, The soul of love revealing ! Oh, hast thou forgotten that sacred spot, Where the farewell word was spoken ? Is the sigh, and the tear, and all forgot, The vow and the promise broken ? Then for ever farewell, thou false fair one ; Though other arms caress thee, Though a fairer youth thy heart should gain, And a smoother tongue should bless thee : Yet never again on thy warm young cheek Will breathe a soul more warm than mine, And never again will a lover speak Of love more pure to thine. THE MAID OF MY HEART. AIR " The last Rose of Summer." WHEN the maid of my heart, with the dark rolling eye, The only beloved of my bosom is nigh, I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart. When around and above us there's nought to be seen, But the moon on the sky and the flower on the green, And all is at rest in the glen and the hilL Save the soul-stirring song of the breeze and therilL Then the maid of my heart to my bosom is press'd, Then all I hold dear in this world is possess' d; Then I ask not of Heaven one bliss to impart, Save that which I feel with the maid of my heart. THIS LASSIE 0' MINE.* TUNE" Wattle's Ramble." 0, saw ye this sweet bonnie lassie o' mine ? Or saw ye the smile on her cheek sae divine? Or saw ye the kind love that speaks in her ee? Sure naebody e'er was sae happy as me. It 's no that she dances sae light on the green, It 's no the simplicity marked in her mien But, ! it 's the kind love that speaks iu her ee That keeps me aye happy as happy can be. To meet her alane 'mang the green leafy trees, When naebody kens, an' when naebody sees ; To breathe out the soul in a saft melting kiss On earth sure there 's naething is equal to this. I have felt every bliss which the soul can enjoy, When friends circle round, and nought to annoy ; I have felt every joy which illumines the breast When the full flowing bowl is most warmly caress'd. * This song is introduced in Blackie's posthumous edition of the Ettrick Shepherd's works as one of Hogg's own compositions. The original was handed to the Shepherd by the late Mr Peter Roger of Peebles, and Hogg, with the view of directing attention to the real author, introduced it shortly after in his Nodes Ben- geriana, in the "Edinburgh Literary Journal" (vol. i., p. 258). Being included in this periodical paper, the editor of his posthumous works had assumed that the song was the Shepherd's own composition. 310 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. But, ! there 's a sweet and a heavenly charm In life's early day, when the bosom is warm, When soul meets with soul in a saft melting kiss, On earth sure there's naething is equal to this. SONG OF THE EMIGRANT. OH ! the land of hills is the land for me, "Where the maiden's step is light and free ; "Where the shepherd's pipe, and the hunter's horn, Awake the joys of the rosy morn. There's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the lake, That tells how the foamy billows break ; There 's a voice in the wind, when it comes from the wood, That tells of dreary solitude. But, oh ! when it comes from the mountain fells, Where the Spirit of Song and Freedom dwells, Where in youth's warm day I woke that strain I ne'er in this world can wake again. The warm blood leaps in its wonted course, And fresh tears gush from their briny source, As if I had .hail'd in the passing wind The all I have loved and left behind, JAMES TELFER, AN ingenious prose-writer and respectable poet, James Telfer was born on the 3d December 1800, at Newbigging, near the head of Oxnam Water, in the parish of Southdean and county of Roxburgh. Like his father, he originally followed the humble avocation of a shepherd. He was an enthusiastic admirer of Scottish ballads ; and when Hogg's " Queen's Wake," was published, he procured a copy, and made the book his constant companion. He first essayed verse by composing imitations of the more striking portions of the Shepherd's poem. In 1820 he became a contributor to the Newcastle Magazine, and in the following year published at Jedburgh a volume of " Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems," which, he inscribed to his poetical pre- ceptor, the Bard of Ettrick. Abandoning the crook, he now sought employment as a teacher, having duly qualified himself by a course of study. In 1827 he opened a school at Saughtrees at the head of Liddesdale. Here, in a state of seclusion from the learned world, he continued to reside, engaged during the day in the arduous duties of the schoolroom, and in the evenings devoting himself to reading and composition. He became a great authority in the poetical literature of his country. With his admirable friend, Mr Robert White of Newcastle, he maintained a literary correspon- dence for the period of thirty years. " Barbara Gray," an interesting prose tale pro- ceeded from his pen in 1835. His last publication, a collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse, appeared in 1852, with the title of " Tales and Sketches." By his published writings, the poet did not add materially to his means ; Ms school emoluments did not exceed twenty pounds a year, added to the free occupa- tion of a wretched tenement, which formed the Saughtrees schoolhouse. In 1860 his school-buildings were restored, but not before the occupant had, by long exposure in the old wind-pierced hovel, contracted a severe pulmonary ailment. He succumbed to this complaint on the 18th January 1862, in his 62d year. Telfer was unhappily disposed to indulge in a sarcastic vein against those who had offended him ; he was otherwise possessed of genial and benevolent qualities. OH, WILL YE WALK THE WOOD WI' ME ? "It's I'll not walk the wood wi' thee, "On, will ye walk the wood wi' me? Oh, will ye walk the green? Or will ye sit within mine arias, My ain kind Jean ?" Nor yet will I the green ; And as for sitting in your arms, It's what I dinna mean." Portions of the first and second verses of this song are fragments of an older ditty. Xote by the Author JAMES D. BURNS. 311 " Oh ! slighted lore is ill to thole, And weel may I corapleen ; But since that better mayna be, I e'en maun thol't for Jean." ' ' Gang up to May o' Mistycleugh, Ye saw her late yestreen ; Ye '11 find in her a lightsome love Ye winna find in Jean." " Wi' bonny May o' Mistycleugh I carena to be seen ; Her lightsome love I'd freely gi'e For half a blink frae Jean." " Gang down to Madge o' Miryfaulds, I ken for her ye green ; Wi' her ye '11 get a purse o' gowd Ye '11 naething get wi' Jean." "For doity Madge o' Miryfaulds I dinna care a preen ; The purse o' gowd I weel could want, If I could ha'e my Jean." " Oh, yes ! I '11 walk the wood wi' thee ; Oh, yes ! I '11 walk the green ; But first ye '11 meet me at the kirk, And mak' me aye your Jean. " I MAUX GAE OVER THE SEA. " SWEET summer now is by, And cauld winter is nigh, The wan leaves they fa' frae the tree ; The hills are white wi' snaw, And the frosty winds blaw, And I maun gae over the sea, Mary, And I maun gae over the sea. But winter will gang by, And summer come wi' joy, And Nature again will be free ; And wooers you will find, And mair ye '11 never mind The laddie that 's over the sea, Mary, The laddie that 's over the sea." " Oh, "Willie, since it 's sae, My heart is very wae To leave a' my friends and countrie ; But wi' thee I will gang, Though the way it be lang, And wi' thee I '11 cross the saut sea, Willie, And wi' thee I '11 cross the saut sea, " "The way is yera far, And terrible is war, And great are the hardships to dree ; And if I should be slain, Or a prisoner ta'en, My jewel, what would come o' thee, Mary ? My jewel, what would come o' thee ? " Sae at hame ye maun bide, And shpuld it sae betide That a bride to anither ye be, For ane that lo'ed ye dear Ye'll whiles drap a tear ; I '11 aften do the same for thee, Mary, I '11 aften do the same for thee." The rowin' tear down fell, Her bosom wasna well, For she sabbit most woefullie ; ' ' Owre the yirth I wad gang, And never count it lang, But I fear ye carena for me, "Willie, But I fear ye carena for me. " Nae langer could he thole, She tore his vera soul, He dighted her bonnie blue ee ; " Oh, what was it you said, Oh ! my ain loving maid? I '11 never love a woman but thee, Mary, I '11 never love a woman but thee ! " The fae is forced to yield, And freedom has the field ; Away I will ne'er gang frae thee ; Only death shall us part, Keep, sic thoughts frae my heart, But never shall part us the sea, Mary, But never shall part us the sea." JAMES D, BURNS, JAMES DROIMOND BURNS was born at Edinburgh on the 18th February 1823. A pupil of Heriot's Hospital, he attended the High School, and in due time entered the University. Distinguished as a student, he obtained the degree of Master of Arts, and commenced a course of theological study. As a Divinity student, he left the Established Church in 1843, and attended the prelections of Dr Chalmers and his colleagues in the Theological Hall of the Free Church. In 1845, he was, on the strong recommendation of Dr Chalmers, elected to the pastorate of the Free Church congregation at Dunblane. In impaired health he sought the mild climate of Madeira in the autumn of 1847, and on attempting to resume his duties in the following year, found himself compelled, from continued weakness, to retire from his charge. He 312 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. returned to Madeira to undertake ministerial duty in a Presbyterian congregation at Funchal. In 1852 he made a tour through Portugal, Spain, and Italy, and in the following year returned to Britain. After ministering to Presbyterian con- gregations at Brighton and St Heller's in Jersey, he accepted the invitation of a Presbyterian congregation at Hampstead to become their pastor. He was inducted on the 22d May 1855. In his new sphere he was eminently successful ; a large and attached flock attended his ministrations. But a pulmonary weakness continued to oppress him, and at length, in January 1864, he was compelled again to seek a milder climate. After several changes he reached Vevay, in Switzerland there he died on Sabbath the 27th November 1864. His remains were brought to Britain, and interred in the Highgate Cemetery, London. Mr Burns published in 1854 " The Vision of Prophecy, and other Poems," 12mo. The volume, which contains compositions chiefly of a scriptural or sacred character, was hailed as manifesting evidence of a vigorous poetical fancy. A memoir of Mr Burns has lately been published, from the pen of the late Eev. Dr James Hamilton, of London. RISE, LITTLE STAR. RISE, little star ! O'er the dusky hill, See the bright course open Thou hast to fulfil. Climb, little star ! Higher still and higher, With a silent swiftness And a pulse of fire. Stand little star ! On the peak of heaven ; But for one brief moment Is the triumph given. Sink, little star! Yet make heaven bright, Even while thou art sinking, With thy gentle light. Ret, little star ! Gladly fade and die, With the blush of morning Coming up the sky. Each little star Crieth, Life, man ! Should have one clear purpose Shining round its span. THOUGH LONG THE WANDERER MAY DEPART. THOUGH long the wanderer may depart, And far his footsteps roam, He clasps the closer to his heart The image of his home. To that loved land, where'er he goes, His tend' rest thoughts are cast, And dearer still through absence grows The memory of the past. Though nature on another shore Her softest smile may wear, The vales, the hills, he loved before, To him are far more fair. The heavens that met his childhood's eye, All clouded though they be, Seem brighter than the sunniest sky Of climes beyond the sea. So Faith, a stranger on the earth, Still turns its eye above ; The child of an immortal birth Seeks more than mortal love. The scenes of earth, though very fair, Want home's endearing spell ; And all his heart and hope are where His God and Saviour dwell. He may behold them dimly here, And see them as not nigh, But all he loves will yet appear Unclouded to his eye. To that fair city, now so far, Rejoicing he will come, A better light than Bethlehem's star Guides every wanderer home. JOSEPH MACGREGOR WILLIAM D UNBAR. 313 JOSEPH MACGREGOR, JOSEPH MACGREGOR was born about the year 1805 ; he followed the profession of an accountant in Edinburgh. Expert as a man of business, he negotiated the arrange- ment of the city affairs at the period of the municipal bankruptcy. A zealous member of the Liberal party, he took a prominent interest in the Eeform Bill movement, and afterwards afforded valuable assistance in the election of Francis Jeffrey as one of the representatives of the city in Parliament. He latterly occupied Ramsay Lodge, the residence of the poet Allan Ramsay, where he died about the year 1845. The follow- ing songs from his pen are published by permission of Messrs Robertson & Co., musicsellers, Edinburgh. LADDIE, OH! LEAVE ME. N whar the burnie rins wimplin' and cheery, When love's star was smilin' I met wi' my dearie ; Ah ! vain was its smilin' she wadna believe me ; But said wi' a saucy air, "Laddie, oh! leave me; Leave me, leave me, laddie, oh ! leave me. " " I've lo'ed thee o'er truly to seek a new dearie, I 've lo'ed thee o'er fondly through life e'er to weary, I 've lo'ed thee o'er lang, love, at last to deceive thee; Look cauldly or kindly, but bid me not leave thee;" Leave thee, leave thee, etc. "There's nae ither saft ee that fills me wi' pleasure, There's nae ither rose-lip has half o' its treasure, There's nae ither bower, love, shall ever receive me, Till death break this fond heart oh! then I maun leave thee;" Leave thee, leave thee, etc. The tears o'er her cheeks ran like dew frae red roses ; What hope to the lover one tear-drop discloses ! I kiss'd them, and blest her at last to relieve me She yielded her hand, and sighed, "Oh! never leave me ; " Leave me, leave me, etc. HOW BLYTHELY THE PIPE. AIR " Kinloch of Kinloch." How blythely the pipe through Glenlyon was sounding, At morn when the clans to the merry dance hied; And gay were the love-knots, o'er hearts fondly bounding, When .Ronald woo'd Flora, and made her his bride. But war's banner streaming soon changed their fond dreaming The battle-cry echoed, around and above Broad claymores were glancing, and war-steeds were prancing ; Tip, Ronald ! to arms for home and your love. All was hush'd o'er the hill, where love linger 'd despairing, With her bride-maids still decked in their gay festal gear ! And she wept as she saw them fresh garlands preparing, Which might laurel Love's brow, or be strew'd o'er his bier ! But cheer thee, fond maiden each wild breeze is laden With victory's slogan, through mountain and grove ; Where death streams were gushing, and war- steeds were rushing, Lord Ronald has conquer'd for home and for love ! WILLIAM DUNBARj D,D, WILLIAM DUXBAR was born at Dumfries in October 1780 ;* he received his elementary education in that town. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, he was in 1805 licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. During the vacations of his theological curriculum, and the earlier portion of his probationary career, he resided chiefly in the Hebrides. At this period he composed the popular song, * Dumfries Register of Births and Baptisms. 314 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. entitled, " The Maid of Islay," the heroine being a Miss Campbell of the island of Islay. In several collections the song has been erroneously ascribed to Joseph Train. Mr Dunbar was, in May 1807, ordained to the ministry at Applegarth, Dumfriesshire. Long reputed as one of the most successful cultivators of the honey-bee, Dr Dunbar was, in 1840, invited to prepare a treatise on the subject for the entomological series of the " Naturalist's Library." His observations were published, without his name, in a volume of the series, with the title, " The Natural History of Bees, comprehend- ing the uses and economical management of the British and Foreign Honey Bee ; together with the known wild species. Illustrated by thirty-six plates, coloured from nature, with portrait and memoir of Huber." Dr Dunbar died at the manse of Applegarth on the 6th December 1861, in the 81st year of his age, and the 54th of Ms ministry. THE MAID OF ISLAY. RISING o'er the heaving billow, Evening gilds the ocean's swell, "While with thee, on grassy pillow, Solitude ! I love to dwell. Lonely to the sea-breeze blowing, Oft I chant my love-lorn strain, To the streamlet sweetly flowing, Murmur oft a lover's pain. Twas for her, the Maid of Islay, Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy ; 'Twas for her, the cheering smile aye Beam'd with rapture in my eye. Not the tempest raving round me, Liglitu ing's flash or thunder's roll ; Not the ocean's rage could wound me, While her image fill'd my soul. Farewell, days of purest pleasure, Long your loss my heart shall mourn ! Farewell, hours of bliss the measure, Bliss that never can return ! Cheerless o'er the wild heath wand'ring, Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore, On the past with sadness pond'ring, Hope's fair visions charm no more. ELLIOT AITCHISON, ELLIOT AITCHISON was born early in the century, in the Border town of Hawick. His uncle, Mr Robert Shortreed, Sheriff-Substitute of Roxburghshire, was an intimate friend of Sir "Walter Scott, and the great Minstrel's first conductor into the romantic scenery of Liddesdale. The influence of his relation did not avail the future poet. His parents being in poor circumstances, and as he was the youngest of a numerous family, his education was very circumscribed He was early apprenticed to a stocking- weaver, and while still young, was necessitated to support himself and his youngest sister, owing to the death of his father, and the emigration of the other members of the family. With the exception of a short period, when, owing to feeble health, he accepted employment as a clerk, he continued throughout life to labour in a stocking- factory. He informed the editor of this work that so engrossing was his occupation that he seldom found leisure to peruse the weekly newspaper, or to engage in any other species of self-culture. Possessed of a most diffident and retiring nature, he shrunk from publicity. The present writer had the mortification to incur his grave displeasure by having unwittingly mentioned his name in a public lecture, as a man of poetical genius, deserving of encouragement. Aitchison died in his native town on the 7th October 1858. A tombstone has been raised to his memory in the parish churchyard of Wilton, where his remains are interred. ELLIOT A I TC HIS ON. 315 A CANZONET. In the style of the Sixteenth Century. To campes and courts lett others rove In quest of ranke and fame ; To these repayre who tytles love, To those who seeke a name. The slaves of gayne, with toyle and payne May com passe lande and sea; But love who may, att home I '11 stay A shephearde's lyfe for mee. I 'd rather rise at earlie dawne, When summer wedds with spryng, And leade my flocke to hill or lawne While merrie larks doe syng, Than reel to bedd with aching hedde Throwe wyne and revellrie, Such pleasures still, pursewe who will A shephearde's lyfe for mee. The straynes thatt flow in courtlie halle May please a courtlie eare, But give me still at evening's falle Or rysing morne to heare From dulcet throates the unbought notes Of nature's minstrelsie, Whyle syren lays reape pelf and prayse A shephearde's life for mee. Let gold and state the world beguile, Content can scorne them both ; She hangs not on a prince's smyle, Or yett a courtier's troth. The thyrste of gayne could Ophir drayne, Nor quencht withal would bee ; Sae wealth adieu, and honours too A shephearde's lyfe for mee. 0, SWEET IS THE CALM. SWEET is the calm when the tempest is o'er, And the skiff bears her freight of glad hearts to the shore ; And sweet is the spring when its infant caress Brings a smile o'er the gloom of creation's distress ; Then the bosom beats light, and an impulse is given To bless the kind interposition of Heaven. And he, from the couch of affliction and pain Who to life in its vigour uprises again, He alone can conceive, though he cannot disclose The pleasures of health and the sweets of repose. Oh, none with a relish like his can inhale The fragrance that breathes in a soft summer gale; For a paradise joy to the moments is given, That bring such an interposition of heaven. But, ah ! not so grateful to pallid disease Comes the spirit of health on the wing of the breeze ; Nor the spring time to nature dejected and drear ; Nor a calm to the bark in its headlong career, As the accents of mercy breathed softly within, To the terror-struck victim of folly and sin The voice that bids dread and despondency cease, And conducts to the path of repentance and peace, While angels exult o'er a sinner forgiven, And bless the kind interposition of Heaven. SPRING. THE moon in virgin blushes drest, Spreads o'er the eastern sky ; The lark forsakes her lowly nest, And wings her flight on high. The fleecy clouds which garnish heaven, Are tinged with roseate hue, And, now no more by tempests driven, Eepose on ether blue. With joy we mark th' approach of spring In every budding bough ; The feather'd tribes begin to sing, The genial breezes blow. The rustic to his healthful toil With gladness hies again ; And blythely to the furrowed soil Commits the hoarded grain. Spontaneous o'er the dark brown mould A pleasing verdure spreads ; The crocus studs with gems of gold The garden's sheltered beds. With antic gambols o'er the mead The frisking lambkins play, While prattlers emulate their speed As light of heart as they. White through the herbage 'dank and green The modest daisy peers ; Delight pervades the vernal scene, And music charms our ears. 316 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ALEXANDER BALD, ALEXANDER BALD was born at Alloa, on the 9th June 1783. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was a native of Culross, where he was originally employed in superintending the coal works in that vicinity, tinder the late Earl of Dundonald. He subsequently became agent for the collieries of John Francis Erskine, aftewards Earl of Mar. A book of arithmetical tables and calculations from his pen, entitled, " The Corn-dealer's Assistant," was long recognised as an almost indispensable guide for tenant farmers. The subject of this notice was early devoted to literary pursuits. Along with his friend, Mr John Grieve, the future patron of the Ettrick Shepherd, he made a visit to the forest bard, attracted by the merit of his compositions, long prior to his public recognition as a poet. He established a literary association in his native town, entitled, " The Shakspeare Club ;" which, at its annual celebrations, was graced by the presence of men of genius and learning. To the Scots' Magazine he became a poetical contributor early in the century. A man of elegant tastes and Christian worth, Mr Bald was a cherished associate of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen of the past generation. During the period of half a century, he conducted business in his native town as a timber merchant and brick manufacturer. Mr Bald died at Alloa, on the 21st October 1859. His brother, Mr Robert Bald, was highly distinguished as a mining engineer. THE LILY OF THE VALE.* TUNE " Ye banks and braes a' bonnie Doort." THE lily of the vale is sweet, And sweeter still the op'ning rose, But sweeter far my Mary is Than any blooming flower that blows. Whilst spring her fragrant blossoms spreads, I'll wander oft by Mary's side ; And whisper saft the tender tale, By Forth, sweet Forth's meandering tide. There will we walk at early dawn, Ere yet the sun begins to shine ; At eve oft, too, the lawn we'll tread, And mark that splendid orb's decline. The fairest, choicest flowers I'll crop, To deck my lovely Mary's hair ; And while I live, I vow and swear, She'll be my chief my only care. * This song was originally published in the Scots' Magazine for October 1806. In the " Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to Allan Ramsay. HOW SWEET ARE THE BLUSHES OF MORN. How sweet are the blushes of morn, And sweet is the gay blossom'd grove ; The linnet chants sweet from the thorn, But sweeter 's the smile of my love. Awhile, my dear Mary, farewell, Since fate has decreed we should part ; Thine image shall still with me dwell ; Though absent, you'll reign in my heart. But by winding Devon's green bowers, At eve's dewy hour as I rove, I'll grieve for the pride of her flowers, And the pride of her maidens, my love. The music shall cease in the grove, Thine absence the linnet shall mourn ; But the lark, in strains bearing love, Soft warbling, shall greet thy return. GEORGE WILSON. GEORGE WILSON was born on the 20th June 1784, in the parish of Libberton, and county of Lanark. Deprived of both his parents early in life, he was brought to the house of his paternal uncle, who rented a sheep-farm in the vicinity of Peebles. At the burgh school of that place he received an ordinary education, and in his thirteenth year hired himself as a cow-herd. Passing through the various stages of rural em- GEORGE WILSON. 317 ployment at Tweedside, he resolved to adopt a trade, and in his eighteenth year became apprenticed to his maternal uncle, a cabinetmaker in Edinburgh. On ful- filling his indenture, he accepted employment as a journeyman cabinetmaker; he subsequently conducted business on his own account. He published " The Laverock," a volume of poems and songs, in 1829. He died at 5 Newington Place, Edinburgh on the 9th November 1857. The following lyrics from his pen evince no inconsider- able vigour, and seem worthy of preservation. MILD AS THE MORNING. AIR "Bonny Dundee." Mild as the morning, a rose-bud of beauty, Young Mary, all lovely, had come from afar, With tear-streaming eyes, and a grief-burden'd bosom, To view with sad horror the carnage of war. She sought her brave brother with sighing and sorrow ; Her loud lamentations she pour'd out in vain; The hero had fallen, with kinsmen surrounded, And deep he lay buried 'mong heaps of the slain. "Oh! Donald, my brother, in death art thou sleeping? Or groan'st thou in chains of some bar- barous foe? Are none of thy kindred in life now remaining, To tell a sad tale of destruction and woe?" A hero who struggled in death's cold embraces. Whose bosom, deep gash'd, was all clotted with gore "Alas ! Lady Mary, the mighty M 'Donald, Will lead his brave heroes to battle no more. " She turn'd, and she gazed all around, much confounded ; The tidings of sorrow sunk deep in her heart ; She saw her brave kinsman laid low, deadly wounded, He wanted that succour, she could not impart "Oh! Murdoch, my kinsman," with hands raised to heaven, "Thy strength, bloom, and beauty, alas! all are o'er ; And oh, my brave brother, my brave gallant brother, Lies sleeping beside thee, to waken no more. " THE BEACONS BLAZED. AIR "Cope sent a letter frae Dunbar." THE beacons blazed, the banners flew, The war-pipes loud their pibrochs blew, The trusty clans their claymores drew, To shield their Royal Charlie. Come a' ye chiefs, bring a' your clans, Frae a' your mountains, muirs, and glens, Bring a' your spears, swords, dirks, and guns, To shield and save Prince Charlie. They, like their fathers, bold and brave, Came at a call, wi' dirk and glaive ; Of danger fearless, sworn to save Or fa' for Royal Charlie. Famed Scotia's chiefs, intrepid still, Led forth their tribes frae strath and hill, And boldly dared, wi' right guid will, To shield their Royal Charlie. The forests and the rocks replied To shouts which rung both far and wide : Our prince is come, his people's pride Oh, welcome name, Prince Charlie ! Thee, Scotia's rightful prince we own ; We'll die, or seat thee on the throne, Where many a Scottish king has shone ; The sires o' Royal Charlie. No faithful Scot now makes a pause ; Plain truth and justice plead thy cause ; Each fearlessly his weapon draws, To shield and save Prince Charlie. Now, lead us on against thy foes ; Thy rightful claim all Europe knows ; We '11 scatter death with all our blows, To shield and save Prince Charlie. Now, chiefs and clans, your faith display, By deathless deeds in battle day, To stretch them pale on beds of clay, The foes of Royal Charlie. THE RENDEZVOUS. WARLIKE chieftains now assembled, Fame your daring deeds shall tell, Fiercest foes have fear'd and trembled, When you raised your warlike yell. Bards shall sing when battle rages, Scotia's sons shall victors be ; Bards shall sing in after ages, Caledonians aye were free. Blest be every bold avenger, Cheer'd the heart that fears no wound ; Dreadful in the day of danger Be each chieftain ever found. 313 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Let the hills our swords have shielded, Ring to every hero's praise ; And the tribes who never yielded, Their immortal trophies raise. Heroes brave, be ever ready, At your king and country's call ; When your dauntless chiefs shall lead you, Let the foe that dares you fall. Let the harp to strains resounding, Ring to cheer the dauntless brave ; Let the brave like roes come bounding On to glory or a grave. Let your laurels never-fading, Gleam like your unconquer'd glaive ; Where your thistle springs triumphant, There let freedom's banner wave. JOHN YOUNGER. JOHN YOUNGER, author of a Prize Essay on the Sabbath, has some claim to enrol- ment among the minstrels of his country. He was born on the 5th July 1785, at Longnewton village, in the parish of Ancrum, and county of Roxburgh. As early as his ninth year, he began to work at his father's trade of a shoemaker. In 1810 he married, and commenced shoemaking in the village of St Boswell's, in Ms native county. He became village postmaster, and added to bis emoluments by dressing hooks for anglers in the Tweed. A man of superior intellect and varied information, John Younger enjoyed the respect of a wide circle of friends. His cottage was long the resort of anglers of every rank ; and among his correspondents he enumerated many noted literary characters. He published a poetical brochure with the title, "Thoughts as they Rise;" also a "Treatise on River Angling." His Prize Essay on the Sabbath, entitled, "The Light of the Week," was published in 1849, and commanded a wide circulation. He died on the 19th July 1860. ILKA BLADE 0' GRASS GETS ITS AIN DRAP 0' DEW. OH, dinna be sae sair cast down, My ain sweet bairnies dear, Whatever storms in life may bla\v, Take nae sic heart o' fear. Though life's been aye a checker 'd scene Since Eve's first apple grew, Nae blade o' grass has been forgot 0' its ain drap o' dew. The bonnie flowers o' Paradise, And a' that's bloom'd sinsyne, By bank an' brae an' lover's bower, Adown the course o' time, Or 'neath the gardener's fostering hand Their annual bloom renew, Ilk blade o' grass has had as weel Its ain sweet drap o' dew. The oaks and cedars of the earth May toss their arms in air, Or bend beneath the sweeping blast That strips the forest bare; The flower enfolds while storms o'er pass, Till sunshine spreads anew, And sips, as does ilk blade o' grass, Its lucent drap o' dew. The great may loll in world's wealth And a' the pomp o' state, While labour, bent wi' eident cares, Maun toil baith air and late. The poor may gae to bed distrest, With nae relief in view, And rising, like ilk blade o' grass, Shine wi' the pearl o' dew. Oh, what a gentle hand is His That deeds the lilies fair, And o' the meanest thing in life Takes mair than mother's care ! Can ye no put your trust in Him, With heart resign'd and true, Wha ne'er forgets to gie the grass, Ilk blade its drap o' dew. THE MONTH OF JUNE. JUNE, ye spring the loveliest flowers That a' our seasons yield ; Ye deck sae flush the greenwood Lowers, The garden, and the field ; The pathway verge by hedge and tree, So fresh, so green, and gay, Where ever}- lovely blue flower's ee Is opening to the day. JOHN BURTT. 319 The river tanks and craggy peaks In wilding blossoms drest, With ivy o'er their jutting nooks Ye screen the ouzel's nest ; From precipice, abrupt and bold, Your tendrils flaunt in air, With craw-flowers dangling living gold Ye tuft the steep brown scaur. Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest From every prying ee, With fairy fingers ye invest In woven flowers the lea ; Around the lover's blissful hour Ye draw your leafy screen, And shade those in your rosy bower, Who love to muse unseen. JOHN BURTT, JOHN BURTT was born about the year 1790, at Knockrnarloch, in the parish of Rie- carton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock ; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in classical learning. In his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the com- position of verses ; and these in 1816 he published, under the title of " Horse Poeticse ; or, the Recreations of a Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical entitled the Presbyterian. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, he there edited the Standard, a religious newspaper. In August 1835 he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place. O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFTS.* AIR "Banks of the Devon" O'ER the mist-shrouded clifts of the grey moun- tain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave; What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave? Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native shore : Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom my Mary's no more. No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave ; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. * This song has been erroneously ascribed to Burns. No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast I haste with the storm to a far distant shore, Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 0! LASSIE, I LO'E DEAREST! ! LASSIE, I lo'e dearest ! Mair fair to me than fairest, Mair rare to me than rarest, How sweet to think o' thee. When blythe the blue ee'd dawnin' Steals saftly o'er the lawnin', And furls night's sable awnin', I love to think o' thee. An' while the honey 'd dew-drap Still trembles at the flower-tap, The fairest bud I pu't up, An' kiss'd for sake o' thee. An' when by stream or fountain, In glen, or on the mountain, The lingering moments counting, I pause an' think o' thee. 320 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. "When the sun's red rays are streaming Warm on the meadow beamin', Or o'er the loch wild gleamin', My heart is fu' o' thee. An' tardy-footed gloamin', Out o'er the hills slow comin', Still finds me lanely roamin', And thinkin' still o' thee. When soughs the distant billow, An' night blasts shake the willow, Stretch 'cl on my lanely pillow, My dreams are a' o' thee. Then think when Men's caress thee, Oh, think when cares distress thee, Oh, think when pleasures bless thee, 0' him that thinks o' thee. CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON, CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish of Lar- bert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took delight in singing such scraps of old ballads as he had learned from the cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk trysts, put him in possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the Carron Iron Works ; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified, while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Eesigning this appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the Kirk- session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk, Edinburgh ; and in this office gained the active friendship of the respected clergyman, Dr Macknight. Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited the principal towns in the southern districts of Scotland, and was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in 1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town. After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kirkcudbright as a general merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of postmaster. He died on the 12th November 1864, at the age of 74. Mr Finlayson contributed songs to Blackie's " Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song beginning " Oh, my love 's bonnie ! " has been translated into German, and published with music at Leipsic. THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP. TiiEbardstrikeshis harp, the wild woods among, And echo repeats to the breezes his strain ; Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng, And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain. He ningsof the pleasureshis young bosom knew, "When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme; While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew, And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name. The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise, Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail ! ALEXANDER SMART. 321 E'en the oak, Ms sole shelter, rude winter decays, And the wild flowers he sung are laid scent- less and pale. Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine ; Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer, They think not, alas ! as they view his decline, That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear. Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes, And which souls that are songless can never enjoy; They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy. Sing on, then, sweet bard ! though thus lonely ye stray, Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere ; "While the names that neglect thee have melted away, As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear. OH! MY LOVE'S BOXXIE. OH ! my love's bonnie, bonnie, bonnie ; Oh ! my love's bonnie and dear to me ; The smile o' her face, and her ee's witchin' grace, Are mair than the wealth o' this warld can gi'e. Her voice is as sweet as the blackbird at gloamin', When echo repeats her soft notes to the ear, And lovely and fresh as the wild roses blooming, That dip in the stream o' the Carron so clear. But poortith's a foe to the peace o' this bosom, That glows sae devoutly, dear lassie, for thee; Alas! that e'er poortith should blight love's young blossom, "When riches nae lasting contentment can gi'e. Yet hope's cheerfu' sun shall aboon my head hover, And guide a lone wanderer, when far frae thee; For ne'er, till it sets, will I prove a false lover, Or think o' anither, dear lassie, but thee. ALEXANDER SMART, ALEXANDER SMART was born at Montrose on the 26th April 1798. His father was a respectable shoemaker in that place. A portion of his school education was conducted under the care of one Norval, a teacher in the Montrose Academy, whose mode of infusing knowledge he has not unjustly satirized in his poem, entitled " Recollections of Auld Lang Syne." Norval was a model among the tyrant pedagogues of the past ; and as an illustration of Scottish school life sixty years since, we present our author's reminiscences of the despot. " Gruesome in visage and deformed in body, his mind reflected the. grim and tortuous aspects of his person. The recollection of his mon- strous cruelties his cruel flagellations is still unaccountably depressing. One day of horrors I shall never cease to remember. Every Saturday he caused the pupils to repeat a prayer which he had composed for their use ; and in hearing which he stood over each with a paper ruler, ready, in the event of omission of word or phrase, to strike down the unfortunate offender, who all the while drooped tremblingly before him. On one of these days of extorted prayer, I was found at fault in my grammar lesson, and the offence was deemed worthy of peculiar castigation. The school was dis- missed at the usual time, but, along with a few other boys who were to become witnesses of my punishment and disgrace, I was detained in the class-room, and dragged to the presence of the tyrant. Despite of his every effort, I resisted being bound to the bench, and flogged after the fashion of the times. So the punishment was commuted into ' palmies.' Horrible commutation ! Sixty lashes with leather thongs on my right hand, inflicted with all the severity of a tyrant's wrath, made me scream in the anguish of desperation. My pitiless tormentor, unmoved by the sight of my hand sorely lacerated, and swollen to twice its natural size, threatened to cut out my tongue if I continued to complain ; and so saying, laid hold on a pair of scissors, and inflicted a deep cut on my lip. The horrors of the day fortunately emancipated me from the further control of the despot." 322 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. At another seminary Smart completed his education. He was now apprenticed to a watchmaker in his native town, his hours of leisure being sedulously devoted to the perusal of the British poets. It was his delight to repeat his favourite passages in solitary rambles on the sea beach. In 1819, on the completion of his apprenticeship, he proceeded to Edinburgh, where, during a period of six months, he wrought at his trade. But the sedentary life of a watchmaker proving injurious to his health, he was led to seek employment in a printing-office. Soon after, he became editor, printer, and publisher of the Montrose Chronicle, a newspaper which was originated in his native town, but which proved unsuccessful. He thereafter held an appointment in the office of the Dundee Courier. Returning to Edinburgh, he accepted employ- ment as a pressman in a respectable printing-office, and afterwards attained the position of press overseer in one of the most important printing establishments of the city. In his twentieth year Smart adventured on the composition of verses, but being dissatisfied with his efforts, he consigned them to oblivion. He subsequently renewed his invocation of the Muse, and in 1834 published a small duodecimo volume of poems and songs, entitled " Rambling Rhymes." This publication attracted considerable attention, and secured for the author the personal favour of Lord Jeffrey. He also received the commendation of Thomas Campbell, Charles Dickens, Thomas Babington Macaulay, and other literary and poetical celebrities. A new and enlarged edition of his volume appeared in 1845, and was dedicated by permission to Lord Jeffrey. Smart was one of the principal contributors to " Whistle Binkie." At different periods he composed excellent prose essays and sketches, some of which have appeared in Hogg's Instructor. His papers entitled " Burns and his Ancestors," " Leaves from an Autobiography," and " Scenes from the Life of a Sufferer," may be especially enumerated. Of a peculiarly nervous temperament, he repeatedly experienced the miseries of mental aberration. He died in the Lunatic Asylum at Morningside, near Edinburgh, on the 19th October I860. WHEN THE BEE HAS LEFT THE BLOSSOM. WHEN the bee has left the blossom, And the lark has closed his lay, And the daisy folds its bosom In the dews of gloaming gray ; When the virgin rose is bending, Wet with evening's pensive tear, And the purple light is blending With the soft moon rising clear ; Meet me then, my own true maiden, Where the wild flowers shed their bloom And the air with fragrance laden, Breathes around a rich perfume. With my true love as I wander, Captive led by beauty's power, Thoughts and feelings sweet and tender Hallow that delightful hour. Give ambition dreams of glory, Give the poet laurell'd fame, Let renown in song and story Consecrate the hero's name ; Give the great their pomp and pleasure, Give the courtier place and power ; Give to me my bosom's treasure, And the lonely gloaming hour. OH, LEAVE ME NOT. OH, leave me not ! the evening hour, So soft, so still, is all our own ; The dew descends on tree and flower, They breathe then: sweets for thee alone. Oh, go not yet ! the evening star, The rising moon, all bid thee stay ; And dying echoes, faint and far, Invite our lingering steps to stray. Far from the city's noisy din, Beneath the pale moon's trembling light, That lip to press, those smiles to win, Will lend a rapture to the night. Let fortune fling her favours free To whom she will, I '11 ne'er repine ; Oh, what is all the world to me, While thus I clasp and call thee mine ! JOHN DUNLOP JOHN HUNTER, LL.D. 323 JOHN DUNLOP, THE author of four volumes of MS. poetry, John Dunlop is entitled to a place in the catalogue of Caledonian lyrists. The younger son of Colin Dunlop, of Carmyle, he was born in November 1755, in the mansion of the paternal estate, in the parish of Old Monkland, and county of Lanark. Commencing his career as a merchant in Glasgow, he was in 1796 elevated to the Lord Provostship of the city. He afterwards accepted the office of Collector of Customs at Borrowstounness, and subsequently occupied the post of Collector at Port-Glasgow. His death took place at Port-Glasgow, in October 1820. Possessed of fine poetic tastes and an elegant fancy, Dunlop composed verses on every variety of theme, with facility and power. Hi a MS. volumes, which have been submitted to our inspection by a descendant, contain many poetical compositions worthy of being presented to the public. He is remembered as a man of excellent dispositions and eminent social qualities : he sung with grace the songs of his country, and delighted in humorous conversation. His elder brother was proprietor of Garn- kirk, and his son, who bore the same Christian name, became Sheriff of Eenfrewshire. The latter is entitled to remembrance as the author of " The History of Fiction," and " The History of Eoman Literature." THE YEAR THAT'S AW A'. HERE 's to the year that 's awa' ! We will drink it in strong and in sma' ; And here's to ilk bonnie young lassie we lo'ed, While swift flew the year that's awa'. And here's to ilk, etc. Here 's to the sodger who bled, And the sailor who bravely did fa' ; Their fame is alive, though their spirits are fled On the wings of the year that's awa'. Their fame is alive, etc. Here's to the friends we can trust When the storms of adversity blaw ; May they live in our song, and be nearest our hearts, Nor depart like the year that's awa'. May they live, etc. OH, DINNA ASK ME. TUNE " Contitf through the rye." OH, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee ; Troth, I daurna tell : Dinna ask me gin I lo'e ye ; Ask it o' yoursel'. Oh, dinna look sae sair at me, For weel ye ken me true ; Oh, gin ye look sae sair at me, I daurna look at you. When ye gang to yon braw, braw town, And bonnie lasses see, Oh, dinna, Jamie, look at them, Lest you should mind na inc. For I could never bide the lass That ye'd lo'e mair than me ; And oh, I 'm sure, my heart would break, Gin ye'd prove false to me. JOHN HUNTER, LLD, JOHN HUNTER was born in the manse of Dunino, Fifeshire, on the 15th March 1801. His grandfather, the celebrated Dr John Hunter, editor of the Latin Classics, was many years Professor of Humanity, and latterly Principal of the United College, St Andrews. His father, Dr James Hunter, at the time of his birth, was minister of Dunino ; he was in 1804 elected Professor of Logic and Khetoric in the University of 'St Andrews, an appointment which, in his person, was afterwards conjoined with the pastoral charge of the parish of St Leonards. Possessed of scholarly attainments, 324 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. the Professor of Logic was of somewhat indolent habits, and more excelled in his social relations than in the effective discharge of his public duties. His wife, Jane Wilson, daughter of the Professor of Church History in St Mary's College, St Andrews, and sister of the first wife of the celebrated Francis Jeffrey, was a woman of remarkable originality, and singular humour. Her son, the subject of this memoir, inherited a share of her peculiar abilities, blended with the social qualities of his father, and the learned tastes of his paternal grandfather. He studied at the United College, St Andrews, and obtained the degree of A.M. in his fifteenth year. At the age of sixteen he was apprenticed to a Writer to the Signet in Edinburgh. In 1826 he passed as W.S., and commenced business. In the practice of his profession he evinced an unflinching perseverance, combined with much judicial knowledge. In 1848 he was appointed Auditor of the Court of Session an office which afforded him abundant leisure for the prosecution of literary studies, to which he had long been ardently devoted. From the University of Edinburgh he received the degree of LL.D., and was latterly chosen a member of the University Court of St Andrews. On the death of his relative, Lord Jeffrey, he took up his abode at Craigcrook, an interesting old mansion near Edinburgh, where he was visited by many men of letters, and exercised a genial hospitality. Of a most retiring nature, Dr Hunter did not aspire to any considerable authorship, though he might have written on many subjects ably and well. In 1843 he printed, for private circulation, a thin 12mo volume of original poems and translations, under the title of " Miscellanies, by N. R." From this interesting little book, the compositions which follow have been selected. After some years of failing health, Dr Hunter died at Craigcrook on the 3d December 1869. Those who, like the present writer, enjoyed the pleasure of liis acquaintance, will delight to recall the memory of their old friend, whose qualities represented the man of business, the scholar, and the Christian gentleman. THE BOWER 0' CLYDE. ON fair Glydeside thair wonnit ane dame, Ane dame of wondrous courtesie, An' bonny was the kindly flame That stremit frae her saft blue ee. Her saft blue ee, 'mid the hinney dew, That meltit to its tender licht, Was bonnier far than the purest starre That sails thro' the dark blue hevin at nicht. If ony culd luke and safely see Her dimplit cheek, and her bonny red mou', Nor seek to sip the dew frae her lip, A lifeless lump was he, I trow. But it wuld haif saften'd the dullest wicht, If ae moment that wicht might see Her bonny breast o' the purest snaw, That heavit wi' luve sae tenderlie. An' dear, dear was this bonny dame, Dear, dear was she to me, An' my heart was tame, an' my sense was gane, At ae blink o' her bonny blue ee. An' sair an' saft I pleadit my luve, Tho' still she hardly wuld seem tp hear, An' wuld cauldly blame the words o' flame That I breathit so warmly in her ear. Yet aye as she turn'd her frae my look, Thair was kindness beamit in her ee, An' aye as she drew back her lily han', I faund that it tremblit tenderlie. But the time sune cam', the waesome time, When I maun awa' frae my dear, An' oh ! that thocht, how aften it brocht The deep-heavit sigh an' the cauld bitter tear! Then socht I my luve, her cauld heart to mure, Wi' my tears, an' my sighs, an' my prayers, An" I gaed by her side doun the banks o' the Clyde, And the hours stal awa' unawares. 'Twas a still summer nicht, at the fa'ing o' licht, At the gloaming's saft an' schadowie hour, An' we wander'd alane till the daylight was gane, An' we cam' to a sweet simmer hour. The mune was up i' the clear blue skye, The mune an' her single wee starre ; The winds gaed gently whisperin' bye Thair was stillness near an' farre. WILLIAM FERGUSON. 325 Alane we sat in the green simmer bour, I tauld her a' that was kind and dear, An' she did na blame the words o' flame That I breathit sae warmly in her ear. She listenit to the luve-sang warm, Her breast it throbbit and heavit high ; She culd hear nae mair, but her gentill arm She lean't upon mine, wi' a tender sigh. Then warmly I prest wi' my burning lips Ae kiss on her bonny red mou', An' aften I prest her form to my breast, An' fondly an' warmly I vowit to be true. An' oh ! that hour, that hallowit hour, My fond heart will never forget ; Though drear is the dule I haiff suffer'd sin syne, That hour gars my heart beat warmly yet. The parting time cam', an' the parting time past, An' it past nae without the saut tear, An' awa' to anither an' farre awa' land I gaed, an' I left my ain dear. I gaed, an' though ither and brichter maids Wuld smile wi' fond luve i' their ee, I but thocht o' the sweet green bour by the Clyde, An' that thocht was enough for me. MARY. OH ! Mary, while thy gentle cheek Is on my breast reclining, And while these arms around thy form Are fondly thus entwining ; It seems as if no earthly power Our beating hearts could sever, And that in ecstasy of bliss We thus could hang for ever ! Yet ah ! too well, too well we know The fiat fate hath spoken The spell that bound our souls in one, The world's cold breath hath broken. The hours the days whose heavenly light Hath beam'd in beauty o'er us, When Love his sunshine shed around, And strew'd his flowers before us, Must now be but as golden dreams, Whose loveliness hath perish'd ; Wild dreams of hope, in human hearts Too heavenly to be cherish'd. Yet, oh ! where'er our lot is cast, The love that once hath bound us The thought that looks to days long past, Will breathe a halo round us. WILLIAM FERGUSON, WILLIAM FERGUSON was born about the year 1812 at Old Pentland, near Edin- burgh. He was apprenticed to a plumber, but afterwards connected himself with the stage at Glasgow. Kesuming his original trade, he sought employment in London, but, returning to Edinburgh, settled as a plumber and gasfitter in Nicolson Street. He contributed songs to " Whistle Binkie" and " The Book of Scottish Song," both published in Glasgow. He afterwards printed a collected edition of his verses, but the volume was not published till subsequent to his decease. He died on the 31st of January 1862, at the age of fifty. Ferguson possessed uncommon powers of humour, which he has exhibited in some of his compositions. He also excelled in the use of pathos. I'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY. I'LL tend thy bower, my bonnie May, In spring time o' the year ; When saft'mAg winds begin to woo The primrose to appear ; When daffodils begin to dance, And streams again flow free ; And little birds are heard to pipe, On the sprouting forest tree. I '11 tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When summer days are lang, When nature's heart is big wi' joy, Her voice laden wi' sang ; When shepherds pipe on sunny braes, And flocks roam at their will, And auld and young, in cot an' ha ', O' pleasure drink their fill. I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When autumn's yellow fields, That wave like seas o' gowd, before The glancin' sickle yields ; When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit A glorious sight to see ! And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep Out owre the withering lea. 326 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. I'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When, through the naked trees, Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side, Sweeps wild the frosty breeze ; When tempests roar, and billows rise, Till nature quakes wi' fear, And on the land, and on the sea, Wild winter rules the year. WOOING SONG. THE spring comes back to woo the earth, Wi' a' a lover's speed ; The wee birds woo their lovin' mates, Around our very head ! But I 've nae skill in lover-craft For till I met wi' you, I never sought a maiden's love, I never tried to woo. I 've gazed on many a comely face, And thought it sweet an' fair ; But wi' the face the charm would flee, And never move me mair. But miles away, your bonnie face Is ever in my view, Wi' a' its charms, half wilin* me, Half daurin' me to woo. At hame, a-field, you're a' my theme ; I doat my time away ; I dream o'er a' your charms by night, And worship them by day. But when they glad my langin' een, As they are gladden 'd now, My courage flees like frighted bird ; I daurna mint to woo. My head thus lying on your lap, Your hand aneath my cheek ; Love stounds my bosom through an' through, But yet I canna speak. My coward heart wi' happiness, Wi' bliss is brimin' fu' ; But, oh ! its fu'ness mars my tongue, I haeua power to woo. I prize your smile, as husbandman The summer's opening bloom, And could you frown, I dread it mair, Than lie the autumn's gloom. My life hangs on that sweet, sweet lip, On that calm, sunny brow ; And, oh ! my death hangs on them baith, Unless you let me woo. Oh ! lift me to your bosom, then, Lay your warm cheek to mine ; And let me round that lovesome waist My arms enraptured twine ; That I may breathe my very soul, In ae lang lovin' vow ; And a' the while in whispers low, You '11 learn me, love, to woo ! I'M WANDERING WIDE. I 'M wand'ring wide this wintry night, But yet my heart's at hame, Fu' cosy by my ain fire-cheek, Beside my winsome dame. The weary winds howl lang an' loud ; But 'mid their howling drear, Words sweeter far than honey blabs Fa' saftly on my ear. I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide an' far ; But lre, to guide me back again, Lights up a kindly star. The lift glooms black aboon my head, Nae friendly blink I see ; But let it gloom twa bonnie een Glance bright to gladden me. I'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide and late, And ridgy wreaths afore me rise, As if to bar my gate ; Around me swirls the sleety drift, *The frost bites dour an' keen ; But breathings warm, frae lovin' lips, Come ilka gust atween. I 'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide an' wild, Alang a steep and eerie track, Where hills on hills are piled ; The torrent roars in wrath below, The tempest roars aboon ; But fancy broods on brighter scenes, And soughs a cheerin' tune. I'm wand'ring wide this wintry night, I 'm wand'ring wide my lane, And mony a langsome, lanesome mile, I '11 measure e er it's gane ; But lanesome roads or langsome miles, Can never daunton me, When I think on the welcome warm That waits me, love, frae thee. ALEXANDER MACANSH, ALEXANDER MACANSH was born at Dunfermline in 1803. At the age of eleven, apprenticed to a flaxdresser, he followed this occupation during a period of thirty- eight years, of which the greater portion was spent in Harribrae factory, in his native town. During the intervals of his occupation, he contrived to become familiar with British and Continental authors, and with the more esteemed Latin classics. He WILLIAM ANDERSON. 327 likewise formed some acquaintance with mathematical science. Of strong poetical tastes, he contributed verses to Tait's Magazine, the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and the Scotsman newspaper. In 1850, he published, by subscription, a volume of poems, entitled " The Social Curse, and other Poems." He issued a volume, entitled "Essays, Lectures, and Poems," in 1866. Macansh laboured tinder severe physical debility. He died in 1868. THE MOTHER AND CHILD. THE mother, with her blooming child, Sat by the river pool, Deep in whose waters lay the sky, So stilly beautiful. She held her babe aloft, to see Its infant image look Up joyous, laughing, leaping from The bosom of the brook. And as it gazed upon the stream, The wondering infant smiled, And stretched its little hands, and tried To clasp the shadow'd child, Which, in that silent underworld, With eager gesture strove To meet it with a brother-kiss, A brother-clasp of love. Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, ('Twas thus the mother sung ;) The shrew, Experience, has not yet With envious gesture flung Aside the enchanted veil which hides Life's pale and dreary look ; An angel lurks in every stream, A heaven in every brook. Laugh on, laugh on, my happy child, Ere drop the tears of woe Upon that mirror, scattering all Those glorious shapes, and show A fleeting shadow, which thou think'st An angel, breathing, living A shallow pebbly brook which thou Hast fondly deem'd a heaven. WILLIAM ANDERSON, WILLIAM ANDERSON was born at Edinburgh on the 10th December 1805. His father, James Anderson, supervisor of Excise at Oban, Argyleshire, died there in 1812. His mother was the daughter of John Williams, author of " The Mineral Kingdom," a work valued by geologists. The " Historical Memoirs of the House of Hamilton" was composed by his brother, Mr John Anderson, surgeon. Mr Anderson received his education at Edinburgh, and in 182G was apprenticed to a merchant in Leith ; but not liking the employment, he was afterwards placed in the office of a solicitor in Edinburgh, with the view of studying the law. Having a strong bent towards literature, he began to write poetry, and in 1828 became a regular contributor to the press. In 1830 he published a volume of poems, designated " Poetical Aspirations," and soon after issued a thin volume of prose and verse, entitled " Odd Sketches." Proceeding to London in 1831, he formed the acquaint- ance of Maginn, Allan Cunningham, and other men of letters. Towards the close of that year he joined the Aberdeen Journal, and in 1835 edited for a short time the Advertiser, ^another newspaper published in that city. He returned to London in 1836, and resided there for several years, contributing to different periodicals. His "Landscape Lyrics" appeared in 1839, in a quarto volume. In 1840 he commenced writing the lives of distinguished Scotsmen, and the result of his researches appeared in 1842, in a work entitled, " The Popular Scottish Biography." Previous to the appearance of this volume, he published at London " The Gift for All Seasons," an annual which contained contributions from Thomas Campbell, Sheridan Knowles, the Countess of Blessington, Miss Pardoe, and other writers of reputation. In 1842 he returned to Scotland to edit The Western Watchman, a weekly journal published 328 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. at Ayr. In 1844 lie became connected with the Witness newspaper ; but in the following year removed to Glasgow, to assist in the establishment of the first Scottish daily -newspaper. With that journal, the Daily Mail, he continued two years, till severe night labour, much affecting his health, obliged him temporarily to abandon literary pursuits. He afterwards edited Lord Byron's works, in two octavo volumes, with numerous notes, and a copious memoir of the poet. Besides a number of smaller works, he edited five volumes, forming a series, entitled, " Treasury of Dis- covery, Enterprise, and Adventure ;" " Treasury of the Animal World ;" " Treasury of Ceremonies, Manners, and Customs;" " Treasury of Nature, Science, and Art ;" and " Treasury of History and Biography." " The Young Voyager," a poem descrip- tive of the search after Franklin, with illustrations, intended for children, appeared in 1855. In 1863 Messrs Fullarton & Co., of Edinburgh, published in three royal 8vo volumes " The Scottish Nation," a work illustrative of Scottish family history, on which Mr Anderson had been engaged for a period of ten years. Mr Anderson died suddenly at London on the 2d August 1866. THE WELLS 0' WEARY. DOWN in the valley lone, Far in the wild wood, Bubble forth springs, each one Weeping like childhood ; Bright on their rushy banks, Like joys among sadness, Little flowers bloom in ranks Glimpses of gladness. Sweet 'tis to wander forth, Like pilgrims at even ; Lifting our souls from earth To fix them on Heaven ; Then in our transport deep, This world forsaking : Sleeping as angels sleep, Mortals awaking ! I'M NAEBODY NOO. I'M naebody noo; though in days that are gane, When I 'd hooses, and lands, and gear o* my ain, There war' mony to flatter, and mony to praise And wha but mysel' was sae prood in those days ! Ah ! then roun' my table wad visitors thrang, Wha laugh'd at my joke, and applauded my sang, Though the tane had nae point, and the tither nae glee ; But, of coorse, they war' grand when comin' frae me ! Whan I 'd plenty to gi'e, o' my cheer and my crack, There war' plenty to come, and wi" joy to partak' ; But \vhaneverthe water grew scant at the well, I was welcome to drink all alane by mysel' ! Whan I'd nae need o' aid, there were plenty to proffer ; And noo whan I want it, I ne'er get the offer; I could greet whan I think hoo my siller decreast, In the feasting o' those who came only to feast. The fulsome respec' to my gowd they did gi'e, I thocht a' the time was intended for me ; But whanever the end o' my money they saw, Their friendship, like it, also flicker'd awa'. My advice once was sought for by folks far and near, Sic great wisdom I had ere I tint a" my gear ; I 'm as weel able yet to gi'e counsel, that's true, But I may jist haud my wheesht, for I'm naebody noo. I CANNA SLEEP. I CANNA sleep a wink, lassie, When I gang to bed at night, But still o' thee I think, lassie, Till morning sheds its light. I lie an' think o' thee, lassie, And I toss frae side to side, Like a vessel on the sea, lassie, When stormy is the tide. My heart is no my ain, lassie, It winna bide wi' me; Like a birdie it has gane, lassie, To nestle saft wi' thee. I canna lure it back, lassie, Sae keep it to yoursel' ; But oh ! it sune will break, lassie, If you dinna use it well. Where the treasure is, they say, lassie, The spirit lingers there ; An' mine has fled away, lassie You needna ask me where. I marvel oft if rest, lassie, On my eyes and heart would biiV, If I thy troth possess'd, lassie, And thou wert at my side. WILLIAM M. HETHERINGTON, D.D., LL.D. 329 WILLIAM M, HETHERINGTON, D,D,, LLD, Ax accomplished theologian and historical writer, William Hetherington was born on the Galloway side of the valley of the Nith, about the year 1805. With an average education at the parish school, he entered the University of Edinburgh, where he speedily acquired distinction. Amidst studies of a severer nature, he found relaxation in the composition of verses, celebrating the national manners and the interesting scenes of his nativity. These appeared in 1829, in a duodecimo volume, entitled, " Twelve Dramatic Sketches, founded on the Pastoral Poetry of Scotland." Having obtained license as a probationer of the Established Church, he was in 1836 ordained to the ministerial charge of the parish of Torphichen in the Presbytery of Linlithgow. He took a leading part in the Non-intrusion controversy, and at the Disruption in 1843 joined the Free Church : he was afterwards translated to St Andrews. In 1848 he became minister of Free St Paul's Church, Edinburgh; and in May 1857, was appointed Professor of Exegetical Theology in the Free Church College, Glasgow. He died in May 1865. Besides his poetical work, Dr Hetherington published " The Fulness of Time," " History of the Church of Scotland," " The Minister's Family," and some other publications chiefly on theological subjects. He was, during the first four years of its existence, editor of the Free Church Magazine, and was afterwards a leading con- tributor to the British and Foreign Evangelical Review. SWEET IS THE BLOSSOM. SWEET is the blossom o' the hawthorn tree, The bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree, When the soft westlan' wind, as it wanders o'er the lea, Comes laden wi' the breath o' the hawthorn tree. Lovely is the rose in the dewy month of June, An' the lily gently bending beneath the sunny noon; But dewy rose nor lily fair is half sae sweet to me, As the bonnie milky blossom o' the hawthorn tree. Oh, blythe at fair an' market fu' aften I ha'e been, An' wi' a crony frank an* leal, some happy hours I 've seen : But the happiest hours I e'er enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee, In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree. Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody gleii, And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain ; But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me, While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree. Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die, And the rainbow hues of flattering' Hope may darken in the sky ; Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea, Xor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree: But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine, For me iiae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossom shine, An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee, Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree. 'TIS SWEET WI' BLYTHESOME HEART TO STEAY. 'Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray, In the blushing dawn o' infant day ; But sweeter than dewy morn can he, Is an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee ; An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee ; The half o' my life I'd gladly gi'e For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee. 330 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The garisli sun has sunk to rest ; The star o' gloaming gilds the west ; The gentle moon comes smiling on, And her veil o'er the silent earth is thrown : Then come, sweet maid, oh, come wi' me ! The whispering night-breeze calls on thee ! Oh, come and roam o'er the lily lea, An hour i" the mild moonlight wi' me. For wealth let warldlings cark and moil, Let pride for empty honours toil, I 'd a' their wealth and honours gie For ae sweet hour, dear maid, wi' thee. An hour wi' thee, an hour wi' thee, An hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee ; Earth's stores and titles a' I'd gi'e For an hour i' the mild moonlight wi' thee. JAMES MACDONALD, A RESPECTABLE writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, Stirlingshire. His father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he after- wards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in 1822, to the University of Glasgow. Intended for the ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pur- suits. After teaching in several boarding establishments, lie became corrector of the press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health continuing to decline, lie removed to the salubrious village of Catrine, in Ayrshire : he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted teacher of Sabbath schools ; and his only separate publications are two collections of hymns for their use. BONNIE AGGIE LANG. OR ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang, Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang; It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose, [t is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows, It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing, Nor is 't her ee o' winning glee that male's me fondly sing. But, oh ! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free 0' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be ; Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream, The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream, I'd rather hear ae gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue, For weel I ken her heart is mine the fountain ' ' whar it sprung. Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour ; The moon was risen o'er the trees, the dew begemm'd ilk flower, E'en frae the waukrife stream that ran in silver glintin' by ; I press'd her milk-white han' in mine she smiled as angels smile, But ah! frae me her tale o' love this warld maunna wile. I saw the silver light o' heaven fa' on her bonnie brow, An' glitter on the honey -blabs upon her cherry mou' ; I saw the lily moonbeams steal the redness o' the rose, An' sleep upon her downy cheek in beautiful repose. The moon rose high, the stream gaed by, but aye she smiled on me, An' what she wadna breathe in words she tauld it wi' her ee. I 've sat within a palace hall amid the grand an' gay, I 've listen'd to the carnival o' merry birds in May. I've been in joyous companies, the wale o* mirth an' glee, An' danced in nature's fairy bowers by moun- tain, lake, and lea ; But never has this heart o' mine career'd in purer pride, The weary wind was liush'd asleep, an' no a i As in that moonlit glen an' bower, wi' Aggie sough cam' nigh, by my side. ANDREW PARK. 331 ANDREW PARK, THE author of numerous poetical works, Andrew Park was bom at Renfrew, on the 7th March 1807. After an ordinary education at the parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. In his fifteenth year he entered a commission warehouse in Paisley, and while resident in that town, published his first poem, entitled the " Vision of Mankind." About the age of twenty he went to Glasgow, as salesman in a hat manufactory ; shortly after, he commenced business on his own account. At this period he published several volumes of poems. Business proving unsatisfactory, he disposed of his stock and proceeded to London. After some years' residence in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1841 ; and having purchased the stock of the poet Dugald Moore, recently deceased, he became a bookseller in Ingram Street. This speculation was unfortunate, and the poet finally retired from the concerns of business. In 1856 he visited Egypt and other Eastern countries, and the following year published a narrative of hi* travels in a duodecimo volume, entitled, " Egypt and the East." Of his twelve volumes of poems, that entitled " Silent Love " became the most popular. It was produced in a handsome form, with illustrations by Sir Noel Paton. In one of his poems, entitled " Veritas," published in 1849, he has supplied a narrative of the principal events of his life up to that period. Several of his songs have obtained popularity. Mr Park died at Glasgow on the 27th December 1863. A handsome monument, containing his bust in bronze, has, by admiring friends, been erected to his memory in Paisley cemetery. His poetical works have been published in a royal octavo volume. HURRAH FOR THE HIGHLANDS. HURRAH for the Highlands ! the stern Scot- tish Highlands, The home of the clansman, the brave, and the free; Where the clouds love to rest, on the moun- tain's rough breast, Ere they journey afar o'er the islandless sea. Tis there where the cataract sings to the breeze, As it dashes in foam like a spirit of light ; And 'tis there the bold fisherman bounds o'er the seas In his fleet, tiny bark, through the perilous night. Then hurrah for the Highlands ! etc. 'Tis the land of deep shadow, of sunshine, and shower, Where the hurricane revels in madness on high ; For there it has might that can war with its power, In the wild dizzy cliffs that are cleaving the sky. Then hurrah for the Highlands ! etc. I have trod merry England, and dwelt on its charms ; I have wander'd through Erin, that gem of the sea ; But the Highlands alone the true Scottish heart warms For her heather is blooming, her eagles are free ! Then hurrah for the Highlands ! etc. OLD SCOTLAND, I LOVE THEE! ' OLD Scotland, I love thee ! thou'rt dearer to me Than all lands that are girt by the wide-rolling sea; Though asleep not in sunshine, like islands afar, Yet thou'rt gallant in love, and triumphant in war ! Thy cloud-cover'd hills that look up from the seas, "\Vave sternly their wild woods aloft in the breeze ; Where flies the bold eagle in freedom on high, Through regions of cloud in its wild native sky ! For old Scotland, I love thee ! etc. name not the land where the olive-tree grows, Xor the land of the shamrock, nor land of the rose; But show me the thistle that waves his proud head O'er heroes whose blood for then- country was shed. For old Scotland, I love thee ! etc. Then tell me of bards and of warriors bold, Who wielded their brands in the battles of old, Who conquer' d and died for their loved native land, With its maidens so fair, and its mountains so grand! For old Scotland, I love thee ! etc. .332 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. FLOWERS OF SUMMER. FLOWERS of summer, sweetly springing, Deck the dewy lap of earth ; Birds of love are fondly singing In their gay and jocund mirth : Streams are pouring from their fountains, Echoing through each rugged dell ; Heather bells adorn the mountains, Bid the city, love ! farewell. See the boughs are rich in blossom, Through each sunlit, silent grove ; Cast all sorrow from thy bosom Freedom is the soul of love ! Let us o'er the valleys wander, Nor a frown within us dwell, And in joy see Nature's grandeur Bid the city, love ! farewell. Morning's sun shall then invite us By the ever sparkling streams ; Evening's fall again delight us With its crimson-coloured beams. Flowers of summer, sweetly springing, Deck the dewy lap of earth ; Birds of love are loudly singing In their gay and jocund mirth. HOME OF MY FATHERS. HOME of my fathers, though far from thy grandeur, In joy or in sorrow, my heart turns to thee ; In visions of night o'er thy loved scenes I wander, And dwell with those friends that are dearest to me! I see thy blue hills, where the thunders are leaping, Where springs the loud cascade to caverns below ; The clouds round their summits their dark watch are keeping, Thy ravines are streak'd with the purest of snow. Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee ! Warm are thy hearts, though thy breezes be chilly ; Rosy thy maidens, and artless and gay ! Cradled on high lie thy lakes pure and stilly, Surrounded by mountains gigantic and grey ! Thy stern thistle still shoots aloft in its glory, And sheds its bright dew tears o'er old heroes' graves ; Thy rudely rear'd cairns echo many a story Of those who fell bravely, who scorn'd to be slaves 1 Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee ! Land of the pibroch, the plaid, and the heather, The lake and the mountain, the streamlet and glen, The green thoughts of youth do not easily wither, But dwell on thy charms, and the bravest of men ! Both genius and love have in raptures hung o'er thee, And wafted thy name in sweet sounds o'er the sea Till nations afar have bent low to adore thee, Home of my fathers ! my heart turns to thee ! Home of my fathers, in joy or in sorrow Home of my fathers, my heart turns to thee ! WHAT AILS MY HEART? WHAT ails my heart what dims my ee ? What maks you seem sae wae, Jamie ! Ye werena aye sae cauld to me ; Ye ance were blythe and gay, Jamie. I 'm wae to see you, like a flower Kill'd by the winter's snaw, Jamie, Droop farer down frae hour to hour, An' waste sae fast awa', Jamie. I'm sure your Jeanie's kind and true, She loves nae ane but thee, Jamie ; She ne'er has gi'en thee cause to rue ; If sae ye still are free, Jamie. I winna tak r your hand and heart, If there is ane mair dear, Jamie ; I 'd sooner far for ever part With thee though wi' a tear, Jamie. Then tell me your doubts and your fears ; Keep naething hid frae me, Jamie ; Are ye afraid o' coming years, 0' darker days to me, Jamie? I '11 share your grief, I '11 share your joy, They '11 come alike to me, Jamie ; Misfortune's hand may all destroy, Except my love for thee, Jamie. AWAY TO THE HIGHLANDS. AWAY to the Highlands, where Lomond is flowing, Where mists and where mountains in soli- tude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came frae the sky! Though scenes of the fairest are Windsor adorning, Though England's proud structures enrap- ture the view ; Yet Nature's wild grandeur, all artifice scorning, Is seen 'mong our mountains so bonnie and blue. ALEXANDER HUME, JUNR. 333 Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing, "Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky ! Benlomond is seen in his monarch-like glory, His foot in the sea, and his head in the sky; His broad lofty brow is majestic and hoary, And round him, and round him the elements flfr. The winds are his music, the clouds are his clothing, The sun is his shield, as he wheels blazing by; When once on his summit you'd think you were soaring 'ilong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh ! Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing, "Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie, And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing, And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky ! I'M AWAY. 1 'M away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream, To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam. I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind ; The music of birds and the murmur of rills Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills. How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell ! Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell ; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! Oh, land of my fathers ! oh, home of my birth ! No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth! Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high, Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky! Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod, Which minstrels of yore often made their abode; Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales, That echo'd aloft o'er the furze-cover'd dales. How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell ! Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell ; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child! THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER. THERE is a bonnie, blushing flower But ah ! I darena breathe the name ; I fain would steal it frae its bower, Though a' should think me sair to blame It smiles sae sweet amang the rest, Like brightest star where ither's shine ; Fain would I place it in my breast, And make this bonnie blossom mine. At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er I see this fair, this fav'rite flower, My heart beats high with wish sincere, To wile it frae its bonnie bower ! But oh ! I fear to own its charms, Or tear it frae its parent stem ; For should it wither in mine arms, What would revive my bonnie gem ? Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa' Thp t flower can never fade with me, That frae the wintry winds that blaw Round each neglected bud is free! No, it shall only bloom more fair, When cherish 'd and adored by me ; And a' my joy, and a' my care, This bonnie blushing flower shall be ! ALEXANDER HUME, JUNIOR. A- misguided son of genius, Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. A strong natural aptitude for music he improved by culti- vating it. Born in a humble condition of life, he was apprenticed to a chair-maker, and he continued to work at that trade, both in Edinburgh and Glasgow. He was led to indulge in habits which were unworthy of his powers and acquirements. His death took place at Glasgow on the 4th February 1859. He composed the tune " Afton "Water," and the words and music of the following song : 334 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. MY AIN DEAR NELL. OH, boimie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee ; Though oceans wide between us row, ye '11 aye be dear to me ; Though mony a year's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell, I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell. Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days. When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes ; When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell, To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell ! How often Nelly Brown, ha'e we wander'd o'er the lea, Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree ; Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell ! And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear, We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear ; We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell, For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell ! They tell me Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hair Is snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair, Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell, For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell ! Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I ha'e sung o' love and thee, Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me, As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell ! JAMES GLASSFORD. JAMES GLASSFORD was born at Glasgow in 1772. His father, John Glassford, of Dougalston, in the county of Dumbarton, conducted business in Glasgow as a mer- chant. On the 21st March 1769 he married, as his second wife, Lady Margaret Mackenzie, sixth daughter of George, third Earl of Cromarty ; she became mother of the subject of this sketch, and died at Glasgow on the 29th March 1773. Having prosecuted the necessary studies, James Glassford passed advocate on the 3d July 1793. Early devoted to literary pursuits, he formed one of that brilliant conclave of young and ardent spirits, which the budding genius of Walter Scott drew around him, while only a student of law at Edinburgh. He was enrolled as an original member of The Club, so called, par excellence, which, originated by young Scott, con- tinued to assemble twice a year, till the members were scattered or separated by death. At the Edinburgh bar Glassford occupied a respectable position. He held for many years the office of Sheriff-depute of Dumbartonshire. In 1824 he was ap- pointed a commissioner to inquire into the state of education in Ireland. He pub- lished, at Bristol, in 1832, a duodecimo volume of "Notes" connected with three tours in Ireland, undertaken in the interests of his mission. Long in feeble health, he occasionally sought the milder climate of the southern counties of England, and there relieved the ennui of the invalid's chamber by composing translations from the Italian poets. Among his several publications are "Frondes Caducce, Hymns and Transla- tions," 12mo, and " Lyrical Compositions, selected from the Italian Poets, with Translations," Edinburgh, 1834, 12rno. Mr Glassford died at Edinburgh on the 28th July 1845. Though of a serious and retiring frame of mind, he enjoyed the inter- course of congenial friends ; he maintained a close intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, and with Major, afterwards Lord Nairne, and his gifted wife, the authoress of the " Land o' the Leal." The following lay, written when he was infirm and aged, will sufficiently indicate the gravity of his character during his latter years. JAMES GLASSFORD. 335 ON BEING KEQUESTED TO WRITE A SONG. DO not ask a wreath from me, Your chaplet to adorn ; 1 have no leaf or blossom now, And would not send a thorn. Why should a withering thought of mine Cast on your page a gloom, Or why a cold and bitter root Mix with the flowers in bloom ? who the sparkling gem would guard With pale and sullen lead, Or round his festive board would place The melancholy dead ? From other hand the lay require, My harp is all unstrung ; For other brow the laurel weave, O'er mine a veil be hung. My feverish hours appointed yet, In silence let me close ; My languid sun go down in cloud As first in clouds it rose. But though to kindred and to friends Oft distant, I appear, Though seldom from my lid will drop The sympathetic tear. Yet while on life's dark billow hung, I combat with despair, Still let my trembling spirit be Remember'd in their prayer. Enough if through His conquering power Whom death could not retain, With them I may be raised in light, And live, and meet again. MURTAGH MALOWNEY'S COMPLAINT TO OONAH O'SHAUNASSIE. AND why was you beguiling My heart so soon from me ? why was Oonah smiling On Murtie at Tralee ? When they figged it at Fitz-Symond's, why was Oonah there ? Were your feet not two diamonds, And your steps tuned air ? What bird so sweet as this bird Of all, on summer tree ? And your eyes how they whispered Then to me at Tralee ? She told me, too, mind her, That she scorned young O'Shee ; But Boggra Rocks are kinder Now than Oonah to me. No more must I be going My nightingale to see ; why is daybreak showing Me your smoke at Tralee ! The boys all say I 'm spooney, And bring me poteen ; Bad luck, they cry to Oonie, Bad luck to Mic Maclean. But wait till Corker Fair come, And then I '11 tell you more Of who 's the boy that 's welcome Yet to darken Oonie's door. THE DEAD WHO HAVE DIED IN THE LORD.* Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garments be rent; But weep not for him who is gone to his rest, Nor mourn for the ransom'd, nor wail for the blest. The sun is not set, but is risen on high, Nor long in corruption his body shall lie Then let not the tide of thy griefs overflow, Nor the music of heaven be discord below ; Rather loud be the song, and triumphant the chord, Let us joy for the dead who have died in the Lord. Go, call for the mourners, and raise the lament, Let the tresses be torn, and the garment be rent; But give to the living thy passion of tears, Who walk in this valley of sadness and fears ; Who are press'd by the combat, in darkness are lost, By the tempest are beat, on the billows are toss'd : Oh, weep not for those who shall sorrow no more, Whose warfare is ended, whose combat is o'er ; Let the song be exalted, be triumphant the chord, And rejoice for the dead who have died in the Lord. * This excellent lyric having been found in the scrap- book of the Baroness Nairne, was erroneously attributed to that gentlewoman by the editor in the former edition of this work. The editor has now much satisfaction in assigning the composition to the real author. 336 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ARCHIBALD CRAWFORD, a writer of prose and poetry of considerable merit, was born at Ayr in 1785. In his ninth year, left an orphan, he was placed under the care of a brother-in-law, a baker in London. With a limited education at school, his ardent love of literature and powerful memory enabled him to become conversant with the works of the more distinguished British authors, as well as the best translations of the classics. At the expiry of eight years he returned to Ayr, and soon after entered the employment of Charles Hay, Esq., of Edinburgh, in whose service he continued during a course of years. In honour of a daughter of this gentleman, who had shown him much kindness during a severe attack of fever, he composed his song of " Bonnie Mary Hay," which, subsequently set to music by R. A. Smith, has become extremely popular. He was afterwards in the employment of General Hay of Rannes, with whom he remained several years. At the close of that period he was offered by his employer an ensigncy in the service of the Honourable East India Company, which he declined. In 1810 he opened a grocery establishment in his native town; but, with less aptitude for business than literature, he lost the greater part of the capital he had embarked in trade. He afterwards exchanged this business for that of auctioneer. The literary inclinations of his youth had been assiduously followed up, and his employers, sympathising with his tastes, gave him every opportunity, by the use of their libraries, of indulging his favourite studies. With the exception of some fugi- tive pieces, he did not however seek distinction as an author till 1819, when a satirical poem entitled "St James's in an uproar," appeared anonymously from his pen. This composition, intended to support the extreme political opinions then in vogue, exposed to ridicule some leading persons in the district, and was attended with the temporary apprehension and menaced prosecution of the printer. To the columns of the Ayr and Wigtonshire Courier he now began to contribute a series of sketches, founded on traditions in the West of Scotland ; and these, in 1824, he collected into a volume, with the title, " Tales of a Grandmother," which was published by subscrip- tion. In the following year the tales, with some additions, were published, in two duodecimo volumes, by Constable & Co. ; but the subsequent insolvency of the publishing firm deprived the author of the profits of the sale. With two literary coadjutors, he started a weekly serial at Ayr, entitled The Correspondent, but the publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar periodical, under the designation of The Gaberlunzie, appeared under his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly contributed articles in prose and verse to the Ayr Advertiser newspaper. His death took place at Ayr on the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. To a hearty, social nature, he added strong intellectual capacities, and considerable dramatic power. His second son, Mr William Crawford, attained distinction as an artist. BONNIE MARY HAY. BOXNIE Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet, For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet ; The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek ; ! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet. Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me, When the sun's in the west, to the hawthorn- tree; To the hawthorn-tree, the bonnie berry-den, And I '11 tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then ? GEORGE OUTRAM. 337 Bonnie Mary Hay, it's haliday to me, When thou art couthie, kind, and free ; There's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky, My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh. Bonnie Mary Hay, thou mamma say me nay, But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae ; But come to the bower, and I'll tell you a' what's true, How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you. SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE! SCOTLAND, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains, Are famous in story the birth-place of song ; Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest, Veil may thy pilgrims long for their home. Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, The grave of my fathers! the land of the free ! Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace ; Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee ! Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave ; Scotland, to thee I 'LI twine, with all thy varied clime, For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave. Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore, The grave of my fathers ! the land of the freel Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace ; Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee ! GEORGE OUTRAM. THE author of " Legal Lyrics," a small volume of humorous songs, printed for private circulation, George Outram was born in the vicinity of Glasgow in 1805. His father, a native of England, was partner and manager in the Clyde Iron "Works. In 1827 he was called to the Scottish bar, and practised for some years as an advocate. To the character of an orator he made no pretensions, hut he evinced great ability as a chamber counsel. He accepted, in 1837, the editorship of the Glasgow Herald, and continued the principal conductor of that journal till the period of his death. He died at Eose- more, on the shores of the Holy Loch, on the 16th September 1856, in his fifty-first year. His remains were interred in "Warriston Cemetery, Edinburgh. Of a most retiring disposition, Mr Outram confined his intercourse to a limited circle of friends, by -whom he -was esteemed for his genial worth and interesting con- versation. By the late Lord Cockburn he was especially beloved. He has left in MS. several interesting songs, which are likely to he published by his executors. The late celebrated General Sir James Outram was his cousin-german. CHARGE ON A BOND OF ANNUITY. AIR " Duncan Davidson." I GAED to spend a week in Fife An unco week it proved to be, For there I met a waesome wife, Lamenting her viduity. Her grief brak' out sae fierce and fell, I thought her heart wad burst the shell ; And, I was sae left to mysel', I sell't her an annuity. The bargain lookit fair eneugh, She just was turn'd o' saxty-three ; I couldna guess'd she'd proved so teugh By human ingenuity. But years have come, and years have gane, And there she's yet as stieve's a stane ; The auld wife's growing young again Since she got her annuity. 338 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. She's crined awa' to bane an' skin, But that it seems is nought to me ; She's like to live, although she's in The last stage o' tenuity. She munches wi' her wizen' d gums, An' stumps about on legs o' thrums, But comes as sure as Christmas comes To ca' for her annuity. She jokes her joke, an* cracks her crack, As spunkie as a growin' flea ; An* there she sits upon my back A livin' perpetuity. She hurkles by her ingle side, An' toasts an' tans her wrinkled hide ; Wha kens how long she yet may bide To ca' for her annuity? I read the tables drawn wi' care For an Insurance Company ; Her chance o' life was stated there Wi' perfect perspicuity. But tables here, or tables there, She's lived ten years beyond her share ; An 's like to live a dozen mair To ca' for her annuity. I gat the loon that drew the deed, We spell'd it ower rig^it carefully ; In vain he yerk'd his souple head To find an ambiguity. It's dated, tested, a' complete The proper stamp, nae word delete ; And diligence, as on decreet, May pass for her annuity. I thought that grief might gar her quit Her only son was lost at sea ; But aff her wits behuved to flit, An' leave her in fatuity. She threeps, an' threeps he 's livin' yet For a' the tellin' she can get ; But catch the doited wife forget To ca' for her annuity ! If there's a sough o' cholera Or typhus, wha sae gleg as she ! She buys up baths, an' drugs, an' a', In siccan superfluity! She doesna need she's fever proof The pest walked o'er her very roof ; She tauld me sae, and then her loof Held out for her annuity. Ae day she fell, her arm she brak', A compound fracture as could be ; Nae leech the cure wad undertak', Whate'er was the gratuity. It's cured! she handles 't like a flail, It does as weel in bits as hale ; But I'm a broken man mysel' Wi' her and her annuity. Her broozled flesh and broken banes Are weel as flesh and banes can be ; She beats the taeds that live in stanes An' fatten in vacuity ! They die when they're exposed to air, They canna thole the atmosphere ; But her ! expose her onywhere, She lives for her annuity ! The water-drap wears out the rock As this eternal jade wears me ; I could withstand the single shock, But not the continuity. It's pay me here, an' pay me there, An' pay me, pay me evermair ; I '11 gang demented wi' despair ; I 'm charged for her annuity ! JOHN PARK, D,D. JOHN PARK was born at Greenock about the year 1805. He was educated at the grammar school of his native place, and at the Universities of Glasgow and Aberdeen. Licensed as a probationer of the Scottish Church, he was in 1831 preferred to the pastorate of Rodney Street Presbyterian Church, Liverpool. Having ministered at Liverpool for eleven years, he was in 1843 presented by the Duke of Buccleuch to the parish of Glencairn, Dumfriesshire. On a vacancy occurring in the first charge at St Andrews, by the decease of Principal Haldane in March 1854, he was selected by the congregation to fill the office, and was admitted to the charge in September. At the same period he received the degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews. In his important ministerial sphere at St Andrews, Dr Park obtained remarkable accept- ance ; his discourses, pervaded by enlightened views of Divine truth, attracted large audiences, and he was beloved for his genial manners in private society. Dr Park died suddenly on the 8th April 1865. He was not more distinguished as an accom- plished theologian and eloquent preacher, than as an ingenious and most effective musician. He performed with much skill on different instruments, and several JOHN PARK, D.D. 339 of his musical compositions are said to equal the higher efforts of the great masters. Of these compositions, a selection of ninety were, after his decease, sold to Mr Rams- den of Leeds, who is producing a proportion of them annually. They include music to words by "Wordsworth, Shelley, and Tennyson, besides unpublished songs written by himself. Unambitious of literary reputation, Dr Park did not seek the honours of author- ship. Several sacred lyrics from his pen were published anonymously. A volume of his " Lectures and Sermons " appeared soon after his decease. The following song, the most extensively popular of several written to the same chorus, was composed by him, when he was a student at Aberdeen College, about the year 1826. In com- municating a copy to the editor of this work in December 1855, Dr Park wrote, " The air is old. I heard it whistled by a fellow-student at Aberdeen, and tried these words for it. The only words he could give me as old ones, were an' I were where Gadie rins, Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins, an' I were where Gadie rins, At the back o' Benochie ; but he told me that a Scottish officer in Egypt had been much affected and surprised on hearing a soldier's wife crooning the song to herself, and this, I believe, was the hint upon which I tried the verses. The air is undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several Gaelic and Irish airs. I have been surprised though it would be affecta- tion not to say agreeably surprised by the interest which has been, felt in connection with this trifle." It may be added that Dr Park's nephew, Mr Allan Park Paton, of Greenock, is well known for his literary and poetical tastes. Besides two volumes of meritorious verse, he has published " The "Web of Life, a Tale," a work on Alexander Wilson the poet and ornithologist, and other esteemed compositions. WHERE GADIE BINS.* On, an" I were where Gadie rins, Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins, Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins, At the back o Benochie ! I wish I were where Gadie rins, 'Mang fragrant heath and yellow whins, Or, brawlin' doun the bosky linns, At the back o' Benochie ; To hear ance mair the blackbird's sang, To wander birks and braes amang, Wi' frien's and fav'rites, left sae lang, At the back o' Benochie. How mony a day, in blythe spring-time, How mony a day, in summer's prime, I wiled awa' my careless time On the heights o' Benochie. Ah ! Fortune's flowers wi' thorns are rife, And walth is won wi' grief and strife Ae day gi'e me o' youthfu' life At the back o"' Benochie. * See a version of the song by John Imlah, p. 271. Oh, Mary! there, on ilka nicht, When baith our hearts were young and licht, We 've wander'd, when the moon was bricht, Wi' speeches fond and free. Oh ! ance, ance mair, where Gadie rins, Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins Oh ! micht I dee where Gadie rins At the back o' Benochie. SONG OF THE SOUL. OH ! brightly glides the silent stream, Along the air no breeze is flowing ; Serenely shines the young moonbeam, And all the eastern stars are glowing. No living leaf's among the trees, Save on the aspen's lightest bough ; The northern lights are o'er the seas, The mist sits on the dim hill's brow ; And all is calm, but thee, my soul Oh ! all is calm, but thee! 340 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The birds have sung themselves to sleep ; Nor e'er the forest owls are hooting ; "While oft, along night's shadowy steep, With silent glance the stars are shooting. And sleep is in the city's bounds, As well as on the dusky hill ; The curfew's voice no longer sounds, The hum of multitudes is still ; And all at rest, but thee, my soul Oh ! all at rest, but thee ! Yet not far distant is the clime Where this bright frame of things must sever, And the disorder'd stream of time Leap o'er its bound, and break for ever. Then mountains shall be wrapt in flame, The spheres conclude their ancient song ; Cities lie waste without a name ; Stars mingle with the ruin's throng ; And all decay, but thee, my soul Oh ! all decay, but thee ! JAMES MACFARLAN, ONE of the most gifted and remarkable of modern Scottish poets, James Macfarlan passed his brief career known only to a few. He was born in Kirk Street, Calton, Glasgow, on the 9th of April 1832. His parents were Irish; his father was a native of Augherstain, near the small town of Aligner, county Tyrone. By profession a pedlar, Macfarlan senior was of improvident habits, nor did he possess other qualities befitting the father and guardian of a family of sons. If the younger Macfarlan, the subject of this memoir, was a wayward and thoughtless youth, he had lacked the moral restraints which judicious parents impose upon their children. He grew up, a stranger alike to the amenities and genial counsels of the parental home. His public education was embraced in a few weeks' desultory attendance at school in Glasgow, Kilmarnock, and Greenock. He early accompanied his father in his wanderings, bore his pack, and, to likely customers, recommended its wares. With avidity he read books of all sorts, magazines, old and new, books of philosophy, history, and travel, volumes of poetry, and works of fiction. These were read and re-read, pondered over, and studied under circumstances which, in the most literal sense, constituted the pursuit of learning under difficulties. Without any actual home a dweller in mean lodgings, surrounded by squalor, rags, and filth, a com- panion of poverty, dissoluteness, and social degradation in its more depraved forms, James Macfarlan carried on and completed his poetical education. Neither his physical aspects, nor his moral behaviour in any respect belied the infelicitous con dition of his surroundings. Like the more degraded inhabitants of that unfortunate country to which his parents belonged, he was content to adopt any covering which would conceal his nakedness, or shield him from the heat of summer or the winter storm. His countenance, except when he expressed himself indignantly respecting the ingratitude of the world, or the churlishness of the unlettered, wore a dingy and most uninteresting appearance, which his dark brown eyes served only to in- tensify. In his heavy, commonplace features, there was presented much to repel, and nothing which could attract the most hopeful admirer of Ms genius. For genius he possessed of a high order. James Macfarlan was one of the most gifted persons, and, certainly, the most ingenious poet in humble life it has been our lot to meet. In the pot-house, amid the fumes of tobacco, and the coarse, rude talk of drunkards and desperadoes, he would have inscribed verses, with chalk or pencil, on the backs of letters, or on the margins of old newspapers, such as in power of expression and thought no Scottish bard need have blushed to own. Of these random compositions many have been lost ; yet there are enough to constitute a volume of poetical remains, of which the publication would reflect honour on any one who might possess suf- ficient ardour to undertake it. In August 1853 Macfarlan was introduced to the lovers of poetry in Scotland by JAMES MACFARLAN. 341 the late Hugh. Macdonald, who published extracts from his unpublished poems in the Glasgow Citizen newspaper. In the following year a volume of "Poems" from his pen was issued by a London publishing house. The encomiums of the press on this performance excited the author's hopes of literary preferment, and, in a corre- sponding degree unhappily impeded his energies. He was now resident in Glasgow, a city which, amidst its mercantile activities has perhaps, done more in the effective recognition of men of genius, and in making provision for their necessities, than any other city in the world. The young poet was warmly patronised ; he was appointed secretary to the Athenaeum, a respectable literary institution. The emoluments of his office were small, but the connection was valuable ; and there were among the members many who would not suffer the gifted secretary to be in want of anything. But Macfarlan plunged into a course of reckless inebriety, neglecting his duties and disgusting his employers. His misconduct could not long be overlooked ; his services were dispensed with, and he was once more thrown on the miserable re- sources of a pedlar. He was placed on the staff of the Bulletin, a newly-started daily journal. Among the proprietors there was the utmost disposition to befriend him, and occasional lapses might have been overlooked, but his aberrations were incessant. From reporting in the police court, he would have stumbled into an adjoining tavern, and remained there till next morning. No public journal could retain a reporter of such erratic habits. After repeated warnings, he was turned adrift. The tavern con- tinued to be frequented : strong drink was the panacea for all his misfortunes, and miscreants of course were not wanting, who encouraged him in the course of ruin. Yet amidst the revelry and dissipation of those desperate times, his genius was most brilliant. In 1855, Macfarlan published his "City Songs." He dedicated the work to the Earl of Carlisle, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, who, in a substantial gift, acknowledged the compliment. For a time he sought to extricate himself from his degraded con- dition. In the hope of concentrating his affections at the domestic hearth, he married a young woman from a steam-loom manufactory at Belfast. That he was withdrawn from his old haunts it is charitable to conjecture, but his reformation was certainly of short continuance. He sold his volume during the day, and at night dissipated the proceeds in the tap-room. Then he reeled home to his wife, shivering in her poorly- furnished, wind-pierced attic. He proceeded to Edinburgh to dispose of his book. A literary gentleman refused to purchase a volume from one who diffused in his apart- ment the unpl easing odours of the tap-room. The angry poet returned to Glasgow to denounce Edinburgh, and revile its men of letters. There was still a strong disposition to befriend, and if possible to rescue the errant poet. A benevolent citizen of Glasgow obtained him employment as a writer of Tales for the Workman newspaper. It was stipulated that his wife should receive his salary. He acceded to the proposition, but after a period demanded that his money should be paid into his own hand As the cashier resisted the demand, the poet struck him lo the ground, and by this act upset his last chance of obtaining employ- ment in his native city. A new benefactor arose. Macfarlan dispatched a bundle of verses to Mr Charles Dickens, offering them as contributions to All the Year Bound. Though presenting a most uninviting aspect, so far as concerned the scraps of paper on which they were written, Mr Dickens readily perceived the merit of the verses inserted many of them in his periodical, and liberally remunerated his contributor. Macfarlan now issued his " Lyrics of Life," which was followed by a poetical brochure entitled " The "Wanderer of the West." These he personally sold in Glasgow 342 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. and other towns, and as his poetical merits were beginning to be recognised, he might have easily secured sufficient capital to establish himself in some department of business. But his intemperate habits were still unsubdued. It is singular to find amidst those years of a vagabond existence, when the poet seemed to be involved in the whirlpool of bewildering excesses, that he could, on the shortest warning, com- pose verses bearing the stamp of his own original and powerful genius. At noon of the twenty-fifth of January 1859, the day on which the centenary of the birth of Robert Burns was celebrated in every town, Macfarlan stumbled into a newspaper office in Glasgow, soliciting employment. The benevolent proprietor handed him five shillings, and requested that he would compose an ode on the Scottish bard, to be read that evening at one of the banquets in the city. Before the appointed hour Macfarlan sent to the chairman of the meeting that ode which follows the present memoir. Ben Jonson, with all his promptitude in versification, never achieved a greater triumph. To the writer of the present sketch, who at a previous period had unsuccessfully attempted to befriend him, Macfarlan sent the verses entitled " Scot- land's Tribute to Wallace," a few days before the 24th June 1861, when the foun- dation-stone of the Wallace Monument was laid on the Abbey Craig. Copies of the verses were distributed, and money was procured for the needy poet. A correspond- ence between the poet and the writer so renewed, did not terminate with the occasion. Macfarlan was advised to publish a collected edition of his poems. He consented, and asked his correspondent " to write a short preface," which " should advert to his lowly position and limited education." But the poet's health was failing ; he pro- crastinated till it was too late. A short-lived institution, originated by the writer for the relief of literary Scots- men in circumstances of distress, was of some service to James Macfarlan. By its funds he was repeatedly relieved from a condition of abject penury. " I have had, too frequently," he said, " to add to a day's want of food, the bitterness of a couch that had scarcely the slightest covering to screen us from the rigorous cold." The writer counselled abstinence from stimulants, as a means of restoring health and of providing necessaries. "The state of my health," replied the poet, "forbids my touching alcohol in any form. In practice I am positively teetotal ; but to appear consistent, I intend joining the Abstinence Union or Temperance League." Alas ! the salutary change had really not yet come ; a few posts brought a request for more money, with the dreadful alternative of suicide ! During the early months of 1862, Macfarlan contributed to the Workman's Friend, a serial conducted by the writer, and published at London and Stirling. For that periodical he wrote a short tale, entitled, " One of a Million," and several other articles both in prose and verse. About the month of June his letters ceased. He had fallen seriously ill, and was confined to his dwelling, generally to his bed. He suffered from a pulmonary attack, and his recovery was deemed hopeless. Before being laid aside, he had accepted the temperance pledge, and abjured the practices of his former life. He was visited by many earnest persons, who talked with him seriously, and were satisfied that he had undergone a most salutary change. Mr Wallace Logan, temperance-hotel keeper, Maxwell Street, particularly distinguished himself in minis- tering to his comforts. The late Rev. Dr John Robertson, minister of the High Church, was often by his bed, and received the assurance of his penitence and faith. He died in the Drygate, Glasgow, on the 5th November 1862, in his 31st year. His remains were consigned to the Cheapside Street Cemetery, Anderston. As if anticipating his early decease, he has thus written in his poem, entitled " The Bard : " " In cottage born of parents poor and lowly The poet sprung ; JAMES MACFARLAN. 343 On life's dark road he wandered sad and slowly, Yet fondly hung O'er all that earth held in it pure and holy, And to them sung. But Death came, when his ardent soul was breathing Its glowing fire : Then turned he to the world, with tears bequeathing His broken lyre ; And Spring beheld, while her fresh garlands wreathing, The Bard expire. The last months of Macfarlan's life, -when he was confined to his sick-chamber, redeem his memory from those stains which had otherwise attached to it. That he descended to the same depths of moral turpitude as Edgar Allan Poe, may not be asserted, but he certainly equalled the unhappy Richard Savage, in spendthrift recklessness and intemperate prodigality. He erred much, and he repented deeply. It is more pleasing to expatiate on the qualities of his genius. He did not write for the people though the elevation of the industrial classes was the frequent subject of his muse. He did not write songs, though several of his compositions might be set to music and sung. His muse taught philosophy, and dealt with the spiritual pro- perties of things. Like the ancient enraptured prophet, his lofty conceptions impart breadth and compass to his imagery. Unlike the bards of the spasmodic school, he keeps a rein upon his fancy; his flights are never beyond the comprehension or the patience of his reader. His language is chaste, ornate, and exact ; he concentrates rather than expands his sentiments ; in the graceful flow of numbers, he never betrays a point of weakness. He has celebrated the nobler affections and instincts of the human heart and painted with master hand the scenes of civic activity and rustic gladness. He writes hopefully of human progress, deprecates the revival of ancient feuds, and rejoices in a high-souled patriotism. He is the poet of that species of chivalry which cannot stoop to dishonour, and rejoices to upraise and support the weak. He personally sinned, but he has written not a single line which in the heart of another will awaken unpleasing emotions. TO THE MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS. IN lonely hut and lordly hall a mighty voice is heard, And 'neath its wild bewitching spell the honest brows are bared ; From Scotland's hills and twilight glens, to far Columbian floods, It stirs the city's streets of toil, and wakes its solitudes ; It speaks no triumph reap'd with swords, it brings no conquering cry Of buried honours, battle-crown'd, and veil'd with victory ; But hearts leap loving to its note, and kindling bosoms glow, To hail the Poet born to fame, a hundred years ago. 0, like a glorious bird of God, he leapt up from the earth, A lark in song's exalted heaven, a robin by the hearth ; " bonny Doon. " 0, like a peerless flower he sprang from Nature's meanest sod, Yet shedding joy on every path by human footstep trod. How shall we tell his wondrous power, how shall we say or sing What magic to a million hearts his deathless strains can bring? How men on murkest battle-fields have felt the potent charm, Till sinking valour leapt to life, and strung the nerveless arm ? How hearts in dreariest loneliness have toil'd through barren brine The only glimpse of sunshine then, his pictures o' langsyne ; How far amid the western wilds, by one en- chanting tune, The wide Missouri fades away in dreams of 344 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTXEL. More hearts and hands renew the pledge sweet pledge of other years That sacred "auld acquaintance" vow, the light of parting tears. ! blessed be the brawny arm that tore pre- snmption down, That snatch'd the robe from worthless pride, and gave to toil a crown ; That smote the rock of poverty with song's enchanting rod, Till joy into a million hearts in streams of beauty flow'd ; And while that arm could stretch to heaven, and wield the lightning's dart, It brought the glorious sunshine, too, to cheer the humblest heart : For free as Spring, his gladsome muse danc'd o'er the daisied plain, Or rang in organ-gusts of praise through grandeur's mightiest fane. Then blest for ever be the soul that link'd us man to man A brotherhood of beating hearts God's own immortal plan : While Labour, smiling at his forge, or stalking at his plough, Looks up with prouder soul to find God's finger on his brow Feels man is man, though russet-robed, and smacking of the soil, And all are brothers, whether born to titles or to toiL Then pledge his mem'ry far and near, although the hand be dust That oft has swept the golden lyre, that ages cannot rust : No sun of time e'er sits upon the empire of his fame, And still unwearied is the wing that bears abroad his name. There may be grander bards than he, there may be loftier songs, Bat none have touch'd with nobler nerve the poor man's rights and wrongs : Then, while unto the hazy past the eye of fancy turns, Raise high the fame, and bless the name of glorious Robert Burns. SCOTLAND'S TRIBUTE TO WALLACE. OURS is no venal pomp to-day we seek no vain parade ; But, like some solemn rite of old, our tribute due is paid. We raise no ancient rivalry ; all jealousies are cast "With that old strife and hate that mark the dead and mouldering past. And looking at those darksome times from this our clearer day, "We see but right and tyrant might contending in the fray. Brothers of England! ye have known our Scottish valour tried, "When, plunging through the clouds of death, we triumphed side by side. As the old Wallace-thrill of war ran tingling through the frame, And strung each nerve like lightning cords, and filled each eye with flame, Then soared the flag of victory to crown the battle-day, O'er merry England's bravest hearts, and. sons of " Scots wha ha'e !" What though our sires were enemies, 'tis only ours to know That WALLACE fought for Liberty; a tyrant was his foe. And ever first our WALLACE strode in Freedom's cause sublime ; Not for his country's good alone, but every age and clime : For souls are roused to emulate the noble master mind, And see within their nation's rights the rights of all mankind. Then raise in these pure summer heavens this tribute to the brave, As though once more that hero-form had leapt from out the grave, High on his native hills again a guardian power to stand, The pillar of our nation's strength, to counsel or command Telling old Scotland she is free, and in her freedom strong, While she maintains a noble front, defiant to the wrong. But may she bear a dastard's name to all the world abroad, When she forgets her liberty, her patriot, and her God! ISABELLE. On, beautiful and bright tliou art ! Oh, beautiful and bright ; Thy voice is music to the heart Thy looks are rarest light ! What time the silver dawn of dreams Lights up the dark of sleep, As yon pale moon lights up the heaven With beauty clear and deep, I see thee in the ebbing stars, I hear quaint voices swell, And dim and phantom winds that come And whisper, Isabelle. Oh, beautiful and bright thou art ! Oh, beautiful and bright ! Thy beauty hangeth o'er my heart, Like rich star-crowded night. As moonbeams silver on the wave Of some night-sadden'd river, DA VID RAESIDE. 345 So on my lonesome life thy love Would lie in light for ever. Yet wander on oh ! wander on, Cold river, to the sea, And, weary life, thy ocean gain Undream'd eternity. In vain the cruel curse of earth Hath torn our lives apart ; The man-made barriers of gold Weigh down the humble heart. Oh, had'st thou been a village maid A simple wayside flower With nought to boast, save honest worth, And beauty all thy dower ! Such might have been such should have been, But other lot befell ; I am the lowly son of toil, And thou proud Isabelle. It ever seems to me that love Should level all degrees ; Pure honour, and a stainless heart Are Nature's heraldries. No scutcheon needs a noble soul (Alas ! how thinks the age?) He is not poor who freedom hath For his broad heritage. Then welcome, sternest teacher, Toil ; Vain dreams of youth, farewell ! The future hath its duty's prize The past, its Isabelle. THE LORDS OF LABOUR. THEY come, they come, in a glorious march, You can hear their steam-steeds neigh, As they dash through Skill's triumphal arch, Or plunge 'mid the dancing spray. Their bale-fires blaze in the mighty forge, Their life-pulse throbs in the mill, Their lightnings shiver the gaping gorge, And their thunders shake the hill. Ho ! these are the Titans of toil and trade, The heroes who wield no sabre ; But mightier conquests reapeth the blade That is borne by the Lords of Labour. Brave hearts like jewels light the sod, Through the mists of commerce shine, And souls flash out, like stars of God, From the midnight of the mine. No palace is theirs, no castle great, Xo princely pillar'd hall, But they well may laugh at the roofs of state, 'Xeath the heaven which is over all. Ho ! these are the Titans of toil and trade, The heroes who wield no sabre ; But mightier conquests reapeth the blade Which is borne by the Lords of Labour. Each bares his arm for the ringing strife That marshals the sons of the soil, And the sweat-drops shed in their battle of life Are gems in the crown of toil. And better their well-won wreaths, I trow, Than laurels with life-blood wet ; And nobler the arch of a bare, bold brow, Than the clasp of a coronet. Then hurrah for each hero, although his deed Be unblown by the trump or tabor, For holier, happier far is the meed That crowneth the Lords of Labour ! DAVID RAESIDE, DAVID RAESIDE was born of tumble parents in the parish of Dunlop, Ayrshire, about the year 1841. With a view towards preparing himself for the ministry, he attended classes in the University of Glasgow, but failing health compelled him to abandon Ids public studies. Addicted to versifying from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by composing hymns and short poems. He died at Paisley in 1865, about the age of twenty -four. A volume of " Hymns and Poems " from his pen was pub- lished posthumously. Raeside gave promise of literary eminence, but a long period of feeble health impeded the cultivation of his genius. WINTER. THERE'S nae grain on the field, there's nae leaf on the tree, There's nae smile on yon broad sun that's glowerin' at me ; There's nae bricht neuck o' blue tae be seen in the sky, As the cauld days o' winter gae gloomily by. Ae day gaes by greetin' big rain-draps o' tears, An' they fa' on the cauld pow that auld nature wears; But they bring nae fresh leaves whaur the wither'd anes lie As the cauld days o' winter gae gloomily by. 346 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Neist day gaes by mournin' wi' nae tears tae shed, An' it breathes its cauld breath on the things that are dead ; An' it soughs through the trees wi' a sorrowfu' cry As the cauld days o' winter gae gloomily by. Anither gangs shiverin' wi' frost an' wi' snaw, As it creeps o'er the bare fields an' covers them a' ; Oil ! there's little in nature to gladden the eye As the cauld days o' winter gae gloomily by. But the spring yet will come clothed with verdure again, Then let this cheer the heart 'mang the storm and the rain ; And in life's leafless winter keep this in your eye, That fresh buds will outburst when cauld winter's gane by. CAROLINE OLIPHANT. CAROLINE OLIPHANT was the youngest child of Laurence Oliphant, Esq. of Gask, Perthshire, and niece of Carolina Oliphant, Baroness Nairne.* She was born at Gask, on the 16th January 1807. Her parents removed to the neighbourhood of Durham, when she was about a year old ; they subsequently went to the Continent, and did not return to Gask till 1821. The subject of this notice began to write verses at the age of thirteen ; she afterwards studied the Scriptures in the original tongues, and read the philosophical works of Professor Dugald Stewart. In 1826 she accompanied other members of her family to Clifton, Gloucestershire, where, with a short interval, she continued to reside. Delicate from childhood, she was now often confined to her room. She relieved the monotony of the sick-chamber, by composing verses chiefly of a sacred character. In 1830 she went to Leamington for the advice of Dr Jephson. She did not rally. Keturning to Clifton, she there died on the 9th of February 1831, at the age of twenty-four. From a MS. volume of her poetry, a selection has been printed in the " Life and Songs of Lady Nairne," London, 12mo. Possessed of no ordinary share of poetic genius, she devoted her lyre chiefly to sacred themes. The conversations in her sick-chamber were most edifying, and her memory is deeply cherished by those who contemplated her religious earnestness. * See ante, p. 57. HOME IN HEAVEN. AIR " Vicar of Bray." A wind-bound exile far from home, While standing near th' unfathom'd main, My eyes the far horizon roam, To see the land I long to gain. Though dim with mists and faintly blue, The hills of bliss e'en now I view, Oh! when will Heaven's soft breezes come And waft the weary exile home ? Let those who know no lovelier shore Their shells and sea-weed idly heap, Then mourn to see their paltry store Dispersed and sinking in the deep. My storehouse lies beyond the wave, My treasure fears no watery grave, And oh ! I wish fair winds would come And waft me o'er to that blest home. Already some I held most dear, Have safe arrived on yonder strand ; Their backs afar like specks appear, The exiles now have gained the land. Their parting signals wave no more, No signs of woe float from that shore 1 And soon the skiff for me will come, And Heaven's own breath will waft me home. OH, NEVER ! NO, NEVER ! OH! never, no, never, Thou 'It meet me again! Thy spirit for ever Has burst from its chain ; JAMES HANSON. 347 The links thou hast broken Are all that remain ; For never, oh ! never, Thou 'It meet me again. Like the sound of the viol That dies on the blast ; Like the shade on the dial, That spirit has pass'd. The breezes blow round me, But give back no strain ; The shade on the dial Returns not again. Where roses enshrined thee In light trellis'd shade, Still hoping to find thee, How oft have I stray'd ! Thy desolate dwelling I traverse in vain : The stillness has whisper 'd, Thou 'It ne'er come again. I still haste to meet thee When footsteps I hear, And start, when to greet me Thou dost not appear ; Then afresh o'er my spirit Steals mem'ry of pain, For never, oh ! never, Thou It meet me again. JAMES MANSON, AN interesting song-writer and respectable musician, James Manson -was torn in the parish of Kilwinning, Ayrshire, about the year 1812. His father was a tailor and clothier, and intended his son to succeed him in his business. But young Manson did not take to the duties of the needle, and occupied a large portion of his time in literary studies. He afterwards attended classes in the University of Glasgow. After some years of desultory literary labour, he was placed on the staff of the Glasgow Herald, and, as a newspaper writer, proved efficient and serviceable. Songs which he composed from time to time were set to music, and sung by admiring circles in Glasgow and throughout the west of Scotland. In 1858 he had the deep mis- fortune to be struck with blindness, but the sad deprivation did not overcome his poetical enthusiasm. By employing an amanuensis he prepared for the press a volume of his poetical compositions, which commanded a wide sale. A copy of the work is now rare. Mr Manson was at length attacked by paralysis, and entirely confined to his sick-room. He died in Glasgow on the 3d September 1863, at the age of fifty-one. Besides his poetical volume, Mr Manson edited a local musical publication, and contributed to the " British Empire," a biographical and statistical work, published at Glasgow in 1856. OCEAN. Set to Music by H. Lamleth. ON SHORE CALM. SUMMER Ocean, Placid Ocean, Soft and sweet thy lullaby ; Shadows lightly, Sunbeams brightly, Flicker o'er thee noiselessly. Resting gently on thy bosom, Snowy sea-gulls preen their wings, While perfumed sighs, from many a blossom, Float around the strain the skylark sings. Love's emotion, Summer Ocean, Like thy self, 'neath cloudless skies, Glances brightly, Dances lightly Till the fond illusion flies. AT SEA STORM. Winter Ocean, Furious Ocean, Fierce and loud thy choral lay : Storm-clouds soaring, Whirlwinds roaring O'er thy breast in madness play. 348 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Homeless petrels shriek their omen Harshly 'mid thy billows' roar ; Fle'shless bones of shipwreck'd seamen Dash against thy rock-ribb'd shore. War's commotion, Winter Ocean, Like thyself, when tempest driven, By passion hurl'd, Would wreck the world, And mock the wrath-scowling heaven. AN INVITATION. Music arranged by Julius Siligmann. THE skylark sings his matin lay, The waking flowers at dawning day, With perfumed breath, sigh, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Hark, the wing'd warblers singing, Come with me ; Beauteous flowers, their perfume flinging, Wait for thee ! The sunlight sleeps upon the lea, And sparkles o'er the murmuring sea, The wanton wind sighs, Come ! come ! come ! Oh, haste, Love, come with me, To the wild wood come with me, Come and gather luscious berries, Come with me ; Clustering grapes and melting cherries Wait for thee ! My bird of love, my beauteous flower, Come reign, the queen of yonder bower, 'Tis True-love whispers, Come! come! come! Oh, haste, then, come with me, To the wild wood come with me. Life's first fairest hours are fleeting Come with me ; Hope, and Joy, and Love's fond greeting Wait for thee ! ROBIN GOODHEART'S CAROL. TUNE "The Brave Old Oak." 'Tis Yule, 'tis Yule ! all eyes are bright, And joyous songs abound ; Our log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round. The merry laugh, and the jocund tale, And the kiss 'neath the mistletoe, Make care fly as fast as the blustering gale That wreaths the new fallen snow. 'Tis Yule ! 'tis Yule ! all eyes are bright, And joyous thoughts abound; The log burns high, but it glows less bright Than the eyes which sparkle round. 'Tis Yule ! 'tis Yule ! see the old grandsire Forgets his weight of years ; He laughs with the young, and a fitful fire Beams through his unbidden tears. With tremulous tenor he joins the strain The song of his manhood's prime ; For his thoughts grow young, and he laughs again, While his aged head nods time. 'Tis Yule ! 'tis Yule ! etc. 'Tia Yule ! 'tis Yule ! and the infant's heart Beats high with a new delight, And youths and maidens, with guileless art, Make merry the livelong night. The time flies on with gladsome cheer, And welcomes pass around 'Tis the warmest night of all the year, Though winter hath chaiu'd the ground. 'Tis Yule ! 'tis Yule ! etc. WILLIAM EDMONSTONE AYTOUN, D.C.L WILLIAM EDMONSTONE AYTOUN was descended from an ancient Scottish house, sprung from the Norman family of De Vescy. Sir Kobert Aytoun, a cadet of the Scottish family, was a distinguished poet early in the seventeenth century.* The subject of this sketch was born at 21 Abercromby Place, Edinburgh, on the 21st June 1813. His father, Roger Aytoun, Esq., W.S., was great-grandson of the seventh laird of Inchdairnie, the old family estate. Through his grandmother, he represented the Edmonstones of Ednam and Corehouse, and inherited from his mother, who was a daughter of Keir of Kinmonth, a Perthshire landowner, a taste for Jacobite traditions, and a love of Scottish ballad. He received his education at the Academy and the University of Edinburgh, and subsequently obtained an acquaintance with the modern languages during a residence in Germany. Abandoning an early intention to join * The Poems of Sir Robert Aytoun, edited by Charles Rogers. Edinburgh, 1844. 8vo. WILLIAM EDMONSTONE AYTOUN, D.C.L. 349 the English bar, he was admitted a Writer to the Signet in 1835 ; he passed advocate in 1840. He speedily attained a respectable practice ; but his tastes were not wholly directed towards legal studies. In 1836 he had contributed to Blackwood's Magazine translations of Uhland's finest poems ; in 1840 he published in the Family Library " The Life and Times of Richard the First." Along with Mr Theodore Martin he produced the "Bon Gaultier Ballads" in 1841. In 1843 he at once passed into a poetical reputation by his spirited " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers." In 1845 he was elected to the Professorship of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of Edin- burgh, an appointment which enabled him to dedicate a large portion of his time to periodical literature. He now contributed one or two articles monthly to Blackwood's Magazine. With that periodical he continued a connection till the close of his life. In 1852 he was nominated by Lord Derby to the Sheriffdom of Orkney. In April 1849, Professor Aytoun married Jane Emily, youngest daughter of the celebrated Professor John Wilson. This amiable gentlewoman died childless on the 15th April 1S59. He married on the 24th December 1863, Fearne Jemima, second daughter of the late James Ivinnear, Esq., W.S. Among the latter works of the Professor may be named " Firmilian, or the Student of Badajoz," a poem, in good- humoured ridicule of the spasmodic poets ; " Bothwell," a poem ; and " Norman Sinclair," a romance. An edition of the older " Scottish Ballads," with intro- duction and notes, appeared under his care in 1858. After an illness of some duration, Professor Aytoun died at Blackhills, near Elgin, on the 4th August 1865. His remains were brought to Edinburgh, and there interred in the Dean Cemetery. Through the kindness of Messrs Blackwood, we are privileged to subjoin his popular lay, " The Old Scottish Cavalier.' THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER. COME, listen to another song, Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead, And the lustre to your eye : It is a song of olden time, Of days long since gone by, And of a baron stout and bold As e'er wore sword on thigh ! Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time ! He kept his castle in the north, Hard by the thundering Spey ; And a thousand vassals dwelt around, All of his kindred they. And not a man of all that clan Had ever ceased to pray For the royal race they loved so well, Though exiled far away From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers, All of the olden tune ! His father drew the righteous sword For Scotland and her claims, Among the loyal gentlemen And chiefs of ancient names, Who swore to fight or fall beneath The standard of King James, And died at Killiecranicie Pass, With the glory of the Graemes, Like a true old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden tune 1 IV. He never owned the foreign rule, No master he obeyed ; But kept his clan in peace at home From foray and from raid ; And when they ask'd him for his oath, He touch'd his glittering blade, And pointed to his bonnet blue, That bore the white cockade : Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time ! At length the news ran through the land- The Prince had come again ! That night the fiery cross was sped O'er mountain and through glen; And our old Baron rose in might Like a lion from his den, And rode away across the hills To Charlie and his men, With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, All of the. olden time ! 350 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. He was the first that bent the knee When the Standard waved abroad, He was the first that charged the foe On Preston's bloody sod ; And ever, in the van of fight, The foremost still he trod, Until on bleak Culloden's heath He gave his soul to God, Like a good old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time ! VII. Oh ! never shall we know again A heart so stout and true The olden times have passed away, And weary are the new : The fair White Rose has faded From the garden where it grew, And no fond tears, save those of heaven, The glorious bed bedew Of the last old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time ! HUGH MACDONALD. OXE of the most genial of modern Scottish bards, Hugh Macdonald was born in Eumford Street, Bridgeton, Glasgow, on the 4th April 1817. His parents being in humble circumstances, he was, after a short attendance at school, apprenticed in the block-printing works of Monteith & Co., at Barrowfield, near Glasgow. After a period he opened a provision shop at Bridgeton, but the venture did not succeed, and he returned to his trade. From his house at Bridgeton to the block printing works at Colinslie, near Paisley, where he was now employed, he walked every morning a distance of eight miles, and after twelve hours' labour again walked home. During these long journeys he improved himself by reading and reflection, and he began to send contributions both in prose and verse to the public journals. During a visit to Edinburgh in the summer of 1846, he met with a kind reception from Pro- fessor Wilson, who commended his verses, and encouraged him to persevere in his literary aspirations. In 1849 he became sub-editor of the Glasgow Citizen, a newspaper which had long been adorned by his verses. In the columns of the Citizen he com- menced his " Eambles Round Glasgow," a series of interesting and amusing sketches, which, subsequently collected in a volume, established the author's reputation. In 1855 he accepted the editorship of the Glasgow Times ; he contributed to that journal a series of papers descriptive of the scenery of the Clyde, which he afterwards pub- lished with the title of "Days at the Coast." He joined the literary staff of the Morning Journal, a daily newspaper started at Glasgow in June 1858. In this con- nection he continued till his death, which took place in March 1860. His remains were interred in the Southern Necropolis, and a number of his admiring friends raised nearly 1000 for the support of his widow and five young children. His poetical works, with a memoir, were in 1865 published at Glasgow, in a duodecimo volume. Macdonald possessed a keen sense of the ludicrous, and an enthusiastic admiration of landscape beauty hence his prose sketches have attained a wide popularity. His love of nature, and the genial qualities of his heart, are equally to be remarked in his songs THE WEE PRIMROSE. On a green mossy bank, 'Neath a boniiie birk tree, By a burnie that danced To its ain voice o' glee, A sweet yellow primrose On March ope'd her een. Like wee starnies o' gowd In a bricht clud o' green. sweet sang the merle In the hour o' her birth, An" the lark tauld his joy Frae the lift to the earth ; While the wud-mouse peeped oiit Frae a grey-lickened stane, To welcome the flower That bids winter begane. HUGH MACDONALD. 351 Though March whusslit keen Through the cauld drapeless wud, The bonnie birk tree 'Gan to smile an' to bud ; Sayin' summer is near, Since the primrose is come, I'll don my green kirtle, An' welcome her home. The wee robin cam' there Wi' his sere-breasted bride, And' they biggit their nest At the primrose's side ; An' sweet frae the birk tree He sang air an' late To soothe the wee heart 0' his sweet clokin' mate. BONNIE GREENLAW. OH ! the cauld breath o' winter, sae bitter and keen, Has stown frae the woodlands their mantles o' green ; Nae wee bird sings sweetly, nae flower blos- soms braw ; A' nature's grown cheerless at bonnie Greenlaw. But 'tisna the sang o' the mavis we mourn, Nor the wee droopin' harebell sae wither'd and torn There's a form and a face, there's a sweet smile awa', That ance gladden' d winter at bonnie Green- law. Short syne seems the time when in simmer's nicht gloom, Wi' laughin' and damn', we pu'd the Law- bloom, Or scaur'd the wee lambs o'er the fresh dewy lea, While jinkin' in joy round the auld saughen- tree. When the bright sun o' hairst slippit doun to his bed, We soucht the row'n tree for his berries sae red ; While the short hours o' gladness gaed smilin' awa', Undimm'd by a' care frae the woods o' Green- law. When the sweet spring returns, and cauld winter is gane, The primrose and gowan we'll welcome again ; But there's ae flower, I ween, we lo'ed better than a', That we'll ne'er meet again 'mang the woods o' Greenlaw. THE TRYSTED HOUR. The moon is in the lift, love, The stars are twinkling pale; The blackbird's song has ceased to wake The echoes of the vale. The bat is on the wing, love, The dew is on the flower ; Then haste, and meet me here, love, It is the trysted hour. The lily hangs her head, love, The daisy's closed her ee ; The modest violet folds her leaves Out ower the dewy lea; The cushat's in her nest, love, The nightbird leaves the tower, Then haste and meet me here, love, It is the trysted hour. Life were a starless night, love, A barren flow'rless lea, A vale of grief and care, love, Apart from hope and thee. Then, come, thou star of life, love ! leave, ! leave thy bower, And haste to meet me here, love, It is the trysted hour. THE LAND OF THE BRIGHT BLOOMING HEATHER. HERE'S a health to the land of the mountain and glen, To the land of the lake and the river, Where the wild thistle grows in her rude, rocky den, Proud Freedom's stern emblem for ever. The land of the claymore, the kilt, and the plaid, The bagpipe, the bonnet, and feather ; Let's join heart and hand, all upstanding in pride, Here's the land of the bright blooming heather. Here's a health to the land of the hero and bard, The birth-place of Ossian and Wallace ; The land of bright mem'ries, of brave hearts who dared Gory death in each cause Freedom hallows. The land of the eagle, the oak, and the pine, Where the free storms of heaven do gather ; Let's join heart and hand, all upstanding in pride, Here's the land of the bright blooming heather. Here's a health to the land of the bannock and brose, The land of the sheep's-head and haggis ; Of warm hearts to friends, and cauld steel to foes, When to battle they venture to drag us ; The land of braw lassies and leal-hearted men, Where beauty and worth twine together ; Let's join heart and hand, all upstanding in pride, Here's the land of the bright blooming heather. 352 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Here's a health to the land where we first saw the light, The home of our kindred and lovers, Whose sod yet shall screen us in death's gloomy night, As now many loved ones it covers ; May virtue and freedom stand firm by her side, Each dark weed that stains her soon wither; Then join heart and hand, all upstanding in pride, Here 's the land of the bright blooming heather. THE LASS I SAW YESTREEN. THE weary sun to rest has gane O'er ocean's breast of blue, And gloamin' comes wi' dewy wings, And starnies on her brow ; The merle amang the listenin' woods His partin* sang has gi'en, And scented silence turns my heart To ane I saw yestreen. Oh ! sweet's yon pale wee primrose flower, Gemm'd wi' her beads of dew, And sweet yon blue-eed violet, The breckan keekin' through ; But, oh ! they're cauld unto the heart, And dimsome to the een, Beside the bonnie blushin' flower The lass I saw yestreen. Let ithers pu' the lily fair Frae aff her droopin' stem, Or frae the sweetly -scented brier Her blushing diadem. The bonnie flower that 1 wad pu' Is peerless a' I ween, Amang the sweets that summer wears Around her kirtle green. The gilded joys were never mine That wealth's gay minions feel, Nor mine their pomp and pride of heart Wha rank's high turrets speel ; Yet, Fortune, there's a friendly hand, Your frowns are a' forgi'en, Gin ye'll entwine her heart wi' mine Wha charm'd my ee yestreen ! THE LASS 0' COLIXSLEE. AIR " The Lass d Ardentinny." DOWN the dark brow o' Gleniffer Gloamin's dusky shadows fa' ; Wak'nin' stars noo faintly glimmer Angel lichts o'er heaven's blue wa' ; Fauldin' flowers their fragrance breathin', Woodlan' birds wi 1 lingering glee Seem to woo thee forth to wander, Lovely lass o' Colinslee. Down yon glen, whaur jinks the burnie Blythely roun' the hazel knowe, Smiles a neuk whaur gems o' sweetness, Simmer's brichtest treasures grow ; Crawflowers, daisies, violets mingle 'Neath the blushin' wild rose-tree Emblems o' thy peerless beauty, Lovely lass o' Colinslee. Through the sweet green birks o' Ihornlie, Rustlin' zephjTs softly play ; Frae his leafy bower the mavis Sings to rest the wearie day. Saft as e'enin's dewy zephyrs, Blythe as day's sweet lullaby, Is thy witchin' voice o' gladness, Lovely lass o' Colinslee. Let ambition seek for pleasure, Scalin' glory's giddy steep ; Av'rice to his worshipp'd treasure, Through the mire of meanness creep ; Purer joy his hame shall brichten, Lowly though the bield may be, On whom thy ee of love shall lichten, Peerless flower o' Colinslee. THE DUSKY HOUR. OH ! dear to me "s the dusky hour That weeps o'er parting day, That shuts the daisy's gowden ee, And stills the throstle's lay ; That wins the laverock frae the lift Into his bed of green, And brings me blythe o'er bank and brae To meet my bonnie Jean. Then saft the rustling e'eniug winds Gang wand'ring through the gloom, Sweet wafting on their dewy wings Each slumb'ring flower's perfume. They breathe a tale of blossoms rare That blush in dells unseen, And mind me of my bosom flower, My lowly blooming Jean. I've gazed upon the beaiiteous forms That Fancy loves to trace The brightest gems that art can boast Of loveliness and grace ; But, oh ! they want the witching power That thrills my heart at e'en, When love lichts up the gloamin' hour Wi' glances of my Jean. The laverock 'mang the blushing clouds May woo the wak'ning day, The lintie lilt to list'ning noon A lightsome loving lay ; Give me the hour that gems the flower, And opes the starnies een The trysted hour that brings to me My winsome blooming Jean. THE LASSIE 0' CARMYLE. AIR "Jessie o' the Dell.'' 'TWAS on a bonnie simmer morn, The fields were wet wi' dew, And Clutha's banks were clad wi' flowers Of fairest form and hue ; EDWARD POLIN. 353 The wild birds sang their sweetest notes, Blythe Phoebus ceased to smile, As wand'ring forth I chanced to meet The lassie o' Carmyle, The lassie o' Carmyle, etc. Her glowing cheek outrivall'd far The rosebud's sweetest hue ; Her hair was like the raven's wing, Her eyes a lovely blue. O'ercome with love and sweet surprise, Entranced 1 stood awhile, Then fondly clasp' d, in warm embrace, The lassie o' Carmyle, The lassie o' Carmyle, etc. Yon sweet wee gowan on the bank Wi' her could ne'er compare ; The primrose pale, the violet's blue, Were ne'er so sweet and fair. I told my love wi' artless tongue, Wi' heart unstain'd by guile ; She blush'd, she smiled, but noo she's mine, The lassie o' Carmyle, The lassie o' Carmyle, etc. Unheeded now, ambition scales The slipp'ry hill of fame ; Unenvied now, pale av'rice gains Blind fortune's fickle game : For what are rank or fame to me Compared wi' her sweet smile ? My heart's first treasure still shall be The lassie o' Carmyle, The lassie o' Carmyle, etc. EDWARD POLIN, A WRITER of prose and poetry, Edward Polin was born at Paisley on the 29th December 1816. He originally followed the business of a pattern-setter in his native tuwn. Fond of literary pursuits, he extensively contributed to the local journals He subsequently became sub-editor of the Edinburgh Weekly Chronicle. In 1843 he accepted the editorship of the Newcastle Courant a situation which, proving unsuit- able, he retained only a few months. Resolved to adventure on the literary field of London, he sailed from Newcastle in August 1843. The vessel being at anchor off Yarmouth, he obtained leave from the captain to bathe. He had left the vessel only a lew yards, when his hands were observed to fall into the water. One of the seamen promptly descended with a rope, and he was speedily raised upon the deck. Every effort to restore animation however proved fruitless. This closing event of a hopeful career took place on the 22d August 1843, when the poet had attained his 27th year. His remains were interred in St George's churchyard, Cripplegate, London. A GOOD OLD SOXG. I have wander'd afar, 'neath stranger skies, And have revell'd amid their flowers ; I have lived in the light of Italian eyes, And dream'd in Italian bowers, While the wondrous strains of their sunuy clime Have been trill'd to enchant mine ears, But, oh, how I langed for the song and the time When my heart could respond with its tears. Then sing me a song, a good old song Not the foreign, the learned, the grand But a simple song, a good old song Of my own dear fatherland. I have heard, with the great, and the proud, and the gay All, all they would have me adore Of that music divine that, enraptured, they say Can be equall'd on earth never more, And it may be their numbers indeed are divine, Though they move not my heart through mine ears, But a ballad old of the dear "langsyne" Can alone claim my tribute of tears. I have come from a far and a foreign clime To mine own loved haunts once more, With a yearning for all of my childhood's time And the dear home-sounds of yore ; And here, if there yet be love for me, Oh, away with those stranger lays, And now let my only welcome be An old song of my boyhood's days. 351 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ALEXANDER BUCHANAN, ALEXANDER BUCHANAN was the son of a maltster at Bucklyvie, Stirlingshire, where he was born in 1817. He attended a school in Glasgow, but was chiefly self-taught. In his youth he composed verses, and continued to produce respectable poetry. For a period he carried on business as a draper in Cowcaddens, Glasgow. Ketiring from merchandise, he fixed his residence in the village of Govan. His death took place on the 8th February 1852, in his thirty-fifth year. Buchanan has been celebrated, with other local bards, in a small Glasgow publication, entitled, " Lays of St Mungo." I WANDER'D ALANE. AIR "Lucy's Flittin." I WANDER'D alane at the break o' the mornin', The dun clouds o' nicht were a' wearin' awa' ; The sun rose in glory, the grey hills adornin', A' glintin like gowd were their tappits o' snaw ; Adown by my side row'd the rock-bedded Kelvin, While nature aroun' was beginnin' to green, An' auld cottar bodies their yardies were delvin', Kennin* thrift in the morn brocht pleasure at e'en. I leant me against an anld mossy-clad palin', An' noo an' then dichted a tear frae my ee, I look'd on the bodies, an' envied their toilin' Though lowly their lot, they seem'd happy by me ; I thought on my riches, yet feckless the trea- sure, I tried to forget, but the labour was vain ; My wifie an' bairn were a' my life's pleasure, An' they to the grave baith thegether had gane. The thochts o' her love had awaken'd my sor- row, The laugh o' my bairnie cam' back on mine ears, An', piercing my heart wi' the force o' an arrow, It open'd anew the saft channel o' tears. I grat an' I sabb'd till I thocht life wad lea me, An' happy I then could ha'e parted wi' life For naething on earth sic enjoyment could gi'e me As the glee o' my bairn an' smile o' my wife. Oh, weary the day was when they were ta'en frae me, Leaviu' me lane, the last leaf on the tree ; Nae comfort the cauld look o' strangers can gi'e me I'm wae, and they a' look as waefu' on me. I wander me aften to break melancholy, On ilk thing that's leevin' the maxim 1 see, Not walth to the weary 's like peace to the lowly ; Sae, buixlen'd wi' grief, I maun gang till I die. KATIE BLAIR. i' mony maidens fair In kintras far awa, I've met wi' mony here at hame, Baith bonnie dames an' braw ; But nane e'er had the power to charm My love into a snare Till ance I saw the witchin' ee An' smile o' Katie Blair. She wons by Kelvin's bonnie banks, Whar' thick the greenwoods grow, "Whar' waters loupin' drouk the leaves While merrily they row. They drouk the lily an' the rose, An' mouy flow 'rets fair, Yet they ne'er kiss a flower sae sweet As winsome Katie Blah*. She is a queen owre a' the flowers 0' garden an' o' lea Her ae sweet smile rnair cheering is Than a' their balms to me. As licht to morn she's a' to me, My bosom's only care ; An' worthy o' the truest love Is winsome Katie Blair. * Printed from the Author's MS. JAMES LITTLE ROBER T LEIGHTON. 355 JAMES LITTLE. JAMES LITTLE was born at Glasgow, on the 24th May 1821. His father, a respectable shoemaker, was, through his maternal grandmother, a claimant of the title' and^ estates of the last Marquis of Annandale. With a very limited education, the subject of this notice, at an early age, was called on to work with his father ; but soon afterwards lit-, enlisted as a private soldier. After eight years of military life, chiefly passed in North America and the "West Indies, he purchased his discharge, and resumed shoe- making in his native city. In 1852 he proceeded to the United States, but sub- sequently returned to Glasgow. His volume of Poems and Songs appeared in. 1856, under the title of " Sparks from Nature's Fire." Several of his songs were afterwards published, with music, in the " Lyric Gems of Scotland." His habits latterly became dissipated ; he died by his own hand in February 1865. OUR NATIVE HILLS AGAIN. OH, swiftly bounds our gallant bark Across the ocean drear, While manly cheeks are pale wi' grief, And wet wi' sorrow's tear. The flowers that spring upon the Clyde Will bloom for us in vain ; Nae mair wi' lightsome step we'll climb Our native hills again. Amang their glens our fathers sleep, Where mony a thistle waves ; And roses fair and gowans meek Bloom owre their lowly graves. But we inaun dree a sadder fate Far owre the stormy main ; We lang may look, but never see Our native hills a<'ain. Yet, 'mid the forests o' the west, "\Yhen starnies light the sky, "We '11 gather round the ingle's side, And sing o' days gane by ; And sunny blinks o' joy will come To soothe us when alane, And aft, in night ly dreams, we'll climb Our native hills again. HERE'S A HEALTH TO SCOTIA'S SHORE. Music by A lexander Hume. SING not to me of sunny shores Or verdant climes where olives bloom, Where, still and calm, the river pours Its flood, 'mid groves of rich perfume ; Give me the land where torrents flash, Where loud the angry cat'racts roar, As wildly on their course they dash Then here's a health to Scotia's shore. Sing not to me of sunny isles Though there eternal summers reign, Where many a dark-eyed maiden smiles, And gaudy flow'rets deck the plain ; Give me the land of mountains steep, Where wild and free the eagles soar, The dizzy crags, where tempests sweep Then here's a health to Scotia's shore. Sing not to me of sunny lands, For there full often tyrants sway Who climb to power with blood-stain 'd hands, While crouching, trembling slaves obey ; Give me the land uuconquer'd still, Though often tried in days of yore, Where freedom reigns from plain to hill Then here 's a health to Scotia's shore. ROBERT LEIGHTON, ROBERT LEIGHTON was born at Dundee on the 20th February 1822. He followed mercantile pursuits, and resided some time at Ayr and latterly at Liverpool. He published in 1855 a volume entitled " Rhymes and Poems," which was reprinted in 1861. His amusing poetical brochure " Scotch Words ; and the Bapteesement o' the Bairn," appeared in 1868, and rapidly passed into a third edition. A volume of " Poems," published in 1869, has obtained much acceptance. After a long and severe 356 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. illness Mr Leighton died at Liverpool on the 10th May 1869. A man of true genius and decided poetical tastes, his verses Avill continue to find admirers. He was not professedly a song- writer, but the following compositions are not unsuitable for music. MY MUCKLE MEAL POCK. THERE'S some can be happy and bide whar they are, There's ithers ne'er happy unless they gang far ; But aft do I think I 'm an easy auld stock, While I 'm joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock. Though noo I be auld, abune four score and aucht, Though my pow it be bauld and my craig be na strain-lit. Yet frae mornin' till e'en aye as steady's a rock I gang joggin' about wi' my muckle meal pock. Just our ain parish roond, and nae mair I gang through, And when at the end I begin it anew ; There isna' a door but wad blythely unlock, To welcome me ben wi' my muckle meal pock. There isna' a hoose but I mieht mak' my hame, There isna' an auld wife wad think me to blame, Though I open'd the door without gi'eing a knock, And cam' ben to the fire wi' my muckle meal pock. As ony newspaper they say I 'm as gweed, And better, say some, for they hinna to read ; The lads and the lasses around me a' flock, And there's no ane forgets that I ha'e a meal pock. The gudeman he speaks about corn and Ian', "Hoo's the markets, " says he, ' 'are they risen or fa'en? Or is this snawie weather the roads like to chock?" But the gudewife aye spiers for my muckle meal pock. To be usefu' to her I hand sticks on the fire, Or whan to the milkin' she gangs to the byre, She '11 gi'e me a baud o' the cradle to rock, And for that she's aye gude to my muckle meal pock. Though my friends a" be gane whar I yet ha'e to gang, And o' fbllowin' them noo I canna be lang, Yet while I am here I will lauch and I '11 joke, For I '11 aye find a friend in my muckle meal pock. YE THREE VOYCES. YE glasse was at my lippe, Clere spirit sparkling was ; I was about to sippe, When a voyce came from ye glasse : " And would'st thou have a rosie nose A blotched face and vacant eye - A shakey frame that feeblie goes A forme and feature alle awry A bodie rack'd with rheumic paine A burnt-up stomach, fever 'd brain e A muddle minde that cannot thiuke ? Then drinke, drinke, drinke." Thus spoke ye voyce and fiedde, Nor any more did say ; But I thought on what it saide, And I threw ye glasse away. Ye pipe was in my mouth, Ye first cloude o'er me broke ; I was to blow another, When a voyce came from ye smoke ! Come, this must be a hoaxe ! Then I "11 snuffe if I may not smoke ; But a voyce came from ye boxe ! And thus these voyces spoke : " And would'st thou have a swimmie hedde, A smokie breath and blacken'd tooth? And would'st thou have thy freshnesse fade, And wrinkle up thy leafe of youthe? Would'st have thy voyce to lose its tone Thy heavenly note a bag-pipe's drone? If thou would'st thy health's channels choke, Then smoke, smoke, smoke ; Ye pipes of thy sweet music stufle, Then snufle, siiutfe, snuffe!" Thus spoke, and fledde they both ; Glasse ! pipe ! boxe ! in a day, To lose them was I loath ; Yet I threw them alle away. would we be alle healthe, all lightnesse, Alle youthe, alle sweetuesse, freshnesse, bright- nesse Seeing through everythinge With mindes like ye crystal springe; ! would we be just right enoughe Not drinke not smoke not snufle. Then would our forwarde course To the right be as naturall As it is, withouten force, Tor stones dowiiwarde to falle. SPUNK JANET'S CURE FOR LOVE. I 'VE vow'd to forget him again and again ; But vows are as licht as the air is, I trow ; For something within me aye comes wi' a sten', And dunts on my heart till I gi'e up the vow. JAMES MACLARDY. 357 I gaed to Spunk Janet, the spaewife, yestreen I 've often heard folk o' her wisdom approve : Quoth she, " It's your fortune you're wanting, I ween?" "Na! Janet," quoth I, "will ye cure me o' love?" "I'll try it," quoth she; "say awa' wi' your tale, And tell me the outs and the ins o' it a' ; Does love mak' ye lichtsome, or does't mak' ye wail? Ye see, lass, I ken it does ane o' thae twa." " Aweel, then, to tell you the truth o' it, Janet, There's sometimes I'm clean overflowiu' wi' . S lee '. And ither times, woman, I'm no fit to stan' it : Ye'd think I wad greet out the sicht o' my ee. " But then there's the laddie, I never can get him; And here am I read}- an willin' to pay, Gin ye '11 play some cantrip to mak' me forget him The thochts o' him deave me by nicht and by day." "I'll e'en try my skill on't, quoth Janet, "I shall, " The cost o' my coonsel is but half-a-croon ; Hooever, i' the first place, ye ken the Witch- Wallie, That bounie clear spring at the end o' the toon. "When the sun frae his bed is beginnin' to teet, Gang ye ilka mornin', blaw weet or blaw wind, And sit by the wallie, and dip in your feet, Without e'er a thocht o' the lad in your mind. "Do this for a week, and the cure will be wrocht ; But, mind ye, tak' care o' what comes in your head ! If it e'er should chance that the lad be your thocht, Like mist o' the moruin' the cantrip will fade!" Thus ended Spunk Janet : I paid her the fee, And by her directions I promised to bide : To-morrow the cantrip begins, I maun be, By the first peep o' day, at the Witch- "Wallie's side. The cauld o' the water I weel may endure ; But then, there 's the thocht, it 's the warst o' them a' : For if ower the thochts o' my mind I had power, I wadna ha'e needed Spunk Janet ava ! THE AULD GABERLUNZIE IS DEAD AND AWA'. WILD was the e'enin', the wind it was howlin', And, souffin' and snellin', the drift it did blaw ; Doon in the moorland a doggie was yowlin' For some weary body owerta'en by the snaw. Sairly we wish'd for the dawn o' the day, And mony a saut tear o' sorrow did fa' ; And mony a heart in the parish was wae, 'Twas the auld Gaberlunzie lay dead in the snaw ! Nae mair shall we feast ower the news o' the clachan, Or hear how the lairds gang wi' lairds to the law ; We'll hear nae mair clashes to set us a- lauchin', The auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! Nae mair will auld grannie sit crackin' at e'en Wi' the couthie auld carle ayont by the wa', And lauch ower the jokes o' the days that ha'e been, Now the auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! Nae mair will the lasses wha work at the ferm Ken how ither lasses are growin' sae braw ; Or wha's to be married at Martinmas term, The auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! Nae mair will auld grandfaither crack o' the war Wi' the skilly auld bodie, wha ken'd o' it a' ; His heart now is dowie, and heavy, and sair, Since the auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa'. Nae mair will the laddies hear auld-farrant stories 0' ilka auld castle and queer biggit ha' ; 0' ghaists and o' witches, o' warlocks and fairies, The auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa' ! Wha could ha'e thocht we shud miss him sae ill ! The parish is no like a parish ava' ! Naething to cheer us now ! a' bodie's dull Since the auld Gaberlunzie is dead and awa'! JAMES MACLARDY, JAMES MACLARDY was born in Glasgow on the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was a journeyman shoemaker in humble circum- stances. "With the scanty rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world. For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being dependent for 358 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his father's profession, he prac- tised his craft in various localities, and afterwards became a leather-merchant in Glasgow. He is now resident in London. THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE. THE sunny days are come, my love, The gowan's on the lea, And fragrant flow'rs wi' hinny'd lips, Invite the early bee ; The scented winds are whisp'ring by, The lav'rock's on the wing, The lintie on the dewy spray Gars glen and woodland ring. The sunny days are come, my love, The primrose decks the brae, The vi'let in its rainbow robe Bends to the noontide ray ; The cuckoo in her trackless bower Has waken'd from her dream ; The shadows o' the new-born leaves Are waving in the stream. The sunny days are come, my love, The swallow skims the lake, As o'er its glassy bosom clear The insect cloxidlets shake. The heart of nature throbs with joy At love and beauty's sway ; The meanest creeping thing of earth Shares in her ecstasy. Then come wi' me my bonny Bell, And rove Gleniffer o'er, And ye shall lend a brighter tint To sunshine and to flower ; And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won A blessing or a wae Awake a summer in my breast, Or bid hope's flowers decay. For spring may spread her mantle greeu, O'er mountain, dell, and lea, And summer burst in every hue Wi' smiles and melody, To me the sun were beamless, love, And scentless ilka flower, Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun, Its music and its bower. OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR. On, my love was fair as the siller clud That sleeps in the smile o' dawn ; An' her een were bricht as the crystal bells That spangle the blossom'd lawn : An' warm as the sun was her kind, kind heart, That glow'd 'neath a faemy sea ; But I fear'd, by the tones o' her sweet, sweet voice, That my love was nae for me. Oh, my love was gay as the summer time, When the earth is bricht an' gled, An' fresh as the spring when the young buds blaw, In their sparkling pearl-draps cled : An' her hair was like chains o' the sunset sheen, That hangs 'tween the lift an' sea ; But I fear'd, by the licht that halo'd her face, That my love was nae for me. Oh, my love was sweet as the violet flower That waves by the moss-grown stun , An' her lips were rich as the rowans red That hang in forest lane ; An' her broo was a dreamy hill o' licht, That struck ane dumb to see ; But I fear'd, by signs that canna be named, That my love was nae for me. Oh, my love was mild as the autumn gale That fans the temples o' toil, An ; the sweets o' a thousand summers cam' On her breath an' sunny smile : An 1 spotless she gaed on the tainted earth, 0' a mortal blemish free, While my heart forgot, in its feast o' joy, That my love was uae for me. Oh, my love was leal, an' my cup o' bliss Was reaming to the brim, When, ae gloaming chill, to her sacred bower Cam' a grisly carle fu' grim, Wlia dash'd the cup frae my raptured lips Wi' a wild, unearthly glee ; Sae the ghaistly thought was then confirni'd, That my love was nae for me. Oh, my love was young, an" the grim auld carle Held her fast in his cauld embrace, An' suck'd the red frae her hinny'd mou', An' the blush frae her peachy face : He stifled the sound o' her charm'd throat, An' quench'd the fires o' her ee ; But fairer she blooms in her heavenly bower, For my love was nae for me. Sae I tyned my love an' I tyned my heart, An' I tyned baith wealth an' fame ; Syne I turn'd a sad, weary minstrel wicht, Wi' the cauld warld for my hame. Yet my minstrelsy's but a lanely lay, .My wealth my aumous fee ; Oh, wad that I were wi' the grim auld carle, For this warld is nae for me. WILLIAM AIR FOSTER. 359 WILLIAM AIR FOSTER, THE author of some spirited effusions in Scottish verse, William Air Foster was born at Coldstream on the 16th of June 1801. He was a bootmaker, first in his native town, and latterly in Glasgow. Devoted to the Border sports, in which he was for- merly an active performer, he celebrated them in animated verse. To " Whistle Binkie" he contributed a number of sporting and angling songs, and composed several volumes of poetry which are still in manuscript. He died about 1864. FAREWEEL TO SCOTIA. FABEWEEL to ilk hill where the red heather grows, To ilk boimie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, To the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, To the graves o' my sires, and the hearths o' my kin. Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav 'rock's sweet sang For trifles grow dear whan we've kenn'd them sae lang ; Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed, A dream o' the past when a' other's ha'e fled. The young hearts may kythe, though they're forced far away, But its dool to the spirit when haffets are grey ; The saplin' transplanted may flourish a tree, "\Yhar the hardy auld aikwad but wither and dee. They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine ; For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind. Xo, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows ! In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, 'Xeath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, 'Mang the graves o' my sires, round thehearths o' my kin. THE FALCON'S FLIGHT. AIR " There's nae luck about the House." I SIKG of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove, With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove ; For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell, Array 'd in all her hunting-gear hood, Jessy, leash, and bell. I I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure, And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure ; While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing. When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright, And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight ; Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far, Until in less'ning size she seems no' bigger than a star. Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread, When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head ; While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells, To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells. 'Tis Rover's bark halloo ! see the broad- wing' d heron rise, And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies, With outstretcb'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh ; But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'riug high. My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride, Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side, When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow, In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe. The vanquisb'd and the vanquisher sink roll- ing round and round, With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground. Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings, While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings. 3GO THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop lias struck her ear, And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near. No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow, "When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow. Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child, And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild ; Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells For the noble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells. THE SALMON RUN. AIR" The Brave Old Oak." OH ! away to the Tweed, To the beautiful Tweed, My much-loved native stream ; Where the fish from his hold, 'Neath some cataract bold, Starts up like a quivering gleam. From his iron-bound keep, Far down in the deep, He holds on his sovereign sway; Or darts like a lance, Or the meteor's glance, Afar on his bright- wing'd prey. As he roves through the tide, Then his clear glitt'ring side Is burnish'd with silver and gold ; And the sweep of his flight, Seems a rainbow of light, As again he sinks down in his hold. With a soft western breeze That just thrills through the trees, And ripples the beautiful bay ; Throw the fly for a lure That 's a rise ! strike him sure A clean fish with a burst he's away. Hark ! the ravel line sweel, From the fast-whirring reel, With a music that gladdens the ear ; And the thrill of delight, In that glorious fight, To the heart of the angler is dear. Hold him tight for the leap ; Where the waters are deep, Give out line in the far steady run ; Eeel up quick if he tire, Though the wheel be on fire, For in earnest to work he's begun. Aroused up at length, How he rolls in his strength, And springs with a quivering bound ; Then away with a dash, Like the lightning's flash, Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground. Though he strain on the thread, Down the stream with his head, That burst from the run makes him cool ; Then spring out for the land, On the rod change the hand, And draw down for the deepening pool. Mark the gleam of his side, As he shoots through the tide ! Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair? Fatigue now begins, For his quivering fins On the shallows are spread in despair. ROBERT DUTHIE, THE writer of some spirited lyrics, Eol>ert Duthie was born at Stonehaven on the 2d of February 1826. Having obtained an ordinary elementary education, he was apprenticed, in his fourteenth year, to his father, who followed the baking business. He afterwards taught a private school in his native town ; but, on the death of his father, in 1848, he resumed his original profession, with the view of supporting his mother and the younger members of the family. After a period of ill health, he died on the 4th January 1865, in his thirty-ninth year. His "Poems and Songs" have been published posthumously, in a duodecimo volume, accompanied with a memoir of his life. This work is sold for the benefit of the author's widow. WILLIAM B. C. RIDDELL. SOXG OF THE OLD ROVER. I'M afloat, I'm afloat on the wild sea waves, And the tempest around me is swelling; The winds have come forth from their ice- ribb'd caves, And the waves from their rocky dwelling ; But my trim-built bark O'er the waters dark Bounds lightly along, And the mermaid lists to my echoing song. Hurrah ! hurrah ! how I love to lave In the briny spray of the wild sea wave ! I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on the foaming deep, And the storm-bird above me is screaming ; While forth from the cloud where the thunders sleep The lightning is fearfully gleaming ; But onward I dash, For the fitful flash Illumes me along, And the thunders chorus my echoing song. Hurrah ! hurrah ! how I love to brave The dangers that frown on the wild sea wave ! I'm afloat, I'm afloat where my well-served shot Lays the war-dogs bleeding around me ; But ne'er do I yield on the tentless field Till the wreath of the victor hath crown'd me; Then I, a true child Of the ocean wild, With a tuneful tongue Bear away with my pme and my conquering song. Hurrah ! hurrah ! shot and storm, let them rave I 'm at home, dashing on through the wild sea wave ! I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat on my ocean home The home of the hurrying billow ; But the time is at hand when no longer 1 11 roam, But in peace lay me down on its pillow : The petrel will scream My requiem hymn, And the thunders prolong BOATMAN'S SONG. HURRAH ! hurrah ! for the boundless sea, The home of the rover, the bold and free ; Land hath its charms, but those be mine, To row my boat through the sparkling brine To lave in the pearls that kiss the prow Of the bounding thing as we onward go To nerve the arm and bend the oar, Bearing away from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the glassy sea 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me ; Land hath its charms, but no charms like thine : Hurrah ! let us dash through the sparkling brine ! Gloomily creeping the mists appear In denser shade on the mountains drear; And the twilight steals o'er the stilly deep, By the zephyrs hush'd to its evening sleep : Not a ripple uprears a whiten'd crest, To wrinkle the blue of its placid breast ; But all is still, save the lisping waves "Washing the shells in the distant caves. Pull away, pull away o'er the sleeping sea 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me 'Tis the home of my heart where I'd ever rove! Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the home I love ! Oh, I love the sound of the tempest's roar, And I love the splash of the bending oar, Playing amid the phosphoric fire, Seen as the eddying sparks retire. 'Tis a fairy home, and I love to roam Through its sleeping calm or its lashing foam. The land hathits charms, but the seahathmore, Then away let us row from the vacant shore. Pull away, pull away o'er the mighty sea 'Tis the tempest's path, and the path for me ; 'Tis the home of the rover, the bold and free ; Hurrah ! hurrah ! for the boundless sea ! WILLIAM B, C, RIDDELL, A YOUTH of remarkable promise, William Brown Clark Eiddell was the youngest son of Mr Henry Scott Riddell."* He was born at Flexhouse, near Hawick, Roxburgh- shire, on the 16th December 1835. In his seventh year he was admitted a pupil in John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained till 1850, when he entered the University of Edinburgh. During three sessions he prosecuted his studies with extraordinary ardour and success. On the commencement of a fourth session he was seized with an illness which completely prostrated his physical, and occasionally * See fiostea, p. 366. 362 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. enfeebled his mental energies. After a period of suffering, patiently borne, he died in his father's cottage, Teviothead, on the 20th July 1856, in his twenty-first year. Of an intellect singularly precocious, William Riddell, so early as the age of seven, composed in correct and interesting prose, and produced in his eighth year some vigorous poetry. "With a highly retentive memory he retained the results of an extended course of reading, begun almost in childhood. Conversant with general history, he was familiar with the various systems of philosophy. To an accurate knowledge of the Latin and Greek classics, he added a correct acquaintance with many of the modern languages. He found consolation on his deathbed by perusing the Scriptures in the original tongues. He died in fervent hope, and with Christian resignation. LAMENT OF WALLACE.* No more by thy margin, dark Carron, Shall Wallace in solitude wander, When tranquil the moon shines afar on Thy heart-stirring wildness and grandeur. For lost are to me Thy beauties for ever, Since fallen in thee Lie the faithful and free, To waken, ah, never ! And I, thus defeated, must suffer My country's reproach ; yet, forsaken, A home to me nature may offer Among her green forests of braken. But home who can find For heart-rending sorrow ? The wound who can bind When thus pierced is the mind By fate's ruthless arrow ? "Tis death that alone ever frees U3 Of woes too profound to be spoken, And nought but the grave ever eases The pangs of a heart that is broken. Then, oh ! that my blood In Carron's dark water Had mix'd with the flood Of the warriors' shed '.Mid torrents of slaughter. For woe to the day when desponding I read in thine aspect the story Of those that were slain when defending Their homes and their mountains of glory. And curst be the guile Of treacherous knavery That throws o'er our isle In its tyranny vile, The mantle of slavery. * Composed in the author's fourteenth year. JOHN NEVAY. JOHN NEVAY was born in the town of Forfar on the 28th of January 1792. He was educated at the schools of his native place, and considerably improved himself in classical learning, at an early age, under the tuition of Mr James Clarke, sometime master of the Burgh School, and the friend and correspondent of Burns. Fond of solitary rambles in the country, he began, while a mere youth, to portray in verse his impressions of the scenery which he was in the habit of surveying. He celebrated the green fields, the lochs and mountains near the scene of his nativity, and was rewarded with the approving smiles of the family circle. Acquiring facility in the production of verses, he was at length induced to venture on a publication. In 1818 he gave to the world a " Pamphlet of Rhymes," which, obtaining a ready sale, induced him to publish a second small collection of verses in 1821. After an interval devoted to mental improvement, he appeared, in 1834, as the author of " The Peasant, a Poem in Nine Cantos, with other Poems," in one volume, 12mo. In the following year he published " The Child of Nature, and other Poems," in a thin duodecimo volume. In 1853 he printed, by subscription, a third volume, entitled " Rosaline's Dream, in Four Duans, and other Poems," which was accompanied, with an introductory essay MRS JANET HAMILTON. 3G3 by the Rev. George Gilfillan. His latest production " The Fountain of the Rock, a Poem" appeared in a pamphlet form, in 1855. He has repeatedly written prose tales for the periodicals, and has contributed verses to Blackwood's Magazine and the Edinburgh Literary Journal. THE EMIGRANT'S LOVE-LETTER. MY young heart's lure ! twal' years ha'e been A century to me ; I ha'e na seen thy smile, nor heard Thy voice's melodie. The mony hardships I ha'e tholed Sin' I left Larocklea, I maunna tell, for it would bring The saut tear in thine ee. But I ha'e news an' happy news, To tell unto my love What I ha'e won, to me mair dear That it my heart can prove. Its thochts unchanged, still it is true, An' surely sae is thine ; Thou never, never canst forget That twa war aiie langsyne. The simmer sun blinks on the tarn, An' on the primrose brae, Where we, in days o' innocence, War wont to daff an' play ; An' I ainang the mossy springs Wade for the hinny blooms To thee the rush tiara wove, Bedeck'd wi' lily plumes. When on the ferny knowe we sat, A happy, happy pair Thy comely cheek laid on my knee, I plaited' thy go w den hair. Oh! then I felt the holiest thocht That e'er enter'd my mind It, Mary, was to be to thee For ever true an' kind. Though fair the flowers that bloom around My dwallin' owre the sea Though bricht the streams, an' green the bowers, They are na sae to me. I hear the bulbul's mellow leed Upo' the gorgeous paum The sweet cheep o' the feather 'd bee Amang the fields o' baum. But there are nae auld Scotland's burds, Sae dear to childhood's days The laverock, lintie, shulf, an' yyoite, That taught us luve's sweet lays. Gin' thou e'er wauk'st alane to think On him that's owre the sea, Their cheerfu' saft luve-lilts will tell My heart's luve-thochts to thee. Lat joy be in thy leal, true heart, An' bricht smile in thine ee The bonnie bark is in the bay, I 'm coming hame to thee : I 'm coming hame to thee, Mary, Wi' mony a pearl fine, An' I will lay them in thy lap, For the kiss o' sweet langsyne. MRS JANET HAMILTON, I^ illustrating the triumphs of genius amidst the trammels of poverty and unfavour- able circumstances, the career of Janet Hamilton furnishes an appropriate theme to the biographer. She survives, though unhappily deprived of eyesight, to enjoy, in some measure, the fruits of her genius and literary culture. Janet Thomson, such was her maiden name, was born at the village of Carshill, parish of Shotts, Lanark- shire, in October 1795. Through her maternal ancestors, she is connected with the children of the Covenant ; she is fifth in descent from John Whitelaw, of the parish of Monkland, who was executed at Edinburgh in 1683 for his share in the battle of Both well Bridge. Her father, a working shoemaker, often experienced the pressure of adversity. Janet was married to John Hamilton, his assistant, in 1809, while only in her fourteenth year. She had taught herself to read, and ere she had ventured on the married state, had nearly exhausted the stores of the village library, and was abundantly familiar with the Scriptures. After her marriage, and when the cares of a young family pressed upon her time, she abridged her hours of sleep to continue 364 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. her favourite reading. She became familiar with the -works of the British poets, and more especially with the ballad and song literature of her native country. She com- posed some religious pieces before her nineteenth year, but from that period till about the age of fifty-four, she entirely abandoned poetical composition. She was still unable to write, but she invented a peculiar " graphy" of her own. In the columns of CasselPs " Working Man's Friend" she was first introduced to the world of letters. In 1863 appeared her " Poems and Songs," a duodecimo volume, published at Glasgow. This was followed by " Poems and Sketches;" and in 1868 she published a work which at once established her reputation, entitled " Poems and Ballads." The last volume was accompanied with introductory papers by the Rev. George Gilfillan and the Rev. Dr Alexander Wallace. Soon after the publication, her Majesty was pleased to confer upon the authoress a civil-list pension of fifty pounds. Mrs Hamilton has written only a few songs. The two following compositions partake in some measure of this character, and are favourable specimens of her manner. In her poems she has celebrated the nobility of labour and the patriotic virtues. To intemperance in every form her muse is an inexorable foe. She delights to depict the beauties of nature and portray the domestic affections: she is the poetess of social advancement. She has long resided, with her husband and family, at Coatbridge in Lanarkshire, whither many persons of literary eminence have pro- ceeded that they might visit her in her lowly cottage. SUMMER VOICES. BKNEATH the shining, trembling leaves that drape the bowers of June, 1 sit and list with raptured ear to sweetly- varied tune Of Nature's thousand melodies above, below, around Sweet sights, sweet scent, but sweeter far the mingling charms of sound. The silvery lapse of tinkling streams, the rivers' rushing voice ; The lucent waves that lap the shore in mur- muring tones rejoice ; The fitful cadence of the breeze that skims with silken wings O'er bending waves of odorous hay, and through the woodland sings ; The tell-tale voice beloved of Spring, the wail of forest dove ; The thousand swelling, warbling throats that sing of bliss and love ; The voice of woods, in soft commune with twilight's dewy airs, Where parent thrush on darkling bough be- guiles his brooding cares ; The shadows fall Oh ! gentle bird, thy liquid voice is mute ; But hark ! that sweetly-tinklingstrain breathed from the plaintive flute ; No eye but thine, soft star of love, the rapt musician sees Slow wandering by the lonely lake beneatli the sleeping trees. Now Scotia ! from thy native airs, so wildly, simply sweet, For this the hour and this the scene where rustic maidens meet By cottage door, by village spring, o'erhung with wilding rose : Hark ! from their lips the Doric lay in gushing music flows ! Sweet Summer sounds, I love ye all; but dearest, holiest, best, The song of praise from cottage hearth that hails the Sabbath rest : The birds the streams the breeze the song to earthly sounds are given ; This mounts the wings of Summer morn, and singing flies to heaven! EFFIE. SHE was wearin' awa' ! she was wearin' awa ! AVi' the leaves in October we tliocht she would fa', For her cheek was owre red, an' her ee was owre bricht, Whaur the saul leuk'd oot like an angel o' licht. She dwelt in the muirlan's, amang the red bells 0' the sweet hinny heather that blooms on the fells, Whaur the peesweep an' plover are aye on the wing, An' the lilt o' the lav'rock's first heard in the Spring. As black as a craw, an' as saft as the silk Were the lang locks that fell on a neck like the milk ; She was lithesome an' lo'esome as lassie might be, An' saft was the love-licht that danc'd in her ee, Af&S JANET HAMILTON. 365 Puir Effie had lov'd ; a' the hopes an' the fears, The plagues an' the pleasures, the smiles an' the tears 0' love she had kenn'd she had gane thro' them a' For fause Jamie Crichton 0, black be his fa'. The auldest o' five, when a lassie o' ten, She had baitn the hoose and the bairnies to fen'. The mither had gane when she was but a bairn ; Sae Elfie had niony sad lessons to learn. At hame, had ye seen her amang the young chips, The sweet law o' kindness was aye on her lips ; She kamed oot their hair, wash'd their wee hackit feet, Wi' sae tentie a haun that a bairn wadna greet. She was to her faither the licht o' his een ; He said she wad be what her mither had been A fair an' sweet sample o' true womanhood, Sae carefu' an' clever, sae bounie an' guid. The cot-hoose it stood on the lip o' the burn, That wimpled an' jinkit wi' mony a turn ; Roun' the fit o'the heather-fring'd gowany brae, Yv'haur the ae cow was tether' d, an' bairnies at play. Sweet Effie was juist in the midst o' her teens, When she gat the first inkling o' what wooing means, Frae! a chiel in the clachan, wha aften was seen Stealing up the burnside to the cot-hoose at een. On a saft simmer gloamin' I saw them mysel', On the bank o' the buriiie, an' weel I cou'd tell, By the hue on her cheek, an' the blink o' her ee, That her young love was his, an' wad e vermair be. Belyve to fair Effie cam' wooers galore, An' mony saft tiiiin's at een on the door ; She smiled on them a', but ga'e welcome to nane Her first love an' last was young Jamie's alane. An' Jamie, wha ne'er was a week frae her side, Had vowed e'er a twomond to mak' her his bride ; Her troth she had gi'en him, wi' blushes and tears It was sweet 0, how sweet ! tho' whiles she had fears ; For a wee burdie sang, as roun' her it flew, "Sweet lassie, tak' tent he's owre sweet to be true ; He's oot in the e'enin's whan ye dinna ken, An' they say he's been seen wi' Kate o' the Glen." But Effie wad lauch, an' wad say to hersel', "What lees an' what clashes thae bodies maun tell; For my Jamie has sworn to be true to the death, An' nocht noo can pairt us as lang's we ha'e brethe." Ae short winter Sabbath, juist as it grew mirk, The faither cam' hame he had been at the kirk; His cheek was sae white, and his leuk was sae queer, That Etfie glower'd at him in dredour an' fear. Then he said, "My ain Effie, puir mitherless lass! wha wad ha'e thocht this wad e'er come to pass? Thy Jamie, this day, in the kirk was proclaim 'd, An' Katie Maclean for his bride they ha'e named. "I was tauld on the road by aue that maun ken, Her grannie was ance the gudewife o' the Glen, An' she left to young Katie a hantle o' gear It's gear Jamie wants, and there's naething o't here." An' what said puir Effie ? she stood like a stane, But faintin', or greetin', or cryin' was nane ; Her sweet lips they quiver'd, the bluid frae her cheek Flew back to her heart, but nae word could she speak. The faither sat down, laid her head on his breast : "On God an' her faither my Effie maun rest ; They ne'er will deceive thee thy wrangs are right sair ; Gin Jamie had wed thee they micht ha'e been mair. " Sune Effie gat up, ga'e her faither some meat, Put the bairnies to bed, yet ne'er could she greet Her young heart was stricken the fountains were dry, That gush frae the een wi' a tearfu' supply. That nicht at the reading she joined in the psalm, Her cheek it w r as pale, but her brow it was calm ; An' faither he pray'd, as she knelt by his side, That God his dear lassie wad comfort an' guide. The winter gaed by, an' the hale summer thro' She tosh'd up the hoose, fed an' inilkit the cow, The cauld warl' had nocht that she cared for ava, Her life it was silently melting awa'. 0, whaur noo the love-licht that sparkled ere while In her bonny black ee? 0, whaur noo the smile That dimpled her cheek ? they were gane ! they were gane ! Yet she ne'er shed a tear, an' ne'er made a mane. An' sae she was wearin', fast wearin' awa' ! Wi' the leaves in October sweet Effie did fa' ! Her moniin' was ended, an' blissfu' an' bricht, The dear lassie dwells wi' the angels o' licht. 366 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL, one of the most powerful and pleasing of the living national song-writers, was born on the 23d September 1798, at Sorbie, in the Vale of Ewes a valley remarkable for its pastoral beauty, lying in the south-east of Dumfriesshire. His father was a shepherd, well acquainted with the duties of his profession, and a man of strong though uneducated mind. " My father, while I was yet a child," writes Mr Riddell, in a MS. autobiography, " left Sorbie ; but when I had become able to traverse both burn and brae, hill and glen, I frequently returned to, and spent many weeks together in, the vale of my nativity. We had gone, under the same employer, to what pastoral phraseology terms ' an out-bye herding,' in the wilds of Eskdalemuir, called Langshawburn. Here we continued for a number of years, and had, in this remote, but most friendly and hospitable district, many visitors, ranging from Sir Pulteney Malcolm down to Jock Gray, whom Sir Walter Scott, through one of his strange mistakes, called David Gellatly Among others who constituted a part of the company of these days, was one whom I have good reason to remember the Ettrick Shepherd. Nor can I forbear observing that his seemed one of those hearts that do not become older in proportion as the head grows grey. Cheerful as the splendour of heaven, he carried the feelings, and, it may be said, the simplicity and pursuits of youth, into his maturer years ; and if few of the sons of men naturally possessed such generous influence in promoting, so likewise few enjoyed so much pleasure in participating iu the expedients of recreation, and the harmless glee of those who meet under the rural roof the shepherd's bien and happy home. This was about the time when Hogg began to write, or at least to publish : as I can remember from the circumstance of my being able to repeat the most part of the pieces in his first publication by hearing them read by others before I could read them myself. It may, perhaps, be worth while to state that at these meetings the sons of fanners, and even of lairds, did not disdain to make their appearance, and mbigle delightedly with the lads that wore the crook and plaid. Where pride does not come to chill nor foppery to deform homely and open-hearted kindness, yet white native modesty and self-respect induce propriety of conduct, society possessed its ojjrn attractions, and can subsist on its own resources. "At these happy meetings I treasured up a goodly store of old Border ballads, as well as modern songs ; for in those years of unencumbered and careless existence, I could, on hearing a song, or even a ballad, sung twice, have fixed it on my mind word for word. My father, with his family, leaving Langshawburn, went to Capplefoot, on the Water of Milk, and there for one year occupied a farm belonging to Thomas Beattie, Esq. of Muckledale, and who, when my father was in Ewes, had been his friend. My employment here was, along with a younger brother, to tend the cows. In the winter season we entered the Corrie school, but had only attended a short while when we both took fever, and our attendance was not resumed. At Langshaw- burn, my father for several winters hired a person into his house, who taught his family and that of a neighbouring shepherd. In consequence of our distance from any place of regular education, I had also been boarded at several schools at Deving- ton in Eskdale, Roberton on Borthwick Water, and Newmill on the Teviot, at each of which, however, I only remained a short time, making, I suppose, such progress as do other boys who love the football better than the spelling-book. " At the Whitsunday term, my father relinquished his farm, and returned to his former employment in the Forest of Ettrick, under Mr Scott of Deloraine, to whom HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 367 he had been a shepherd in his younger days. "With this family, indeed, and that of Mr Borthwick, then of Sorbie, and late of Hopesrigg, all his years since he could wear the plaid were passed, with the exception of the one just mentioned. It was at Deloraine that I commenced the shepherd's life in good earnest. Through the friendly partiality of our employer, I was made principal shepherd at an age con- siderably younger than it is usual for most others to be instrusted with so extensive a hirsel* as was committed to my care. I had by this time, however, served what might be regarded as a regular apprenticeship to the employment, which almost all sons of shepherds do, whether they adhere to herding sheep in after-life or not. Seasons and emergencies not seldom occur when the aid which the little boy can lend often proves not much less availing than that of the grown-up man. Education in this line consequently commences early. A knowledge of the habits, together with the proper treatment of sheep, and therefore of pastoral affairs in general, ' grows with the growth' of the individual, and becomes, as it were, a portion of his nature. I had thus assisted my father more or less all along; and when a little older, though still a mere boy, I went for a year to a friend at Glencotha, in Holmswater, as assistant shepherd or lamb-herd. Another year in the same capacity I was with a shepherd in Wester Buccleuch. It was at Glencotha that I first made a sustained attempt to compose in rhyme. When in Wester Buccleuch, my life was much more lonely, and became more tinged with thoughts and. feelings of a romantic cast. Owing to the nature of the stock kept on the farm, it was my destiny, day after day, to be out among the mountains during the whole summer season from early morn till the fall of even. But the long summer days, whether clear or cloudy, never seemed long to me I never wearied among the wilds. My flocks being hirsled, as it is expressed, required vigilance ; but if this was judiciously maintained, the task was for the most part an easy and pleasant one. I know not if it be worth while to mention that the hills and glens on which my charge pastured at this period formed a portion of what in ancient times was termed the Forest of Rankleburn. The names of places in the district, though there were no other more intelligible traditions, might serve to show that it is a range of country to which both kings and nobles had resorted. If from morning to night I was away far from the homes of living men, I was not so in regard to those of the dead. Where a lesser stream from the wild upland comes down and meets the Rankleburn, a clmrch or chapel once stood, surrounded, like most other- consecrated places of the kind, by a burial-ground. There tradition says that five dukes, some say kings, lie buried under a marble stone. I had heard that Sir Walter, then Mr Scott, had, a number of years previously, made a pilgrimage to this place, for the purpose of discovering the sepulchres of the great and nearly forgotten dead, but without success. This, however, tended, in my estimation, to confirm the truth of the tradition ; and having enough of time and opportunity, I made many a toilsome effort of a similar nature, with the same result. With hills around, wild and rarely trodden, and the ceaseless yet ever-varying tink- ling of its streams, together with the mysterious echoes which the least stir seemed to awaken, the place was not only lonely, but also creative of strange apprehensions, even in the hours of open day. It is strange that the heart will fear the dead, which, perhaps, never feared the living. Though I could muster and maintain courage to dig perseveringly among the dust of the long-departed when the sun shone in the sky, yet when the shadow of night was coming, or had come down upon the earth, the scene was sacredly secure from all inroad on my part : and to make the matter sufficiently intelligible, I may further mention that, some years afterwards, when I took a fancy one evening to travel eight miles to meet some friends in a shepherd's * A fleck of sheep. 368 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. lone muirland dwelling, I made the way somewhat longer for the sake of evading the impressive loneliness of this locality. I had no belief that I should meet accusing spirits of the dead ; but I disliked to be troubled in waging war with those eery feelings which are the offspring of superstitious associations. While a lamb-herd at Buccleuch, I read when I could get a book which was not already threadbare. I had a few chisels, and files, and other tools, with which I took pleasure in constructing, of wood or bone, pieces of mechanism ; and I kept a diary in which I wrote many minute and trivial matters, as well, no doubt as I then thought, many a sage observation. In this, likewise, I wrote rude rhymes on local occurrences. But I have anticipated a little. On returning home from Glencotha, and two years before I went to Buccleuch, a younger brother and I had still another round at herding cattle, which pastured in a park near by my father's cottage. Our part was to protect a meadow which formed a portion of it ; and the task being easy to protect that for which the cattle did not much care, nor yet could skaithe greatly though they should trespass upon it, we were far too idle not to enter upon and pro- secute many a wayward and unprofitable ploy. Our predilections for taming wild birds the wilder by nature the better seemed boundless ; and our family of hawks, and owls, and ravens was too large not to cost us much toil, anxiety, and even sorrow. "We fished in the Ettrick and the lesser streams. These last suited our way of it best, since we generally fished with staves and plough-spades thus far, at least, honourably giving the objects of our pursuit a fair chance of escape. When the hay had been won, we went to Ettrick school, at which we continued throughout the winter, travelling to and from it daily, though it lay at the distance of five miles. This we, in good weather, accomplished conveniently enough ; but it proved occa- sionally a serious and toilsome task through wind and rain, or keen frost and deep snow, when winter days and the mountain blasts came on. " My father, after being three years in Stanhopefoot, on the banks of the Ettrick, went to Deloraineshiels, an out-bye herding, under the same employer. In the winter season either I or some other of the family assisted him ; but so often as the weather was fine, we went to a school instituted by a farmer in the neighbourhood for behoof of his own family. When by and by I went to herd the hirsel which my father for- merly tended, like most other regular shepherds I delighted in and was proud of the employment. A considerable portion of another hirsel lying contiguous, and which my elder brother herded, was for the summer season of the year added to mine, so that this already large was made larger ; but exempted as I was from attending to aught else but my flock, I had pleasant days, for I loved the wilds among which it had become alike my destiny and duty to walk at will, and ' view the sheep thrive bonnie.' The hills of Ettrick are generally wild and green, and those of them on which I daily wandered, musing much and writing often, were as high, green, and wild, as any of them all It may be the partiality arising from early habit which induces me to think that a man gets the most comprehensive and distinct view of any subject which may occupy thought when he is walking, provided fatigue has not overtaken liim. Mental confidence awake amid the stir seems increased by the exercise of bodily power, and becomes free and fearless as the step rejoicing in the ample scope afforded by the broad green earth and circumambient sky. On the same grounds, I have sometimes marvelled if it might not be the majesty of motion, as one may say, reigning around the seaman's soul, that made his heart so frank in com- munication, and in action his arm so vigorously energetic. At all events, there was in these days always enough around one to keep interest more or less ardent, awake " ' Prompting the heart to pour the impassion 'd strain Alar 'mid solitude's eternal reign, HENR Y SCO TT RID DELL. 369 In numbers fearless all as unconfined, And wild as waitings of the desert wind.' " According to my ability I studied while wandering among the mountains, and at intervals, adopting my knee for my desk, wrote down the results of my musing. Let not the shepherd ever forget his dog his constant companion and best friend, and without which all his efforts would little avail ! Mine knew well the places where in my rounds I was wont to pause, and especially the majestic seat which I occupied so often on the loftiest peak of Stanhopelaw. It had also an adopted spot of rest the while, and, confident of my habits, would fold itself down upon it ere I came forward ; and would linger still, look wistful, and marvel why if at any time I passed on without making my wonted delay. I did not follow these practices only ' when summer days were fine.' The lines of an epistle, written subsequently, will convey some idea of my habits : ****** 1 My early years were pass'd far on The hills of Ettrick wild and lone ; Through summer sheen and winter shade Tending the flocks that o'er them stray'd. In bold enthusiastic glee I sung rude strains of minstrelsy, Which mingling with died o'er the dale, Unheeded as the plover's wail. Oft where the waving rushes shed A shelter frail around my head, Weening, though not through hopes of fame, To fix on these more lasting claim, I 'd there secure in rustic scroll The wayward fancies of the soul. Even where yon lofty rocks arise, Hoar as the clouds on wintry skies, AVrapp'd in the plaid, and dern'd beneath The colder cone of drifted wreath, I noted them afar from ken, Till ink would freeze within the pen ; So deep the spell which bound the heart Unto the bard's undying art So rapt the charm that still beguiled The minstrel of the mountains wild. ' ****** " The ancients had a maxim ' Eevenge is sweet.' In rural, as well as in other life, there are things said and done which are more or less ungenerous. These, if at any time they came my way, I repelled as best I might. But I did not stop here ; whether such matters, when occurring, might concern myself as an individual or not, I took it upon me, as if I had been a ' learned judge,' to write satires upon such persons as I knew or conceived to have spoken or acted in aught contrary to good manners. These squibs were written through the impulse of offended feeling, or the stirrings of that injudicious spirit which sometimes prompts a man to exercise a power merely because he possesses it. They were still, after all, only as things of private experiment, and not intended ever to go forth to the world though it hap- pened otherwise. I usually carried a lot of these writings in my hat, and by and by, unlike most other young authors, I got a publisher unsought for. This was the wind, which, on a wild day, swept my hat from my head, and tattering its contents asunder from their fold, sent them away over hill and dale like a flock of wild fowl. I recovered some where they had halted in bieldy places ; others of them went further, and fell into other hands, and particularly into those of a neighbour, who a short while previously, had played an unmanly part relating to a sheep and the 370 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. march, which ran between us. He found his unworthy proceeding boldly discussed, in an epistle which, I dare say, no other carrier would ever have conveyed to him but the unblushing mountain blast. He complained to others, whom he found more or less involved in his own predicament, and the thing went disagreeably abroad. My master, through good taste and feeling, was vexed, as I understood, that I should have done anything that gave ground for accusation, though he did not mention the subject to myself; but my father, some days after the mischief had commenced, came to me upon the hill, and, not in very good humour, disapproved of my im- prudent conduct. As for the consequences of this untoward event, it proved the means of revealing what I had hitherto concealed procuring for me a sort of local popularity little to be envied. I made the best improvement of it, as I then thought, that lay in my power by writing a satire upon myself. " I continued shepherd at Deloraine two years, and then went in the same capacity to the late Mr Knox of Todrigg ; and if at the former place I had been well and happy, here I was still more so. His son "William, the poet of ' The Lonely Hearth, paid me much friendly attention. He commended my verses, and augured my suc- cess as one of the song- writers of my native land. In those days I did not write with the most remote view to publication. My aim did not extend beyond the gratifica- tion of hearing my mountain strains sung by lad or lass, as time and place might favour. And when, in the dewy gloaming of a summer eve, returning home from the hill, and ' the kye were in the loan/ I did hear this much, I thought, no doubt, that ' The swell and fall of these wild tones Were worth the pomp of a thousand thrones.' " William Crozier, author of ' The Cottage Muse,' was also my neighbour and friend at Todrigg, during the summer part of the year ; and even at this hour I feel delight in recalling to memory the happy harmony of thought and feeling that blended with and enhanced the genial sunshine of those departed days. I rejoice to dwell upon those remote and rarely-trodden pastoral solitudes, among which my lot in the early years of life was so continually cast ; few may well conceive how dis- tinctly I can recall them. Memory which seems often to constitute the mind itself, more, perhaps, than any other faculty, can set them so brightly before me, as if they were painted on a dark midnight sky with brushes dipped in the essence of living light. To appreciate thoroughly the grandeur of the mountain solitudes, it is necessary to have dwelt among the scenes, and to have looked upon them at every season of the ever-changing year. They are fresh with solemn beauty, when bathed in the deep dews of a summer morning ; or in autumn, if you have attained to the border of the mystery which has overhung your path, and therefore to a station high enough for the survey, all that meets the eye shall be as a dream of poetry itself. The deep folds of white vapour fill up glen and hollow, till the summit of the mountains, near and far away far as sight itself can penetrate are only seen tinged with the early radiance of the sun, the whole so combined as to appear a limitless plain of variegated marble, peaceful as heaven, and solemnly serene as eternity. What Winter writes with his frozen finger I need not state. When the venerable old man, Gladstones, perished among the stormy blasts of these wilds, I was one of about threescore of men who for three days traversed them in search of the dead. Then was the scenery of the moun- tains impressive, much beyond what can well be spoken. The bridal that loses the bride through some wayward freak of the fair may be sad enough ; so also' the train, in its dark array, that conveys the familiar friend to the chamber where the light of nature cannot come. But in this latter case, the hearts that still beat, necessarily know that their part is resignation, and suspense and anxiety mingle not in the mood HENR Y SCOTT RIDDELL. 371 of the living, as it relates to the dead ; but otherwise is it with those who seem already constituting the funeral train of one who should have been yet who is net here to be buried. ' The feeling is nameless that makes us unglad, And a strange, wild d smayment it brings ; Which yet hath no match in the solemn and sad Desolation of men and of things. ******* ' The hill-foxes howl'd round the wanderer's way, When his aim and his pathway were lost ; And effort has then oft too much of dismay To pay well the toil it may cost. If fate has its privilege, death has its power, And is fearful where'er it may fall, But worse it may seem 'mong the blasts of the moor, Where all that approaches portends to devour, Nor fixes till first it appal ' No mercy obtains in the tempests that rave, By the sky-frozen elements fed, And there comes no hand that is willing to save, And soothe, till the spirit be fled ; But the storms round the thrones of the wilderness break O'er the frail in the solitude cast, And howl in their strength and impatience to take Their course to commix with the roar of the lake Where it flings forth its foam on the blast. ' Lo ! neath where the heath hangs so dark o'er yon peak, Another of Adam lay lone, Where the bield could not shelter the weary and weak, By the strife of the tempest o'erthrown. To raven had fed, and the hill-fox had fled, If there he had yet come abroad, And the stillness reign'd deep o'er his cold moorland bed, Which came down in the power of the sleep of the dead When the spirit return'd to its God." ******* These are a few out of many more lines written on this subject, which at the time was so deeply interesting to mind and heart." Mr Riddell here states that his poetical style of composition about this period underwent a considerable change. He laid aside his wayward wit for serious senti- ment, an improvement which he ascribes to his admiration of the elegant strains of his friend, young Knox. " My fortune in life," he proceeds, " had not placed me within the reach of a library, and I had read almost none ; and although I had attempted to write, I merely followed the course which instinct pointed out. Need I state further, that if in these days I employed my mind and pen among the mountains as much as possible, my thoughts also often continued to pursiie the same practice, even when among others, by the 'farmer's ingle.' I retired to rest when others retired, but if not out- worn by matters of extra toil, the ardour of thought, through love of the poet's un- dying art, would, night after night, for many hours, debar the inroads of sleep. The number of schools which I have particularised as having attended may occasion some surprise at the deficiency of my scholarship. For this, various reasons are assignable, all of which, however, hinge upon these two formidable obstacles the inconvenience of local position, and the thoughtless inattention of youth. In remote country places, long and rough ways, conjoined not unfrequently with wild weather, require that children, before they can enter school, be pretty well grown up ; consequently, they 372 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. quit it the sooner. They are often useful at home in the summer season, or circum- stances may destine them to hire away. Among these inconveniences, one serious drawback is, that the little education they do get is rarely obtained continuously, and regular progress is interrupted. Much of what has been gained is lost during the intervals of non-attendance, and every new return to the book is little else than a new beginning. So was it with me. At the time when my father hired a teacher into his house, it was for what is termed the winter quarter, and I was then somewhat too young to be tied down to the regular routine of school discipline ; and if older when boarded away, the other obstruction to salutary progress began to operate grievously against me. I acquired bit by bit the common education reading, writing, and arithmetic. So far as I remember, grammar was not much taught at any of these schools, and the spelling of words was very nearly as little attended to as the meaning which they are appointed to convey was explained or sought after. " But the non-understanding of words is less to be marvelled at than that a man should not understand himself. At this hour I cannot conceive how I should have been so recklessly careless about learning and books when at school, and yet so soon after leaving it seriously inclined towards them. I see little else for it than to sup- pose that boys who are bred where they have no companions are prone to make the most of companionship when once attained to. And then, in regard to books, as of these I rarely got more than what might serve as a whet to the appetite, I might have the desire of those whose longings after what they would obtain are increased by the difficulties which interpose between them and the possession. One book which in school I sometimes got a glance of, I would have given anything to possess : this was a small volume entitled, ' The Three Hundred Animals.' " I cannot forbear mentioning that, when at Deloraine, I was greatly advantaged by an old woman, called Mary Hogg, whose cottage stood on an isolated corner of the lands on which my flock pastured. Her husband had been a shepherd, who, many years previous to this period, perished in a snow-storm. In her youth she had op- portunities of reading history, and other literature, and she did not only remember well what she had read, but could give a distinct and interesting account of it. In going my wonted rounds, few days there were on which I did not call and listen to her intelligent conversation. She was a singularly good woman a sincere Christian; and the books which she lent me were generally of a religious kind, such as the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the ' Holy "War ;' but here I also discovered a romance, the first which I had ever seen. It was printed in the Gothic letter, and entitled ' Prisshnus, the Renowned Prince of Bohemia.' Particular scenes and characters in ' Ivauhoe' reminded me strikingly of those which I had formerly met with in this old book of black print. And I must mention that few books interested me more than ' Bailey's Dictionary.' Day after day I bore it to the mountains, and I have an impression that it was a more comprehensive edition of the work than I have ever since been able to meet with. " At Todrigg my reading was extended ; and having begun more correctly to appreciate what I did read, the intention which I had sometimes entertained gathered strength : this was to make an effort to obtain a regular education. The consideration of the inadequacy of my means had hitherto bridled my ambition ; but having herded as a regular shepherd nearly three years, during which I had no occasion to spend much of my income, my prospects behoved to be a little more favourable. It was in this year that the severest trial which had yet crossed my path had to be sus- tained. The death of my father overthrew nay happier mood ; at the same time, instead of subduing my secret aim, the event rather strengthened my determination. My portion of my father's worldly effects added something considerable to my own HENR Y SCOTT RIDDELL. 373 gainings ; and, resigning my situation, I bade farewell to the crook and plaid. I went to Biggar, in Clydesdale, where I knew the schoolmaster was an approved classical scholar. Besides, my Glencotha reminiscences tended to render me partial to this part of the world, and in the village I had friends with whom I could suitably reside. The better to insure attention to what I was undertaking, I judged it best to attend school during the usual hours. A learner was already there as old in years, and nearly as stout in form, as myself, so that I escaped from the wonderment which usually attaches to singularity much more comfortably than I anticipated. There were also two others in the school, who had formerly gone a considerable way in the path of classic lore, and had turned aside, but who, now repenting of their apostacy, returned to their former faith. These were likewise well grown up, and I may state that they are now both eminent as scholars and public men. The individual first mentioned and I sat in the master's desk, which he rarely, if ever, occupied himself ; and although we were diligent upon the whole, yet occasionally our industry and con- duct as learners were far from deserving approbation. To me the confinement was frequently irksome and oppressive, especially when the days were bright with the beauty of sunshine. There were ways, woods, and even wilds, not far apart from the village, which seemed eternally wooing the step to retirement, and the mind to soli- tary contemplation. Some verses written in this school have been preserved, which will convey an idea of the cast of feeling which produced them : ' Discontented and uncheery, Of this noise and learning weary, Half my mind to madness driven, Woos the lore by nature given ; 'Hong fair fields and flowing fountains, Lonely glens and lofty mountains, Charm' d with nature's wildest grandeur, Lately wont was I to wander, Wheresoever fancy led me, Came no barrier to impede me ; Still from early morn till even, In the light of earth and heaven, Musing on whatever graces, Livelier scenes or lonelier places, Till a nameless pleasure found me Living, like a dream, around me, How, then, may I be contented, Thus confined and thus tormented ! 'Still, oh! still 'twere lovelier rather To be roaming through the heather ; And where flow'd the stream so glassy, 'Mong its flowers and margins mossy, "Where the flocks at noon their path on Came to feed by birk and hawthorn ; Or upon the mountain lofty, Seated where the wind blew softly, "\Vith my faithful friend beside me, And my plaid from sun to hide me, And the volume oped before me, I would trace the minstrel's story, Or mine own wild harp awaken, 'Mid the deep green glens of bracken. ' " My teacher, the late Eichard Scott, was an accurate classical scholar, which perhaps accounts for his being, unlike some others of his profession, free from pedantry. He was kind-hearted and somewhat disposed to indolence, loving more to converse with one of my years than to instruct him in languages. He had seen a good deal of the world and its ways, and I learned much from him besides Greek and 374 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Latin. "We were great friends and companions, and rarely separate when both of us were unengaged otherwise. I bore aloof from making many acquaintances ; yet, ere long, I became pretty extensively acquainted with the people of the place. It went abroad that I was a bard from the mountains, and the rumour affixed to me a popularity which I did not enjoy. A party of young men in the village had prepared themselves to act ' The Douglas Tragedy,' and wished a song, which was to be sung between this and the farce. The air was of their own fixing, and which, in itself, was wild and beautiful ; but, unfortunately, like many others of our national airs possessed of these qualities, it was of a measure such as rendered it difficult to write words for. Since precluded from introducing poetic sentiment, I substituted a dramatic plot, and being well sung by alternate voices, the song was well received, and so my fame was enhanced. " It was about this time that I wrote 'The Crook and Plaid' not by request, but with the intention of supplanting a song, I think of English origin, called ' The Plough-boy,' and of a somewhat questionable character. ' The Crook and Plaid ' accomplished the end intended, and soon became popular throughout the land. So soon as I got a glimpse of the Roman language, I began to make satisfactory progress in its acquisition. But I daily wrote more or less in my old way now also embracing in my attempts prose as well as verse. I wrote a Border Romance. This was more strongly than correctly expressed. Hogg, who took the trouble of reading it, gave me his opinion, by saying that there were more rawness and more genius in it than in any work he had seen. It, sometime afterwards, had also the honour of being read for I never offered it for publication by one who felt much interest in the characters and plot Professor Wilson's lady who, alas ! went too early to where he himself also now is ; lost, though not to fond recollection, yet to love and life below. I contributed some papers to the Clydesdale Magazine, and I sent a sort of poetic tale to the editor, telling him to do with it whatever he might think proper. He published it anonymously, and it was sold about Clydesdale. " My intention had been to qualify myself for the University, and, perhaps in regard to Latin and Greek acquirements, I might have proceeded thither earlier than I ventured to do ; but having now made myself master of my more immediate tasks, I took more liberty. A gentleman, who, on coming home after having made his fortune abroad, took up his residence at Biggar. I had, in these days, an aversion to coming into contact with rich strangers, and although he lived with a family which I was accustomed to visit, I bore aloof from being introduced to him. But he came to me one day on the hill of Bizzie-berry, and frankly told me that he wished to be acquainted with me, and therefore had taken the liberty of introducing himself. I found excuse for not dining with him on that day, but not so the next, nor for many days afterwards. He was intellectual and his intelligence was only surpassed by his generosity. He gave me to understand that his horse was as much at my service as his own ; and one learned, by and by, to keep all wishes and wants as much out of view as possible, in case that they should be attended to when you yourself had forgotten them. When he began to rally me about my limited knowledge of the world, I knew that some excursion was in contemplation. We, on one occasion, rode down the Clyde, finding out, so far as we might, all tilings, both natural and artificial, worthy of being seen ; and when at Greenock, he was anxious that we should have gone into the Highlands, but I resisted ; for although not so much as a shade of the expenses was allowed to fall on me, I felt only the more ashamed of the extent of them. " I had become acquainted with a number of people whom I delighted to visit occasionally one family in particular, who lived amid the beauty of ' the wild glen sae green.' The song now widely known by this name, I wrote for a member of this HENR Y SCOTT RIDDELL. 375 delightful family, who at that time herded one of the hirsels of his father's flocks on 'the heathy hill.' With the greater number of persons in the district possessing literary tastes, I became more or less intimate. The schoolmasters I found friendly and obliging ; one of these, in particular (now holding a higher office in the same locality), I often visited. His high poetic taste convinced me more and more of the value of mental culture, and tended to subdue me from those more rugged modes of expression in which I took a pride in conveying my conceptions. With this interest- ing friend, I sometimes took excursions into rural regions more or less remote, and once we journeyed to the south, when I had the pleasure of introducing him to the Ettrick Shepherd. But of my acquaintances, I valued few more than my modest and poetic friend, the late James Brown of Symington. Though humble in station, he was high in virtuous worth. His mind, imbued with and regulated by sound religious and moral principle, was as ingenious and powerful as his heart Avas ' leal, warm, and kind.' " Entering the University of Edinburgh, I took for the first session the Greek and Latin classes. Attending them regularly, I performed the incumbent exercises much after the manner that others did only, as I have always understood it to be a rare thing with the late Mr Dunbar, the Greek Professor, to give much praise to anything in the shape of poetry, I may mention that marked merit was ascribed to me in his class for a poetical translation of one of the odes of Anacreon. I had laid the translation on his desk, in an anonymous state, one day before the assembling of the class. He read it and praised it, expressing at the same time his anxiety to know who was the translator ; but the translator having intended not to acknowledge it, kept quiet. He returned to it, and praising it anew, expressed still more earnestly his desire to know the author ; and so I made myself known, as all great unknowns I think, with the exception of Junius, are sooner or later destined to do. " Of the philosophical classes, those that I liked best were the Logic and Moral Philosophy particularly the latter. I have often thought that it is desirable, could it be possibly found practicable, to have all the teachers of the higher departments of education not merely of high scholastic acquirements, but of acknowledged genius. Youth reveres genius, and delights to be influenced by it ; heart and spirit are kept awake and refreshed by it, and everything connected with its forthgivings is rendered doubly memorable. It fixes, in a certain sense, the limit of expectation, and the prevailing sentiment is we are under the tuition of the highest among those on earth who teach ; if we do not profit here, we may not hope to do so elsewhere. These remarks I make with a particular reference to the late Professor Wilson, under the influence of whose genius and generous warmth of heart many have felt as I was wont to feel. If it brings hope and gladness to love and esteem the living, it also yields a satisfaction, though mingled with regret, to venerate the dead ; and now that he is no more, I cannot forbear recording how he treated a man from the mountains who possessed no previous claim upon his attention. I had no introduction to him, but he said that he had heard of me, and would accept of no fee for his class when I joined it ; at least he would not do so, he said, till I should be able to inform him whether or not I had been pleased with his lectures. But it proved all the same in this respect at the close as it was at the commencement of the session. He invited me frequently to his house as a friend, when other friends were to meet him there, besides requesting me to come and see him and his family whenever I could make it convenient. He said that his servant John was very perverse, and would be sure to drive me by like all others, if he possibly could ; so he gave me a watchword, which he thought John, perverse as he was, would not venture to resist. I thus became possessed of a privilege of which I did not fail to avail myself frequently a privilege THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. which might well have been gratifying to such as were much less enthusiastic with regard to literary men and things than I was. To share in the conversation of those possessed of high literary taste and talent, and, above all, of poetic genius, is the highest enjoyment afforded by society ; and if it be thus gratifying, it is almost un- necessary to add that it is also advantageous in no ordinary degree, if, indeed, properly appreciated and improved. Any one who ever met the late Professor in the midst of his own happy family, constituted as it was when I had this pleasure, was not likely soon to forget a scene wherein so much genius, kindness, loveliness, and worth were blended. If the world does not think with a deep and undying regret of what once adorned it, and it has now lost, through the intervention of those shadows which no morning but the eternal one can remove, I am one, at least, who in this respect cannot follow its example. " Edinburgh, with its ' palaces and towers,' and its many crowded ways, was at first strangely new to me, being as different, in almost all respects, to what I had been accustomed as it might seem possible for contrariety to make earthly things. Though I had friends in it, and therefore was not solitary, yet its tendency, like that of the noisy and restless sea, was to render me melancholy. Some features which the con- gregated condition of mankind exhibited penetrated my heart with something like actual dismay. I had seen nothing of the sort, nor yet even so much as a semblance of it, and therefore I had no idea that there existed such a miserable shred of degrada- tion, for example, as a cinder- woman desolate and dirty as her employment bowed down a shadow among shadows busily prone, beneath the sheety night sky, to find out and fasten upon the crumb, whose pilgrimage certainly had not improved it since falling from the rich man's table. Compassion, though not naturally so, becomes painful when entertained towards those whom we believe labouring under suffering whioh we fain would but cannot alleviate. " I had enough of curiosity for wishing to see all those things which others spoke of, and characterised as worthy of being seen ; but I contented myself meanwhile with a survey of the city's external attributes. In a week or two, however, my friend A. F. Harrower, formerly mentioned, having come into town from Clydesdale, took pleasure in finding out whatever could interest or gratify me, and of conveying me thither. With very few exceptions, every forenoon he called at my lodgings, leaving a note requesting me to meet him at some specified time and place. I sometimes sent apologies, and at other times went personally to apologise; but neither of these methods answered well. Through his persevering attentions towards me, I met with much agreeable society, and saw much above as well as somewhat below the earth, which I might never otherwise have seen. In illustration of the latter fact, I may state that Inn-ing gone to London, he returned with two Englishmen, when he invited me to assist them in exploring the battle-field of Pinkie. We terminated our excursion by descending one of Sir John Hope's coal-pits. These humorous and frank English associates amused themselves by bantering my friend and myself about the chastise- ment which Scotland received from the sister kingdom at Pinkie. As did the young rustic countryman or, at least, was admonished to do so did I. When going away to reside in England, he asked his father if he had any advice to give him. ' Nane, Jock, nane but this,' he said ; ' dinna forget to avenge the battle o' Pinkie on them.' Ere I slept I wrote, in support of our native land, the song 'Ours is the land of gallant hearts ;' and thus, in my own way, ' avenged the battle of Pinkie.' " One of two other friends with whom I delighted to associate was E. B., an early school companion, who, having left the mountains earlier than I did, had now been a number of years in Edinburgh. Of excellent head and generous heart, he loved the wild, green, and deep solitudes of nature. The other G. M'D. was of powerful HENR Y SCOTT RIDDELL. 377 and bold intellect, and remarkable for a retentive memory. Each of us, partial to those regions where nature strives to maintain her own undisturbed dominion, on all holidays hied away from the city, to the woodland and mountainous haunts, or the loneliness of the least frequented shores of the sea. The spirit of our philosophy varied much sometimes profound and solemn, and sometimes humorous ; but still we philosophised, wandering on. They were members of a literary society which met once a week, and which I joined. My propensity to study character and note its varieties was here afforded a field opening close upon me ; but I was also much pro- fited by performing my part in carrying forward the business of the institution. During all the sessions that I attended the University, but especially as these advanced toward their termination, I entered into society beyond that which might be regarded as professionally literary. I had an idea then, as I still have, that, in every process of improvement, care should be taken that one department of our nature is not culti- vated to the neglect of another. There are two departments the intellectual and the moral ; the one implying all that is rational, the other comprising whatever per- tains to feeling and passion, or more simply, there are the head and the heart ; and if the intellect is to be cultivated, the heart is not to be allowed to run into wild waste, nor to sink into systematic apathy. Lore-lighted pages and unremitting abstract studies will make a man learned ; but knowledge is not wisdom ; and to know much is not so desirable, because it is not so beneficial, either to ourselves or others, as to understand, through the more generous and active sympathies of our nature, how the information which we possess may be best applied to useful purposes. This we shall not well know, if the head be allowed or encouraged to leave the heart behind. If we forget society" it will forget us, and, through this estrangement, a sympathetic knowledge of human nature may be lost. Thus, in the haunts of seclusion and solitary thoughts our acquirements may only prove availing to ourselves as matters of self-gratification. The benevolent affections, which ought not merely to be allowed, but taught to expand, may thus not only be permitted but encouraged to contract, and the exercise of that studious ingenuity, which perhaps leads the world to admire the achievements of learning, thus deceive us into a state of existence little better than cold selfishness itself. Sir Isaac Newton, who soared so high and travelled so far on the wing of abstract thought, gathering light from the stars that he might convey it in intelligible shape to the world, seems to have thought, high as the employment was, that it was not good, either for the heart or mind of man, to be always away from that intercourse with humanity and its affairs which is calculated to awaken and sustain the sympathies of life ; and therefore turned to the contem. plation of Him who was meek and lowly. And no countenance has been afforded to monks and hermits who retired from the world, though it even was to spend their lives in meditation and prayer ; for Heaven had warned man, at an early date, not to withhold the compassionate feelings of the heart, and the helping hand, from any in whom he recognised the attributes of a common nature, saying to him, ' See that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh.' " My last year's attendance at the College Philosophical Classes was at St Andrews. I had a craving to acquaint myself with a city noted in story, and I could not, under the canopy of my native sky, have planted the step among scenes more closely interwoven with past national transactions, or fraught with more interesting associa- tions. In attending the Natural Philosophy Class, not being proficient in mathe- matic lore, I derived less advantage than had otherwise been the case with me. Yet I did not sit wholly in the shade, notwithstanding that the light which shone upon me did not come from that which Campbell says yielded ' the lyre of Heaven another string.' A man almost always finds some excuse for deficiency ; and I have one 378 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. involving a philosophy which I think few will be disposed to do otherwise than acquiesce in namely, that it is a happy arrangement in the creation and history of man, that all minds are not so constituted as to have the same predilections, or to follow the same bent. Considering that I had started at a rather late hour of life to travel in the paths of learning, and having so many things, interesting and important, to attend to by the way, it was perhaps less remarkable that I should be one who ' neither kenn'd nor cared ' much about lines that had no breadth, and points which were without either breadth or length, than that I should have felt gratified to find on my arrival some of my simple strains sung in a city famed for its scientific acquirements. " The ruins which intermingle with the scenery and happy homes of St Andrews, like grey hairs among those of another hue, rendered venerable the general aspect of the place. But I did not feel only the city interesting, but the whole of Fifeshire. By excursions made on the monthly holidays then as well as subsequently, when in after-years I returned to visit friends in the royal realm, I acquainted myself with a goodly number of those haunts and scenes which history and tradition have rendered attractive. A land, however, or any department of it, whatever may be its other advantages, is most to be valued in respect of the intelligence or worth of its inhabi- tants. And if so, then I am proud to aver that in Fife I came to possess many intelli- gent and excellent friends. Many of these have gone to another land ' the land o' the leal' leaving the places which now know them no more, the more regretfully endeared to recollection. " I studied at St Andrews College under the late Dr Jackson, who was an eminent philosopher and friendly man ; also under Mr Duncan, of the Mathematical Chair, whom I regarded as a personification of unworldly simplicity, clothed in high and pure thought ; and I regularly attended, though not enrolled as a regular student, the Moral Philosophy Class of Dr Chalmers. Returning to Edinburgh and its University, 1 became acquainted, through my friend and countryman, Robert Hogg, with R. A. Smith, who was desirous that I should assist him with the works in which he was engaged, particularly ' The Irish Minstrel,' and ' Select Melodies.' Smith was a man of modest worth and superior intelligence ; peculiarly delicate in his taste and feeling in everything pertaining to lyric poetry as well as music ; his criticisms were strict, and, as some thought, unnecessarily minute. Diffident and retiring, he was not got acquainted with at once, but when he gave his confidence, he was found a pleasant companion and warm-hearted friend. If, as he had sought my acquaintance, I might have expected more frankness on our meeting, I soon became convinced that his shyer cast arose alone from excess of modesty, combined with a remarkable sensitiveness of feeling. Proudly honourable, he seemed more susceptible of the influences of all sorts that affect life than any man I ever knew; and, indeed, a little acquaintance witli him was only required to show that his harp was strung too delicately for standing lung the tear and wear of this world. He had done much for Scottish melody, both by fixing the old airs in as pure a state as possible, and by adding to the vast number of these national treasures some exquisite airs of his own. For a number of the airs in the works just mentioned, but particularly in the ' Select Melodies,' he had ex- perienced difficulty in procuring suitable words, owing chiefly to the crampness of the measures a serious drawback which appears to pervade, more or less, the sweetest melodies of other nations as well as those of our own. A number of these I supplied as well as I could. " About this time the native taste for Scottish song in city society seemed nearly, if not altogether lost, and a kind of songs, such as ' I've been roaming,' ' I'd be a but- terfly,' ' Buy a broom,' ' Cherry ripe,' etc. (in which, if the head contrived to find a HENR Y SCO TT RIDDELL. 379 meaning, it was still such as the heart could understand nothing about), seemed alone to be popular, and to prevail. R. A. Smith disliked this state of things, but, perhaps, few more so than Mr Peter M'Leod, who gave a most splendid evidence of his taste in his 'Original National Melodies.' Both Smith and M'Leod were very particular about the quality of the poetry which they honoured with their music. M'Leod was especially careful in this respect. He loved the lay of lofty and undaunted feeling as well as of love and friendship ; for his genius was of a manly tone, and had a bold and liberal flow. And popular as some of the effusions in his work have become, such as ' Oh ! why left I my hame ?' and ' Scotland yet ! ' many others of them, I am convinced, will yet be popular likewise. When the intelligence of due appreciation draws towards them, it will take them up and delight to fling them upon the breezes that blow over the hills and glens, and among the haunts and homes of the isle of unconquerable men. To Mr M'Leod's ' National Melodies' I contributed a number of songs. In the composition of these I found it desirable to lay aside, in some con- siderable degree, my pastoral phraseology, for, as conveyed in such productions, I observed that city society cared little about rural scenery and sentiment. It was different with my kind a'nd gifted friend Professor Wilson. He was wont to say that he would not have given the education, as he was pleased to term it, which I had received afar in the green bosom of mountain solitude, and among the haunts and homes of the shepherd meaning the thing as applicable to poetry for all that he had received at colleges. Wilson had introduced my song, ' When the glen all is still,' into the Noctes, and La Sapio composed music for it ; and not only was it sung in Drury Lane, but published in a sheet as the production of a real shepherd ; yet it did not become popular in city life. In the country it had been popular previous to this, where it is so still, and where no effort whatever had been made to introduce it. "About the time when I had concluded the whole of my college course, the ' Songs of the Ark,'* were published by Blackwood. These, as published, are not what they were at first, and were intended only to be short songs of a sacred nature, unconnected by intervening narrative, for which R. A. Smith wished to compose music. Unfortunately, his other manifold engagements never permitted him to carry his intention into practice ; and seeing no likelihood of any decrease of these engage- ments, I gave scope to my thoughts on the subject, and the work became what it now is. But I ought to mention that this was not my first poetic publication in palpable shape. Some years previously I published stanzas, or a monody, on the death of Lord Byron. I had all along thought much, and with something like mysterioiis awe, upon the eccentric temperament, character, and history of that great poet, and the tidings which told the event of his demise impressed me deeply. Being in the country, and remote from those who could exchange thoughts with me on the occur- rence, I resorted to writing. That which I advanced was much mixed up with the result, if I may not say of former experience, yet of former reflection, for I had enter- tained many conjectures concerning what this powerful personage would or might yet do ; and, indeed, his wilful waywardness, together with the misery which he repre- sented as continually hatmting him, constituted an impressive advertisement to the world, and served to keep human attention awake towards him. " Those who write because it brings a relief to feeling, will write rapidly : likely, too, they will write without energy, because not only the head but also the heart is engaged. ' The Monody,' which is of a goodly length, I finished in a few days ; and though I felt a desire of having it published, yet it lay over for a time, till, being in Edinburgh, a friend showed it to Dr Robert Anderson. I had been well satisfied with the result had the production accomplished nothing more than procured me, as * "Songs of the Ark, with other Poems." Edin. 1831. 8vo. 380 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. it did, the friendly acquaintance of this excellent, venerable man. He knew more of the minutiae of literature, together with the character and habits of the literary men of his day, and of other days also, than any I had then or have since met with ; and he seemed to take great pleasure in communicating his knowledge to others. He thought well of ' The Monody,' and warmly advised me to publish it. It was pub- lished accordingly by Mr John Anderson, bookseller, North Bridge, Edinburgh. " Some of the reviewers, in regard to the ' Songs of the Ark/ seemed to think that a sufficiency of Eastern scenery did not obtain in them. Doubtless, this was correct ; but I remark, that if my object in the undertaking had been to delineate scenery, I would not have turned my attention to the East, the scenes of which I never saw. Human nature being radically the same everywhere, a man, through the sympathies of that nature, can know to a certain extent what are likely to be the thoughts and feelings of his fellow-kind in any particular circumstances therefore he has data upon which he can venture to give a representation of them ; but it is very different from this in regard to topographical phenomena. It was therefore not the natural, but, if I may so call it, the moral scenery in which I was interested, more particularly since the whole scene of nature here below was, shortly after the period at which the poem commences, to become a blank of desolate uniformity, as overwhelmed beneath a waste of waters. " At the risk of incurring the charge of vanity, I would venture to adduce one or two of the favourable opinions entertained in regard to some of the miscellaneous pieces which went to make up the volume of the ' Songs of the Ark.' Of the piece entitled ' Apathy,' Allan Cunningham thus wrote : ' Although sufficiently distressful, it is a very bold and original poem, such as few men, except Byron, would have conceived or could have written.' Motherwell said of the ' Sea-grey Man/ that it was ' the best of all modern ballads.' This ballad, shortly after I had composed it, I repeated to the Ettrick Shepherd walking on the banks of the Yarrow, and he was fully more pleased with it than with anything of mine I had made him acquainted with. He was wont to call me his 'assistant and successor ;' and although this was done humorously, it yet seemed to furnish him with a privilege on which he proceetU -d to approve or disapprove very frankly, that in either case I might profit by his remarks. He was pleased, especially, with the half mysterious way in which I contrived to get quit of the poor old man at last. This, indeed, was a contrivance ; but the idea of the rest of the ballad was taken from an old man, who had once been a sailor, and who was wont to come to my mother's, in the rounds which he took in pursuit of charity at regular periods of the year, so that we called him her pensioner. " The summer vacations of college years I passed in the country, sometimes residing with my mother, and eldest brother, at a small farm which he had taken at the lb<.t of the Lammermuir hills, in East-Lothian, called Brookside, and sometimes, when I wished a variety, with another brother, at Dryden, in Selkirkshire. ******* " My eldest brother having taken a farm near Teviothead, I left Brookside, and as all the members of the family were wont to account that in which my mother lived their home, it of course was mine. But, notwithstanding that the change brought me almost to the very border of the vale of my nativity, I regretted to leave Brookside. It was a beautiful and interesting place, and the remembrance of it is like what Ossian says of joys that are past 'sweet and mournful to the soul.' I loved the place, was partial to the peacefulness of its retirement, its solitude, and the intelligence of its society. I was near the laird's library, and I had a garden in the glen. The latter was formed that I might gather home to it, when in musing moods among the mountains, the wild-flowers, in order to their cultivation, and my having HENR Y SCOTT RID DELL. 38 1 something more of a possessory right over them. It formed a contrast to the scenery around, and lured to relaxation. Occasionally ' the lovely of the land ' brought, with industrious delight, plants and flowers, that they might have a share in adorning it. Even when I was from home it was, upon the whole, well attended to : for although, according to taste or caprice, changes were made, yet I readily forgave the annoyances that might attend alteration, and especially those by the hands that sometimes printed me pleasing compliments on the clay with the little stones lifted from the walks. If the things which I have written and given to the world continue to be cared for, these details may not be wholly without use, inasmuch as they will serve to explain frequent allusions which might otherwise seem introduced at capricious random, or made without a meaning. " Shortly after becoming a probationer, I came to reside in this district, and, not long after, the preacher who officiated in the preaching-station here died. The people connected with it wished me to become his successor, which, after some difficulties had been surmounted, I became. I had other views at the time which were promising and important ; but as there had been untoward disturbances in the place, owing to the lack of defined rights and privileges, I had it in my power to become a peace- maker, and, besides, I felt it my duty to comply with a call which was both cordial and unanimous. I now laid wholly aside those things which pertain to the pursuits of romantic literature, and devoted myself to the performance of incumbent duties. In consequence of no house having been provided for the preacher, and no one to be obtained but at a very inconvenient distance, I was in this respect very inconveniently situated. Travelling nine miles to the scene of my official duties, it was frequently my hap to preach in a very uncomfortable condition, when, indeed, the wet would be pouring from my arms on the Bible before me, and oozing over my shoes when the foot was stirred on the pulpit floor. But, by and by, the Duke of Buccleuch built a dwelling-house for me, the same which I still occupy." To the ministerial charge of the then preaching station of Teviothead, Mr Eiddell was about to receive ordination, at the united solicitation of his hearers, when he was suddenly visited with severe affliction. Unable to discharge pulpit duty for a period of years, the pastoral superintendence of the district was devolved on another. On his recovery, with commendable forbearance, he did not seek to interfere with the new ecclesiastical arrangement. This procedure was generously approved of by the Duke of Buccleuch, who conferred upon him the right to occupy the manse cottage, along with a grant of land, and a small annuity. Mr RiddelTs autobiography proceeds : " In the hope of soon obtaining a per- manent and comfortable settlement at Teviothead, I had ventured to make my own, by marriage, her who had in heart been mine through all my college years, and who for my sake had, in the course of these, rejected wealth and high standing in life. The heart that, for the sake of leal faith and love, could despise wealth and its con- comitants, and brave the risk of embracing comparative poverty, even at its best estate, was not one likely overmuch to fear that poverty when it appeared, nor flinch with an altered tone from the position which it had adopted, when it actually came. This, much rather, fell to my part. It preyed upon my mind too deeply not to prove injurious in its effects ; and it did this all the more, that the voice of love, true to its own law, had the words of hope and consolation in it, but never those of complaint. It appeared the acme of the severity of fate itself to have lived to be the means of placing a heart and mind so rich in disinterested affection on so wild and waste a scene of trial. " From an experience of fourteen years, in which there were changes in almost all things except in the affection which bound two hearts in one, before the hands 382 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. were united, it might be expected that I should give some eminent admonitions concerning the imprudence of men, and particularly of students, allowing their hearts to become interested in, and the remembrance of their mind more fraught with, a rich beauty of auburn ringlets than in the untoward confusion, for example, of irregular Greek verbs ; yet I much fear that admonition would be of no use. If their fate be woven of a texture similar to that of mine, how can they help it ? A man may have an idea that to cling to the shelter which he has found, and indulge in the sleep that has overtaken him amid the stormy blasts of the waste mountains, may be little else than opening for himself the gates of death, yet the toils of the way through -which he has already passed may also have rendered him incapable of resisting the danger- ous rest and repose of his immediate accommodation. In regard to my own love affairs, I, throughout all these long years which I have specified, might well have adopted, as the motto of both mind and heart, these lines ' Oh, poortith cauld and restless love, Ye wreck my peace between ye.' I had, as has already been hinted, a rival, who, if not so devotedly attached as I, never- theless was by far too much so for any one who is destined to love without encourage- ment. He was as rich in proportion as I was poor. The gifts of love, called the gifts of friendship, which he contrived to bestow were costly : mine, as fashioned forth by a higher hand than that of art, might be equally rich and beautiful in the main, yet wildflowers, though yellow as the gold, and though wrapped in rhymes, are light ware when weighed against the solid material. He, in personal appearance, manners, and generosity of heart, was one with whom it was impossible to be acquainted and not to esteem ; and another feature of this affair was, that we were friends, and almost constant companions for some years. When in the country I had to be with him as continually as possible ; and when I went to the city, it was his wont to follow me. Here, then, was a web strongly woven by the fingers of a wayward fate. Feel- ings were brought into daily exercise which might seem the least compatible with being brought into contact and maintained in harmony. And these things, which are strictly true, if set forth in the contrivances of romance might, or in all likelihood would, be pronounced unnatural or overstrained. The worth and truth of the heart to which these fond anxieties related left me no ground to fear for losing that regard which I valued as 'light and life' itself; but in another way there reached me a match- less misery, and which haunted me almost as constantly as my own shadow when the sun shone. Considering the dark uncertainty of my future prospects in life, that re- gard I felt it fearful almost beyond measure even to seek to retain, incurring the responsibility of marring the fortune of one whom nevertheless I could not bear the thought of another than myself having the bliss of rendering blessed. If selfishness be thus seen to exist even in love itself, I would fain hope that it is of an elevated and peculiar kind, and not that which grovels, dragging downwards, and therefore justly deserving of the name. I am the more anxious in regard to this on account of its being in my own case felt so deeply. It maintained its ground with more or less firmness at all times, and ultimately triumphed, in despite of all efforts made to the contrary over the suggestions of prudence and even the sterner reasonings of the sense of justice. In times of sadness and melancholy, which, like the preacher's days of darkness, were many, when hope scarcely lit the gloom of the heart on which it sat though the band of love was about its brow, I busied myself in endeavouring to form resolutions to resign my pretensions to the warmer regard of her who was the object of all this serious solicitude ; but neither she herself, nor time and place seemed, so far as I could see, disposed in the least to aid me in these efforts of self-control and denial ; and, indeed, even at best, I much suspect that the resolutions of lovers in HENR Y SCO TT RID DELL. 383 such cases are only like the little dams which the rivulet forms in itself by the frail material of stray grass-piles, and wild-rose leaves, easily overturned by the next slight impulse that the wave receives. In a ballad called ' Lanazine,' written somewhat in the old irregular style, sentiments relating to this matter, a little and only a little disguised, are set forth. The following is a portion of these records, written from time to time for the sake of preserving to the memory what might once be deeply interesting to the heart : * * * * ' who may love with warm true heart, And then from love refrain ? Who says 'tis fit we now should part, And never meet agaiii ? * * * * ' He had nor gold nor land, and trow'd Himself unworthy all, And sternly in his soul had vow'd His fond love to recall. ' For her he loved he would not wrong, Since fate would ne'er agree, And went to part with a sore, sore heart, In the bower of the greenwood tree. ' The dews were deep, and the leaves were green, And the eve was soft and still ; But strife may reach the vale, I ween, Though no blasts be on the hill. 1 The leaves were green, and the dews were deep, And the foot was light upon The grass and flowers round the bower asleep ; But parting there could be none. ' He spoke the word with a struggle hard, And the fair one forward sprung, Nor ever wist, till like one too blest, Her arms were round him flung. ' For the fair one whom he'd woo'd before, While the chill night breezes sighed, Could wot not why she loved him more Than e'er she thus was tried. ' A red not weak came o'er her cheek, And she turn'd away anon ; But since nor he nor she could speak, Still parting there could be none. * * ' She cool'd his brow with the heart's own drop, While the brain seem'd burning there, And her whisper reaeh'd the realm of hope Through the darkness of despair. ' She bade his soul be still and free, In the light of love to live, And soothed it with the sympathy Which a woman's heart can give. * And it seem'd more than all before E'er given to mortal man, The radiance came, and with it bore The angel of the dawn. 384 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ' And if Fortune's frown would o'er him come down, Less marvel it may be, Since he woo'd all while to make his own A lovelier far than she." "Notwithstanding the ever-living solicitude and sad suffering constituting the ksen and trying experience of many years, as arising in consequence of this attach- ment and untoward circumstances, it has brought more than a sufficient compensation ; and were it possible, and the choice given, I would assuredly follow the same course, and suffer it all over again, rather than be without ' that treasure of departed sorrow' that is even now at my right hand as I write these lines. " 'The Christian Politician' was published during the time of my indisposition. This work I had written at leisure hours, with the hope of its being beneficial to the people placed under my care, by giving them a general and connected view of the principles and philosophical bearing of the Christian religion. In exhorting them privately, I discovered that many of them understood that religion better in itself than they appeared to comprehend the manner in which it stood in connection with the sur- rounding circumstances of this life. In other words, they were acquainted with doctrines and principles whose application and use, whether in regard to thought, or feeling, or daily practice, they did not so clearly recognise. To remedy this state of things, I wrote ' The Christian Politician' in a style as simple as the subjects treated of in it would well admit of, giving it a conversational cast, instead of systematic arrangement, that it might be the less forbidding to those for whom it was principally intended. Being published, however, at the time when, through my indisposition, I could take no interest in it, it was sent forth in a somewhat more costly shape than rightly suited the original design ; and although extensively introduced and well received, it was in society of a higher order than that which it was its object chiefly to benefit. " My latest publication is a volume of ' Poems and Songs,'* published at Edin- burgh. ' The Cottagers of Glendale,' the ' Lay of Life,' and some others of the compositions in this volume, were written during the period of my convalescence ; the songs are, for the greater part, the production of ' the days of other years.' Many of the latter had been already sung in every district of the kingdom, but had been much corrupted in the course of oral transmission. These wanderers of the hill harp are now secured in a permanent form." To this autobiographical sketch it remains to be added, that Mr Riddell is pos- sessed of nearly all the qualities of a great master of the Scottish lyre. He lias viewed the national character where it is to be seen in its most unsophisticated aspects, and in circumstances the most favourable to its development. He has lived, too, among scenes the best calculated to foster the poetic temperament. " He has got," wrote Professor "\Vi!snii, " a poet's education : he has lived the greater part of his days amidst pastoral scenes, and tended sheep among the green and beautiful solitudes of nature." Sufficiently imaginative, he does not, like his minstrel predecessor the Ettrick Shepherd, soar into the regions of the supernatural, or roam among the scenes of the viewless world. He sings of the mountain wilds and picturesque valleys of Caledonia, and of the simple joys and habits of rural or pastoral life. His style is essentially lyrical, and his songs are altogether true to nature. Several of his Bongs, Mich as " Scotland Yet," " The Wild Glen sae Green," " The Land of Gallant limits/' and " The Crook and Plaid," will find admirers while Scottish lyric poetry is read or sung. * " Poems, Songs, and Miscellaneous Pieces." Edinburgh, 1847, lamo. HENRY SCOTT RID DELL. 385 THE WILD GLEN SAE GEEEX. AIR " Roslin Castle." WHEN my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest, And the gloamin" spreads its mantle grey o'er the world's dewy breast, I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen, And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. I'll meet her by the trysting-tree that's stannin* a' alane, Where I ha'e carved her name upon yon little moss grey stane, There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green. Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share The pure, pure kiss o' tender lore that owns nae earthly care, And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene, While I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green. My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale ; The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale Our simple tale o' tender love that tauld sae oft has been To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green. It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day, To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay ; But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o' e'en, Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green. ! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss, If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this ; An I could spurn a' earthly wealth a palace and a queen, For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green ! SCOTIA'S THISTLE. SCOTIA'S thistle guards the grave, Where repose her dauntless brave ; Never yet the foot of slave Has trod the wilds of Scotia. Free from tyrant's dark control Free as waves of ocean roll Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul, Still roam the sons of Scotia. Scotia's hills of hoary hue, Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue, Watering with its dearest dew The heathy locks of Scotia. Down each green-wood skirted vale, Guardian spirits, lingering, hail Many a minstrel's melting tale, As told of ancient Scotia. When the shades of eve invest Nature's dew-bespangled breast, How supremely man is blest In the glens of Scotia ! There no dark alarms convey Aught to chase life's charms away ; There they live, and live for aye, Eound the homes of Scotia. Wake, my hill harp ! wildly wake ! Sound by lee and lonely lake, Never shall this heart forsake The bonnie wilds of Scotia, Others o'er the ocean's foam Far to other lands may roam, But for ever be my home Beneath the sky of Scotia ! THE LAND OF GALLANT HEAETS. OURS is the land of gallant hearts, The land of lovely forms, The island of the mountain-harp, The torrents and the storms ; The land that blooms with freeman's tread, And withers with the slave's, Where far and deep the green woods spread, And wild the thistle waves. Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice Had told of Fingal's fame, Ere ever from their native clime The Eoman eagles came Our land had given heroes birth, That durst the boldest brave, And taught, above tyrannic dust, The thistle tufts to wave. What need we say how Wallace fought, And how his foernen fell ? Or how on glorious Bannockburn The work went wild and well? Ours is the land of gallant hearts, The land of honour'd graves, Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart While yet the thistle waves. 2 B 386 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MIXSTREL. THE YELLOW LOCKS 0' CHARLIE. THE gathering clans, 'mong Scotia's glens, Wi' martial steps are bounding, And loud and lang, the wilds amang, The war-pipe's strains are sounding; The sky and stream reflect the gleam Of broadswords glancing rarely, To guard till death the hills of heath Against the foes o' Charlie. Then let on high the banners fly, And hearts and hands rise prouder, And wake amain the warlike strain Still louder, and still louder ; For we ha'e sworn, ere dawn the morn O'er Appin's mountains early, Auld Scotland's crown shall nod aboon The yellow locks o' Charlie. While banners wave aboon the brave Our foemen vainly gather, And swear to claim, by deeds o' fame, Our hills and glens o' heather. For seas shall swell to wild and fell, And crown green Appin fairly, Ere hearts so steel'd to foemen yield The rights o' royal Charlie, Then wake mair loud the pibroch proud, And let the mountains hoary Re-echo round the warlike sound That speaks of Highland glory. For strains sublime, through future time, Shall tell the tale unsparely, How Scotland's crown was placed aboon The yellow locks o' Charlie. WE'LL MEET YET AGAIN. WE'LL meet yet again, my loved fair one, when o'er us The sky shall be bright, and the bowers shall be green, And the visions of life shall be lovely before us, As the sunshine of summer that sleeps o'er the scene. The woodlands are sad when the green leaves are fading, And SOITOW is deep when the dearest must part, But for each darker woe that our spirit is shading A joy yet more bright shall return to the heart. We'll meet yet again, when the pain, discon- certing The peace of our minds in a moment like this, Shall melt into nought, like the tears of our parting, Or live but in mem'ry to heighten our bliss. We have loved in the hours when a hope scarce coiild find us ; We 've loved when our hearts were the lightest of all, And the same tender tie that has bound, still shall bind us, When the dark chain of fate shall have ceased to enthral. We'll meet yet again, when the spirit of glad- ness Shall breathe o'er the valley, and brighten its flowers, And the lone hearts of those who have long been in sadness Shall gather delight from the transport of ours; Yes, thine are the charms, love, that never can perish, And thine is the star that my guide still shall be, Alluring the hope in this soul that shall cherish Its life's dearest treasures, to share them with thee. OUR AIN NATIVE LAXD. OUR ain native land ! our ain native land ! There's a charm in the words that we a' under- stand, That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell, And makes us love mair what we a' love so well. The heart may have feelings it canna conceal, As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal, But alike he the feelings and thought can com- mand Who names but the name o' our ain native land. Our ain native land ! our ain native land ! Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand, The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea, When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free. Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld, But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld As those that unite, and uniting expand, When they hear but the name o' our aiu native land? Our ain native land ! our ain native land! To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand, For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove Toname but the names thatwe honour and love. The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still, And the cairn of the warrior stands grey on the hill, And songster and sage can alike still command A garland of fame from our ain native land. HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 387 Our ain native land ! our ain native land ! Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand, And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen, The charms of her maids and the worth of her men. Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave, And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave, Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand, The freedom and faith of our ain native land. THE GRECIAN WAR SONG. Ox ! on to the fields, where of old The laurels of freedom were won ; Let us think, as the banners of Greece we un- fold, Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd, And the deeds by our forefathers done ! yet, if there's aught that is dear, Let bravery's arm be its shield ; Let love of our country give power to each spear, And beauty's pale cheek dry its long-gather 'd tear In the light of the weapons we wield. Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be The land the proud land of the famed and the free ! Eeav ! rear the proud trophies once more, Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown ; Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore, Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore, To the fields where our foemen lie strewn ! Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease Till the garlands of freedom shall wave In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of reace, wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece, And cool not the lip of a slave : Awake then to glory ! that Greece yet may be The land the proud land of the famed and the free. FLORA'S LAMEXT. MORE dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands, Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore; For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands 'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet me no more. Ah ! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast ; Thy Flora was firm 'mid the perils around thee, But where were the brave of the land that had own'd thee, That she only she should be true to the last? The step's in the bark on the dark heaving waters, That now should have been on the floor of a throne ; And, alas for auld Scotland, her sons and her daughters ! Thy wish was their welfare, thy cause was their own. But 'lorn may we sigh where the hill-winds awaken, And weep in the glen where the cataracts foam, And sleep where the dew-drops are deep on the bracken ; Thy foot lias the land of thy fathers forsaken, And more never more will it yield thee a home. Oh ! yet when afar, in the land of the stranger, If e'er on thy spirit remembrance may be Of her who was true in these moments of danger Reprove not the heart that still lives but for thee. The night-shrouded flower from the dawning shall borrow A ray, all the glow of its charms to renew, But Charlie, ah ! Charlie, no ray to thy Flora Cau dawn from thy coming to chase the dark sorrow Which death, in thine absence, alone can subdue. WHEN THE GLEN ALL IS STILL. AIR " Cold Frosty RIorning." WHEN* the glen all is still, save the stream of the fountain, When the shepherd has ceased o'er the dark heath to roam, And the wail of the plover awakes on the mountain, Inviting her mate to return to his home Oh ! meet me, Eliza, adown by the wild- wood, Where the wild daisies sleep 'niong the low- lying dew, And our bliss shall be sweet as the visions of childhood, And pure as the fair star, in heaven's deep blue. Thy locks shall be braided in drops of the gloaming, And fann'd by the far-travell'd breeze of the lawn ; The spirits of heaven shall know of thy comintr, And watch o'er our joy till the hour of the dawn. 388 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. No woes shall we know of dark fortune's decreeing, THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE. Of the past and the future my dreams may not be, I SAT in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary, For the light of thine eye seems the home of And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as my being, their shade, And my soul's fondest thoughts shall be For remembrance was fraught with the far- gather'd to thee. travell'd story, That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid : I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me, I heard not its anthems the mountains among ; SCOTLAND YET.* But the flow'rets that blooin'd on his grave were more lovely GAE, bring my guid auld harp ance mair, Gae, bring it free and fast, Than others would seem to that earth that belong. For I maun sing another sang Ere a' my glee be past ; "Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of And trow ye as I sing, my lads, The burden o't shall be, thy slumber Sleep on, gentle bard ! till the shades pass Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's away; knowes, For the lips of the living the ages shall number And Scotland's hills for me That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. decay : Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood, Beloved till the last of thy suffering was The heath waves wild upon her hills, And foaming frae the fells, seen, Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild- Her fountains sing o 1 freedom still, wood, As they dance down the dells ; And the worm only living where rapture And weel I lo'e the land, my lads, hath been. That's girded by the sea ; Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales, "Till the footsteps of time are their travel And Scotland's hills for me forsaking. I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come, To break the repose that thy ashes are taking, And call them to life from their chamber of The thistle wags upon the fields gloom : Where Wallace bore his blade, That gave her foemen's dearest bluid Yet sleep, gentle bard ! for, though silent for ever, To dye her auld grey plaid ; And looking to the lift, my lads, Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung ; No time from the meni'ry of mankind shall He sang this doughty glee sever Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, The tales that it told, and the strains that And Scotland's hills for me it sung." I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies, OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE. Where freedom's voice ne'er rang ; Gi'e me the hills where Ossian lies, AIR " Buccleuch Gathering." And Coila's minstrel sang ; For I 've nae skill o' lands, my lads, No sky shines so bright as the sky that is That ken na to be free ; Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might, And Scotland's hills for me I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet Wi' a' the honours three. O'er the land that gave biilh to the first breath we drew Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid That is dear to our heart to our heart ever true. * This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a separate form, and the profits, which With her yes, with her that this spirit has Ijlcss'd amounted to a considerable sum, given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh. 'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be ; HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL. 389 And the valley of flowers, and the heath- covered waste, Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me. Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart, Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe, And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart, Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow. Sly thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles, Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim, But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name. The anthems of music delightful may roll, Or eloquence flow as the wave of the sea, But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul Are the lass that we love, and the land that is free ! THE BOWER OF THE WILD. I FORMED a green bower by the rill o' yon glen, Afar from the din and the dwellings of men ; Where still I might linger in many a dream, And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream. From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam, Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home, I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled, And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild. But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away, And sought my lone grotto still day after day, And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn. Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care; And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild, She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild. The summer is past, and the maidens are gone, And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone. And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn, Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones re- turn. Oh ! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away, I sing in my sorrow still day after day. The scene seems a desert the charm is exiled, And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild ! THE CROOK AND PLAID. AIR " The Ploughman." I WIXXA love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh, Though he should own that tender love, that 's only felt by few ; For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd, Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid ; For he's aye true to his lassie he's aye true to his lassie, Who wears the crook and plaid. At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view, While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae "mang the dew ; His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd, Sae blythe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid ; And he's aye true, etc. At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell, And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell ; And there he sings the songs o' love, the sweetest ever made ; ! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid ; And he s aye true, etc. He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily- flowers sae meek, Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath- bell like my cheek ; His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed ; And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid ; For he's aye true, etc. When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloaming shades draw on, When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan, He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid ; For he's aye true, etc. Beneath the spreading hawthorn grey, that's growing in the glen, He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken, 390 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said, He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in Ids plaid ; For he's aye true, etc. The youth o'mony riches may to his fair one ride, And woo across the tahle cauld his madam- titled bride ; But I'll gang to the hawthorn grey, where cheek to cheek is laid, Oh ! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid ; And he's aye true, etc. To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply, Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky ? If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid ; And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid ; For lie's aye true, etc. THE MINSTREL'S BOWER. AIR "Bonny Mary Hay." OH, lassie ! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me, I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee; I '11 weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green, And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been. When the dew is on the flower, and the star- light on the lea, In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee ; I '11 wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell. Oh, lassie ! thou art fair as the morning's early beam, As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream ; There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine ee, But ah ! its looks impart iiae sweet tale o' love to me! Oh, lassie ! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove ; In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be, And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee. When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest, Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest ; For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be, Oh ! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see! WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING. When the star of the morning is set, And the heavens are beauteous and blue, And the bells of the heather are wet With the drops of the deep-lying dew ; 'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie, 'Twas blythesome and blissful to be, When these all my thoughts would employ ; But now I must think upon thee. When noontide displays all its powers, And the flocks to the valley return, To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers That bloom on the banks of the burn ; sweet, sweet it was to recline 'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree, And think on the charge that was mine ; But now I must think upon thee. When gloaming stole down from the rocks, With her fingers of shadowy light, And the dews of the eve in her locks, To spread down a couch for the night ; 'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray, That border the brook and the lea; But now, 'tis a wearisome way, Unless it were travell'd with thee. All lovely and pure as thou art, And generous of thought and of will, Oh, Mary ! speak thou to this heart, And bid its wild beating be still ; 1 'd give all the ewes in the fold I 'd give all the lambs on the lea, By night or by day to behold One look of true kindness from thee. THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM. THOUGH all fair was that bosom, heaving white, While hung this fond spirit o'er thee ; And though that eye, with beauty's light, Still bedimm'd every eye before thee ; Oh ! charms there were still more divine, When woke that melting voice of thine, The charms that caught this soul of mine, And taught it to adore thee. Then died the woes of the heart away With the thoughts of joy departed ; For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay, Wliile it told of the faithful-hearted. HENR Y SCO TT RID DELL. 391 Methought how sweet it were to be Far in some wild green glen with thee ; From all of life and of longing free, Save what pure love imparted. Oh ! I could stray where the drops of dew Xever fell on the desert round me, And dwell where the fair flowers never grew If the hymns of thy voice still found me. Thy smile itself could the soul invest With all that here makes mortals bless'd; "While every thought thy lips express'd In deeper love still bound me. More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale, Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore ; More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale, When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er. Oh ! tell me what light of the earth or the sky Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart? 'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart. More charming is this than the glory of art, More lovely than rays from yon heavens above ; It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart, Enchanting our souls with the magic of love. Oh ! tell me what drop is most melting and meek That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share ? 'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer ! More tender is this more celestial and fair Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn ; A balm that still softens the ranklings of care, And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne. WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE. WOULD that I were where wild woods wave Aboon the beds where sleep the brave ; And where the streams o' Scotia lave Her hills and glens o' grandeur ! Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells, Bright as the sun upon the fells, When autumn brings the heather-bells In all their native splendour. The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins, The birds mix wi' the mountain pines, And heart with dauntless heart combines For ever to defend her. Then would I were, etc. There roam the kind, and live the leal, By lofty ha' and lowly shiel ; And she for whom the heart must feel A kindness still mair tender. Fair, where the light-hill breezes blaw, The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw ; But she is fairer than them a', Wherever she may wander. Then would I were, etc. Still, far or near, by wild or wood, I '11 love the generous, wise, and good ; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render. What boots it then thus on to stir, And still from love's enjoyment err, When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender. Then would I were, etc. OUR MARY.* OTJR Mary liket weel to stray Where clear the burn was rowin', And troth she was though I say sae, As fair as ought ere made o' clay, r And piire as ony gowan. And happy, too, as ony lark The clud might ever carry ; She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good, E'en mair than weel was understood ; And a' fouk liket Mary. But she fell sick wi' some decay, When she was but eleven ; And as she pined frae day to day, We grudged to see her gaun away, Though she was gaun to Heaven. There 's fears for them that's far awa', And fykes for them are flitting ; But fears and cares, baith grit and sma', We, by and by, o'er-pit them a' ; But death there's nae o'er-pitting. OH ! TELL ME WHAT SOUND. AIR "Paddy's Resource." On ! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear The sound that can most o'er our being prevail ? 'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear, When chanting the songs of her own native vale. * This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cot- tagers of Glendale," Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem. 392 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. And nature's bands are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken ; And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be, Preserve it as a token. But Mary had a gentle heart Heaven did as gently free her ; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, Dear sir, it wad ha'e made ye start Had ye been there to see her. Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And growing meek and meeker, Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair, She wore a little angel's air, Ere angels cam' to seek her. And when she couldna stray out by, The wee wild-flowers to gather, She oft her household plays wad try, To hide her illness frae our eye, Lest she should grieve us farther. But ilka thing we said or did, Aye pleased the sweet wee creature ; Indeed ye wad ha'e thought she had A something in her made her glad Ayont the course o' nature. For though disease, beyont remeed, Was in her frame indented, Yet aye the mair as she grew ill, She grew and grew the lovelier still, And mair and mair contented. But death's cauld hour cam' on at last, As it to a' is comin' ; And may it be, whene'er it fa's, Nae waur to others than it was To Mary, sweet wee woman ! HUGH AINSLIE. HUGH AINSLIE was born on the 5th April 1792,* at Bargeny Mains, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. Receiving the rudiments of education from a private teacher in his father's house, he entered the parish school of Ballantrae in his tenth year, and afterwards became a pupil in the academy of Ayr. A period of bad health induced him to forego the regular prosecution of learning, and, having quitted the academy, he accepted employment as an assistant-gardener on the estate of Sir Hew Dalrymple Hamilton. At the age of sixteen he entered the writing chambers of a legal gentleman in Glasgow, but the confinement of the office proving uncongenial, he took a hasty departure, throwing himself on the protection of some relatives at Eoslin, near Edinburgh. His father's family soon after removed to Roslin, and through the kindly interest of Mr Thomas Thomson, Deputy-Clerk Register, he procured a clerk- ship in the General Register House, Edinburgh. For some months he acted as amanuensis to Professor Dugald Stewart, in transcribing his last work for the press. Having entered into the married state, and finding the salary of his office in the Register House unequal to the comfortable maintenance of his family, he resolved to emigrate to the United States, in the hope of bettering his circumstances. Arriving at New York in July 1822, he made purchase of a farm in that State, and there resided the three following years. He next made a trial of the Social System of Robert Owen, at New Harmony, but abandoned the project at the close of a year. In 1827 he entered into partnership with Messrs Price & Wood, brewers in Cincinnati, and set up a branch of the establishment at Louisville. Removing to New Albany, Indiana, he there built a large brewery for a joint-stock company, and in 1832 erected in that place similar premises on his own account. The former was ruined by the great Ohio flood of 1832, and the latter perished by fire in 1834. He has since fol- lowed the occupation of superintending the erection of mills and factories ; and has latterly fixed his abode in Jersey, a suburb of New York. Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820 revived the ardour * " 1792. Hugh, son lawful to George Ainslie, baker in Bargeny, was born April the 5th, and baptized the i6th." Dailly Register of Births. HUGH AINSLIE. 393 of his muse ; and shortly before his departure to America he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo volume, with the title, " Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second volume from his pen, entitled, " Scottish Songs, Bal- lads, and Poems," was in 1855 published at New York. THE HAMEv7ARD SAXG. EACH whirl of the -wheel, Each step brings me nearer The hame of my youth Every object grows dearer, Thae hills and thae huts, And thae trees on that green, Losh ! they glower in my face Like some kindly auld Men'. E'en the brutes they look social, As gif they would crack ; And the sang o' the birds Seems to welcome me back. Oh, dear to our hearts Is the hand that first fed us, And dear is the land And the cottage that bred us. And dear are the comrades With whom we once sported, And dearer the maiden Whose love we first courted. Joy's image may perish, E'en grief die away ; But the scenes of our youth Are recorded for aye. DOWIE IX THE HINT 0' HAIRST. IT'S dowie in the hint o' hairst, At the wa'-gang o' the swallow, When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld, And the wuds are hingin' yellow; But oh, it's dowier far to see The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi', The dead-set o' a shinin' ee That darkens the weary warld on thee. There was mickle love atween us twa Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder ; And the thing on yird was never made, That could ha'e gart us sunder. But the way of Heaven's aboon a' ken, And we maun bear what it likes to sen' It's comfort, though, to weary men, That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'. There's mony things that come and gae, Just kent, and just forgotten ; And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae, Gin anither year lie rotten. But the last look o' that lovely ee, And the dying grip she ga'e to me, They're settled like eternitie Oh, Mary ! that I were wi' thee. ON WF THE TARTAX. CAX you lo'e, my dear lassie, The hills wild and free ; Whar' the sang o 1 the shepherd Gars a' ring wi' glee? Or the steep rocky glens, Where the wild falcons bide? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride ! Can ye lo'e the knowes, lassie, That ne'er war in rigs ! Or the bonnie loune lee, Where the sweet robin bigs? Or the sang o' the lintie, Whan -wooin' his bride? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride ! Can ye lo'e the burn, lassie, That loups amang linns? Or the bonnie green howmes, Where it cannilie rins, Wi' a cantie bit housie, Sae snug by its side ? Then on wi' the tartan, And, fy, let us ride! THE ROVER 0' LOCHRYAX. THE Rover o' Lochryan, he's gane, Wi' his merry men sae brave ; Their hearts are o' the steel, an' a better keel Xe'er bowl'd owre the back o' a wave. It's no' when the loch lies dead in his trough When naething disturbs it ava ; But the rack and the ride o' the restless tide, Or the splash o' the grey sea-maw. It's no when the yawl an' the light skiffs crawl Owre the breast o' the siller sea ; That I look to the west for the bark I lo'e best, An' the rover that's dear to me ; But when that the clud lays its cheek to the find, An' the sea lays its shonther to the shore ; When the win' sings high, and the sea-whaups cry, As they rise frae the whitening roar. It 's then that I look to the thickening rook, An' watch by the midnight tide ; I ken the wind brings my rover hame, An' the sea that he glories to ride. Oh, merry he sits 'mang his jovial crevr, Wi' the helm heft in his hand, An' he sings aloud to his boys in blue, As his ee's upon Galloway's land : 394 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ' Unstent and slack each reef an' tack, Gae her sail, boys, while it may sit ; She has roar'd through a heavier sea afore, An' she'll roar through a heavier yet. When landsmen sleep, or wake an' creep, In the tempest's angry moan, We dash through the drift, and sing to the lift 0' the wave that heaves us on." THE LADS AN' THE LAND FAR AWA'. AIR "My a in Ji 'reside." WHEN I think on the lads an' the land I ha'e left, An' how love has been lifted, an* friendship been reft ; How the hinnie o' hope has been jumbled wi' ga', Then I sigh for the lads an' the land far awa'. When I think on the days o' delight we ha'e seen, When the flame o' the spirit would spark in the een ; Then I say, as in sorrow I think on ye a', "Where will I find hearts like the hearts far awa ? When I think on the nights we ha'e spent hand in hand, Wi' mirth for our sowther, and friendship our band, This world gets dark ; but ilk night has a daw', And I yet may rejoice in the land far awa' ! THE LAST LOOK 0' HAME. BARE was our burn brae, December's blast had blawn, The last flower was dead, An' the brown leaf had fa'n : It was dark in the deep glen, Hoary was our hill ; An' the win' frae the cauld north, Cam' heavy and chill : When I said fare-ye-weel, To my kith and my kin ; My barque it lay ahead, Ail' my cot -house ahin'; I had nought left to tine, I 'd a wide waiT to try ; But my heart it wadna lift, An' my ee it wadna dry. I look'd lang at the ha', Through the mist o' my tears, Where the kind lassie lived, I had run wi' for years ; E'en the glens where we sat, Wi' their broom-cover'd knowes, Took a baud on this heart That I ne'er can unloose. I ha'e wander'd sin' syne, By gay temples and towers, Where the ungather'd spice Scents the breeze in their bowers; Oh ! sic scenes I could leave Without pain or regret ; But the last look o' hame I ne'er can forget. MY BONNIE WEE BELL. MY bonnie wee Bell was a mitherless bairn, Her aunty was sour, an' her uncle was stern ; While her cousin was aft in a caukersonie mood; But that hinder'd na Bell growing bonnie and gude. When we ran to the schule, I was aye by her han', To wyse off the busses, or help owre a stran'; An' as aulder we grew, a' the neighbours could tell Hoo my liking grew wi' thee, my bonnie wee Bell. Thy cousin gangs dinkit, thy cousin gangs drest, In her silks and her satins, the brawest and best; But the gloss o' a cheek, the glint o' an ee, Are jewels frae heaven, nae tocher can gi'e. Some gowd, an' some siller, my auld gutcher left, An' in lurases an' mailins I'll soon be infeft; I've a vow in the heaven, I've an aith wi' thysel', 1 '11 make room in this world for thee, bonnie Bell. WILLIAM THOMSON. WILLIAM THOMSON was born in 1797, in the village of Kennoway, Fifesliire. He has constantly resided in Ms native place. After obtaining an ordinary education at the parish school, he engaged in business as a manufacturer. Relinquishing this occu- pation, he became a grocer and general merchant ; and since 1824 he has held the office of Postmaster. He composed verses at an early period. In 1828, some of his verses ap- WILLIAM BLAIR. 395 peared in the Paisley Advertiser, and the favour with which they were received induced him to offer some poetical compositions to the Fife Herald, a newspaper which had lately been established in the capital of his native county. Under the signature of Tluta, he has since been a regular contributor of verses to that journal. He has likewise con- tributed articles in prose and poetry to other newspapers and some of the periodicals. THE MAIDEN TO HER REAPING HOOK. THE soldier waves the shining sword, the shepherd boy his crook, The boatman plies the splashing oar, but well I love the hook. "When swift I haste at sunny morn, unto the spreading plain, And view before me, like a sea, the fields of golden grain, And listen to the cheerful sound of harvest's echoing horn, Or join the merry reaper band, that gather in the corn ; How sweet the friendly welcoming, how glad- some every look, Ere we begin, with busy hands, to wield the Reaping Hook. My Reaping Hook ! my Reaping Hook ! I love thee better far, Than glancing spear and temper'd sword, bright instruments of war ; As thee I grasp with willing hand, and feel a reaper's glee, When, waving in the rustling breeze, the ripen'd field I see ; Or listen to the harmless jest, the bandsman's cheerful song, The hearty laugh, the rustic mirth, while mingling 'mid the throng ; With joy I see the well-fiU'd sheaf, and mark each rising stook, As thee I ply with agile arm, my trusty Reaping Hook. They tell of glorious battle-fields, strew'd thick with heaps of slain ! Alas! the triumphs of the sword bring only grief and pain ; But thou, my shining Reaping Hook, the symbol art of peace, And fill'st a thousand families with smiles and happiness ; While conquering warrior's burning brand, amid his gory path, The emblem is of pain and woe, of man's de- structive wrath. Soon therefore may the spear give place unto the shepherd's orook, And the conqueror's flaming sword be turn'd into a Reaping Hook ! THE SHEPHERD OF GLEXSHEE. I WANDER over hill and dale ; I breathe the healthful mountain gale ; Far from the city's busy throng, I listen to the warbler's song ; I guide and tend my fleecy flocks, Among the muirs, around the rocks ; And wander unconfined and free, By bank and burn amid Glenshee. While roaming o'er the mountain's side, I mark the seasons onward glide ; See winter clothe the hills with snow, And make the rivers overflow ; Behold the sunshine and the showers, In spring renew the leafless bowers; And list the hum of busy bee, Among the blossoms in Glenshee. When summer shines on howm and height, And fills the bosom with delight ; When bloom adorns the sylvan dell, And purple heath flowers deck the fell ; At gloaming grey, amid the glade, I wander with my mountain maid ; And there is none like her I see, The fairest flower in all Glenshee ! I love to mark, begemm'd with dew, in shady dell, the vi'let blue ; I joy to view the crystal stream In morning's cloudless radiance gleam ; But dearer, sweeter, lovelier far Than op'ning rose, or shining star, Than all I know, than all I see, The blossom that adorns Glenshee ! WILLIAM BLAIR, WILLIAM BLAIR, author of the " Highland Maid," was born at Dunfermline in 1800. The son of respectable parents of the industrial class, he received an ordinary educa- tion at the burgh school. Apprenticed to the loom, he became known as a waiter of verses ; and having attracted the notice of an officer's lady, then resident in the 396 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. place, he was at her expense sent to the grammar school. He was recommended for educational employment in Dollar Academy ; but no suitable situation being vacant at the period of his application, he was led to despair of emanating from the humble condition of his birth. A settled melancholy was afterwards succeeded by symptoms of permanent imbecility. For a number of years Blair has been an inmate of the Duufermline poor-house. THE HIGHLAND MAID. AGAIN the laverock seeks the sky, And warbles, dimly seen ; And summer views, wi' sunny joy, Her gowany robe o' green. But ah ! the summer's blythe return, In flowery pride array'd, Nae mair can cheer this heart forlorn, Or charm the Highland Maid. My true love fell by Charlie's side, Wi' mony a clansman dear ; That fatal day oh, wae betide The cruel Southron's spear ! His bonnet blue is fallen now, And bluidy is the plaid, That aften on the mountain's brow, Has wrapt his Highland Maid. My father's shieling on the hill Is dowie now and sad ; The breezes whisper round me still, I Ve lost my Highland lad. Upon Culloden's fatal heath, He spake o' me, they said, And falter'd, wi' his dying breath, "Adieu, my Highland Maid!" The weary nicht for rest I seek, The langsome day I mourn ; The smile upon my wither 'd cheek Can never mair return. But soon beneath the sod I '11 lie, In yonder lonely glade ; And, haply, ilka passer by Will mourn the Highland Maid. THE NEAPOLITAN WAR SOXG.* TUNE "Brian the rave." YOUR foes are at hand, and the brand that they wield, Soon, soon will emblazon your plain ; But, ah! may the arm of the brave be your shield, And the song of the victor your strain. Remember the fetters and chains that are wove, And fated by slavery's decree, Are not like the fetters of union and love, That bind and encircle the free. Though rich be your fields, they will blight in their bloom, With the glow of the patriot's fires ; And the sun that now gladdens, shall sink into gloom, And grow dark when your freedom expires. Be yours, then, the triumph to brave ones that's meet, And your country, with laurels in store., Each weary and toil-worn warrior will greet When the tumult of battle is o'er. * First published in this work. ARCHIBALD MACKAY, ARCHIBALD MACKAY was born at Kilmarnock in 1801. Receiving an ordinary school education, he was apprenticed to a handloom weaver. Abandoning the loom, he subsequently acquired a knowledge of bookbinding, and has continued to pro- secute that trade. From his youth devoted to the Muse, he produced in 1828 a metrical tale, entitled, " Drouthy Tarn," which, passing through numerous editions, brought a local reputation .to the writer. In 1830 he published a small volume of poems, and in 1832 a little work in prose and verse, entitled, " Recreations of Leisure Hours." In 1848 appeared his "History of Kilmarnock," which was afterwards reprinted in an enlarged form. A collection of his best songs was published in 1855 under the title of " Ingleside Lilts." Mackay has contributed extensively to the local journals, and has established a circulating library for the use of his fellow-townsmen. ARCHIBALD MAC KAY. 397 OUR AULD SCOTS SANGS. AIR " Traveller's Return." OH, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, The mournfu' and the gay ; They charm'd me by a mither's knee, In bairnhood's happy day : And even yet, though owre my pow The snaws of age are flung, The bluid loups joyfu' in my veins Whene'er I hear them sung. They bring the fond smile to the cheek, Or tear-drap to the ee ; They bring to mind auld cronies kind, Wha sung them aft wi' glee. "We seem again to hear the voice Of mony a lang-lost frien' ; "We seem again to grip the hand That lang in dust has been. And, oh, how true our auld Scots sangs When nature they portray ! We think we hear the wee bit burn Gaun bickering doun the brae ; We see the spot, though far awa', Where first life's breath we drew, And a' the gowden scenes of youth Seem rising to the view. And dear I lo'e the wild war strains Our langsyne minstrels sung They rouse wi' patriotic fires The hearts of auld and young ; And even the dowie dirge that wails Some brave but ruin'd band, Inspires us wi' a warmer love For hame and fatherland. Yes, leese me on our auld Scots sangs The sangs of love and glee, The sangs that tell of glorious deeds That made auld Scotland free. What though they sprung frae simple bards, Wha kent nae rules of art ? They ever, ever yield a charm That lingers round the heart. MY LADDIE LIES LOW. ALAS ! how true the boding voice That whisper'd aft to me, " Thy bonnie lad will ne'er return To Scotland or to thee ! " Oh ! true it spoke, though hope the while Shed forth its brightest beam ; For low in death my laddie lies By Alma's bloody stream. I heard the village bells proclaim That glorious deeds were done ; I heard wi' joy the gladsome shout, " The field, the field is won !" And I thought my lad, wi' glory crown 'd, Might come to me again ; But vain the thought ! cold, cold he lies On Alma's gory plain. Oh ! woe to him whose thirst for power Has roll'd the bolts of war, And made my laddie bleed and die Frae hame and friends afar. Alas ! his form I ne'er shall see, Except in fancy's dream ; For low he lies, where brave he fought, By Alma's bloody stream. JOUK AXD LET THE JAW GAE BY. AIR "Jackie's Grey Breeks." OH ! say not life is ever drear, For midst its scenes of toil and care There's aye some joy the heart to cheer There's aye some spot that's green and fair. To gain that spot the aim be ours, For nocht we'll get unless we try ; And when misfortune round us lours, We'll jouk and let the jaw gae by. The wee bit flow'ret in the glen Maun bend beneath the surly blast ; The birdie seeks some leafy den, And shelters till the storm is past : The " owrie sheep," when winds blaw snell, To some lowne spot for refuge hie ; And sae, frae ills we canna quell, We'll jouk and let the jaw gae by. Yet there are ills we a' should brave The ills that man on man would throw ; For oh! he's but a thowless slave, That patient bears Oppression's woe. But if 'tis but the taunts of pride, Of envy's tongue that would annoy, 'Tis nobler far to turn aside, And jouk and let the jaw gae by. In worldly gear we may be bare, We may ha'e mony a dreary hour ; But never, never nurse despair, For ilka ane maun taste the sour : Even kings themsels, wi' a' their power, Wi' a' their pomp and honours high, 'Neath adverse blasts are forced to cower, And jouk to let the jaw gae by. But mark this truth the ills that blight Are aft the fruits that folly brings ; Then shun the wrong, pursue the right Frae this the truest pleasure springs ; And fret not though dark clouds should spread At times across life's troubled sky ; Sweet sunshine will the gloom succeed Sae jouk and let the jaw gae by. 398 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. VICTORIOUS BE AGAIN, BOYS. HURRAH ! hurrah ! we 've glory won, And brighter blazes freedom's sun ; But daring deeds must yet be done To curb Oppression's reign, boys. Like wintry clouds in masses roll'd, Our foes are thickening on the wold ; Then up ! then up ! be firm be bold Victorious be again, boys. The hearts the blessings of the brave Of those who scorn the name of slave, Are with you on the ocean's wave, And on the battle-plain, boys : Then rouse ye, rouse ye, every one And gird your brightest armour on ; Complete the work so well begun Victorious be again, boys ! Though red with gore your path may be, It leads to glorious liberty ; Remember, God is with the free, The brave He will sustain, boys : The tyrant fears the coming fight, He fears the power of Truth and Right ; Then up ! then up ! in all your might Victorious be again, boys. CHARLES MARSHALL, THE Rev. CHARLES MARSHALL is a native of Paisley. In early life he engaged in mer- cantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of John Watson's Institution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. During that time the directors of the institu- tion expressed their approbation of his services by increasing his official emoluments ; they also afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the Esta- blished Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he adhered to the Free Church. He laboured many years as minister of the Free North Church, Dunfermline ; but having retired from ministerial duty, he is now resident in Edinburgh. To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial classes, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the title, " Lays and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly passed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, entitled " Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part. His latest publication, entitled " The Watchman's Round," appeared in 1867 ; it contains, like his former works, terse and homely counsel adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish peasantry. THE JEWEL OF A LAD. AIR " Fye, gae nth her ower -wC strut.*' As sunshine to the flowers in May, As wild flowers to the hinny bee, As fragrant scent o' new mown hay, So my true love is sweet to me. As costly jewels to the bride, As beauty to the bridegroom's ee To sailors, as fair wind and tide, So my true love is dear to me. As rain-draps to the thirsty earth, As waters to the willow-tree, As mother's joy at baby's birth, So my true love is dear to me. Though owning neither wealth nor Ian', He 's ane o' Heaven's pedigree ; His love to God, his love to man, His goodness makes him dear to me. WILLIAM WILSON. 399 The lass that weds a warly fool May laugh, and sing, and dance a wee ; But earthly love soon waxes cool, And foolish fancies turn ajee. My laddie's heart is fu' o' grace, His loving ee blinks bonnily, A heavenly licht illumes his face ; Nae wonder though he's dear to me. TWILIGHT JOYS. MUSIXG, we sat in our garden bower, In the balmy month of June, Enjoying the pensive gloamin' hour When our daily task was done. We spake of the friends of our early days, Some living, some dead and gane, And fancy skimm'd o'er the flow'ry braes Of our morning life again. A bless'd, a lightsome hour was that, And joyful were we to see The sunny face of ilk bonnie brat, So full of frolicsome glee. They ran, they row'd, they warsl'd, they fell, Whiles whirl'd in a fairy ring Our hearts ran o'er like a gushing well, And we bless'd each happy thing. In our wee dwelling the lamp of lore, Trimm'd daily by faith and prayer, Flings light on earth, on heaven above, Sheds glory everywhere. This golden lamp shines clear and bright, When the world looks dark and doure, It brightens our morning, noon, and night, And gladdens our gloamiu' hour. WILLIAM WILSON, WILLIAM WILSON was born on the 25th December 1801, in the village of Crieff, Perthshire. His parents being of the industrial class and in indigent circumstances, he was early devoted to a life of manual labour. While employed in a factory at Dundee, some of his poetical compositions were brought under the notice of Mrs Grant of Laggan, who interested herself in his behalf, and enabled him to begin business as a coal merchant. He married early in life, and continued after marriage to write as ardent poetry about his wife as he had done before marriage. On her death, he married a lady of respectable connections in the county of Eoxburgh. In December 1833, he emigrated to America, and has since been in business as a pub- Jisher at Poughkeepsie, in the state of New York. He has repeatedly delivered lectures to scientific institutions, and is well known to the higher class of literary men in America. Many of his earlier poems were contributed to the Edinburgh Literary Journal; and he has published several of his own and other songs, with music composed by himself. BLESSING ON HER STAELIKE EEN. BLESSING on her starlike een, Wi' their glance o' love divine ; And blessing on the red, red lip, Was press' d yestreen to mine ! Her braided locks that waved sae light, As she danced through the lofty fin", Were like the cluds on the brow o' night, Or the wing o' the hoodie craw. mony a jimp an' gentle dame, In jewell'd pomp was there ; But she was first among them a', In peerless beauty rare ! Her bosom is a holy shrine, Unstain'd by mortal sin, An' spotless as the suaw-white foam, On the breast o' the siller linn. Hervoice ha'e ye heard the goudspink's note, By bowery glen or brake ? Or listen'd ye e'er to the mermaid's lay, By sea or mountain lake ? Ha'e ye dreamt ye heard, i' the bowers o' heaven, The angels' melodie? Or fancied ye listen'd the sango' the spheres As they swung on their path on hie ? 400 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Far sweeter to me was her lay o' love, At the gloamin' hour yestreen ; An', oh ! were I king o' the warld wide, I would mak' that maiden my queen. OH! BLESSING ON THEE, LAND. OH ! blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song ; For Freedom found a dwelling-place Thy mountain cliffs among ! And still she loves to roam Among thy heath-clad hills ; And blend her wild-wood harp's sweet strain With the voice of mountain rills. Her song is on the gale, Her step upon the wold ; And morning diamonds brightly gem Her braided locks of gold. Far up the pine-wood glen, Her sylph-like form is seen, By hunter in the hazy dawn, Or wandering bard at e'en. My own dear native home, The birthplace of the brave, O never may thy soil be trod By tyrant or by slave ! Then, blessing on thee, land Of love and minstrel song ; For Freedom found a dwelling-place, Thy mountain cliffs among ! ATJLD JOHNNY GRAHAM. DEAH Aunty, what think ye o' auld Johnny Graham ? The carle sae pawkie an' slee ! He wants a bit wifie to tend his bein hame, An' the body has ettled at me. Wi' bonnet sae vaunty, an owerlay sae clean, An* ribbon that waved 'boon his bree, He cam' doun the cleugh at the gloamin' yestreen, An' rappit, an' soon speert for me. I bade him come ben whare my minny sae thrang Was birlin' her wheel eidentlie, An', foul fa' the carle, he was na' that lang, Ere he tauld out his errand to me. " Hech, Tibby, lass! a' yon braid acres o' land, Wi' ripe craps that wave bonnilie, An' meikle mair gear shall be at yer command, Gin' ye will look kindly on me. ' ' Yon herd o' fat owsen that rout i' the glen, Sax naigies that nibble the lea ; The kye i' the sheugh, and the sheep i' the pen, I'se gi'e a', dear Tibby, to thee. "An', lassie, I've goupins o' gowd in a stocking An' pearlin's wad dazzle yer ee. ; Amettl'd, but canny young yaud, for the yokin', When ye wad gae jauntiu' wi' ine. "I'll hap ye, and fend ye, and busk ye, and tend ye, An' mak' ye the licht o' my ee ; I'll comfort and cheer ye, and daut ye and dear ye, As couthy as couthy can be. "I've lo'ed ye, dear lassie, since first a bit bairn, Ye ran up the knowe to meet me ; An' deckit my bonnet wi' blue bells an' fern, Wi' meikle glad laughin' an' glee. " An' noo woman grown, an' mensefu', an' fair, An* gracefu' as gracefu' can be Will ye tak' an auld carle wha ne'er had a care For woman, dear Tibby, but thee?" Sae, Aunty, ye see I'm a' in a swither, What answer the bodie to gi'e But aften I wish he wad tak' my auld mither, And let puir young Tibby abee. JEAN LINN. OH, hand na' yer noddle sae hie, ma doo ! Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie ! The days that ha'e been, may be yet again seen, Sae look na' sae lightly on me, ma doo ! Sae look na' sae lightly on me ! Oh, geek na' at hame hodden grey, Jean Linn, Oh, geek na' at hame hodden grey ! Yer gutcher an' mine wad thocht themsels fine, In cleedin* sae bein, bonnie May, bouuie May In cleedin' sae bein, bonnie May. Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Jean Linn, Ye mind when we won in Whinglen, Your daddy, douce carle, was cotter to mine, An' our herd was yer bonuie sel', then, Je&n Linn, An' our herd was yer bonnie sel', then. Oh, then ye were a' thing to me, Jean Linn! Oh, then ye were a' thing to me ! An' the moments scour'd by, like birds through the sky, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn, When tentin' the owsen wi' thee. I twined ye a bower by the burn, Jean Linn, I twined ye a bower by the burn, But dreamt na' that hour, as we sat in that bower, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn, Jean Linn, That fortune wad tak' sic a turn. JOHN RAMS A Y. 401 Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn ! Ye busk noo in satins fu' braw ! Yer daddy 's a laird, mine 's i' the kirkyard, An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn, An' I 'm yer puir ploughman, Jock Law. BONNIE MARY. WHEN the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, I '11 meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down ; I '11 row my apron up, an' I '11 leave the reeky town, And meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down. By the burnie there's a bower, we will gently lean us there, An' forget in ither's arms every earthly care, For the chiefest o' my joys, in this weary mortal roun', Is the burruside wi' Mary when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, etc. There the ruin'd castle tower on the distant steep appears, Like a hoary auld warrior faded with years ; An' the. burnie stealing by wi' a fairy silver soun', Will soothe us wi' its music when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, etc. The burnside is sweet when the dew is on the flower, But 'tis like a little heaven at the trystin' hour ; And with pity I would look on the king who wears the crown, When wi' thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down. When the sun gaes down, etc. When the sun gaes down, when the sun gaes down, I '11 meet thee by the burnie, when the sun gaes down ; Come in thy petticoatie, and thy little drugget gown, And I'll meet thee, bonnie Mary, when the sun gaes down. JOHN RAMSAY, THE author of " "Woodnotes of a Wanderer," John Ramsay, was born at Kilmarnock in 1802. With a limited school education, lie was early apprenticed in a carpet manufactory in his native place. He afterwards traded for some years as a retail grocer. During his connection with the carpet factory, lie composed some spirited verses, which, were inserted in the Edinburgh Literary Journal; and having sub- sequently suffered misfortune in business, he resolved to repair his losses by publish- ing a collected edition of his poetical writings, and personally pushing the sale. For the long period of fifteen years, he travelled over the country, vending his volume of " Woodnotes." From 1851 to 1866 he held a respectable appointment in Edinburgh. He has been some time esident in London. FAREWELL TO CRAWFURDLAND. THOTJ dark stream slow wending thy deep rocky way, Ye grey towers that rise o'er the daffodil brae, 1 've viewed you with pleasure, but now must with pain Farewell! for I never may see you again. Ye woods where in life's gladsome morning I stray 'd, When all was in sunshine and beauty arrayed ; That dream has departed, how fleeting and vain Farewell ! for I never may see you again. O'er moss, and o'er moorland, my path soon shall be, The cloud-cover'd mountain, and wide stormy sea, Your beauties will gladden some happier swain Farewell ! for I never may see you again. JEANIE 0' THE FIEL'. AIR " Willie -was a wanton wag" SAE lightly fa's my lassie's fit, That silence owns the sound as kin, While music says it's a' her ain, And fain they baith the prize would win. 2 c 402 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. She's pure as pearly draps that fa', Frae een o' joy for ithers weel, Or harebell on yon castle wa', My winsome Jeanie o' the Fiel*. The guileless look, the witching smile, The gracefu' air unkent to art In Jeanie meet, unconscious she 0' a' her power to win the heart. Wi' smiles upon her sordid band Let fortune set her gowden seal ; Gi'e me the heart, gi'e me the hand bonny Jeanie o' the Fiel'. JAMES PARKER. JAMES PARKER, author of a duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled " Poems of Past Years," was born in Glasgow, and originally followed the trade of a master baker. He now holds a respectable appointment in the navy. He has contributed verses to the periodicals. THE MARINER'S SONG. OH merrily and gallantly We sweep across the seas, Like the wild ocean birds which ply Their pinions on the breeze ; We quail not at the tempest's voice When the billow dashes o'er us, Firm as a rock we bear the shock, And join its dreadful chorus. Across the foaming surge we glide With bosoms true and brave, It is our home our throne of pride It soon may be our grave ; Yet fearlessly we rush to meet The foe that comes before us ; The fight begun, we man the gun, And join its thundering chorus. Our lives may be as fierce and free As the waves o'er which we roam, But let not landsmen think that we Forget our native home ; And when the wind shall waft xts back To the shores from which they bore us, Amid the throng of mirth and song We'll join the jovial chorus. HER LIP IS 0' THE ROSE'S HUE. HER lip is o' the rose's hue. Like links o' gowd her hair, Her ee is o' the azure blue, An' love beams ever there ; Her step is like the mountain goat's That climbs the stately Ben, Her voice sweet as the mavis' notes That haunt her native glen. There is a sweet wee hazel bower Where woodbine blossoms twine, There Jeanie, ae auspicious hour, Consented to be mine ; An' there we meet whene'er we ha'e An idle hour to spen', An' Jeanie ne'er has rued the day She met me in the glen. Oh bricht, bricht are the evenin' beams. An' sweet the pearly dew, An' lovely is the star that gleams In gloamin's dusky brow ; But brichter, sweeter, lovelier far, Aboon a' human ken, Is my sweet pearl my lovely star My Jeanie o' the glen. ROBERT CHAMBERS, LLD. ROBERT CHAMBERS, well known for his connection with the publishing house of W. & R. Chambers, Edinburgh, and as the author of several meritorious works of a national character, was born on the 10th July 1802 at Peebles,* where his parents occupied a respectable position. Robert was the second of a family of six children, his elder brother William being about two years his senior. In consequence of misfortunes in business, James Chambers, the father of these youths, found it desirable to remove to Edinburgh with his family in 1813. While still in child- " Robert Chambers, son of Mr James Chambers, and Jean Gibson, his spouse, was born the icth and baptized the 3oth July 1802, by William Dalgleish, D.D. , minister of Peebles." Peebles Register of Birtlis and Baptisms. ROBERT CHAMBERS, LL.D. 403 hood Robert manifested a remarkable aptitude for learning, as well as a taste for music and poetry a taste inherited from his father, who was a good performer on several instruments, and possessed a taste for both literature and science. Before completing his twelfth year he had passed through a complete classical course at the grammar school of his native burgh, had perused no small portion of the books within his reach, including those of a circulating library, and mas- tered much of the general information contained in a copy of the " Encyclopaedia Britannica," of which his father possessed a copy of the then latest edition. Left very much to their own resources, "William became an apprentice to a bookseller in 1814 ; and Robert, at the age of sixteen, threw himself on the world, as a dealer in old books, a step in accordance with his natural tastes, and which proved fortunate. How the two lads struggled on obscurely, but always improving their circumstances ; how they were cheered onward by the counsels of their widowed mother ; how they finally went into partnership for the purpose of prosecuting literary undertakings need not here be detailed. Robert, in 1822-23, began to write the " Traditions of Edinburgh," which first brought him prominently into notice. This amusing work was followed by the " Popular Rhymes of Scotland." Next came his " Picture of Scotland," an interesting topographical work in two volumes ; " Histories of the Scottish Rebellions;" three volumes of "Scottish Ballads and Songs;" and "Bio- graphy of Distinguished Scotsmen," in four volumes. Besides various popular works, he produced, for private circulation, a volume of poetical pieces, distinguished for their fine taste and feeling. William having started Chambers's Edinburgh Journal in. February 1832, Robert became an efficient coadjutor, and mainly helped to give the work its extensive popularity. In the more early volumes, in particular, there appear many admirable essays, humorous and pathetic, from his pen. Besides these professional avocations, Mr Robert Chambers took part for many years in the pro- ceedings of the scientific and other learned bodies in Edinburgh. He has published two works of a geological character, entitled, "Ancient Sea Margins of Scotland;" and " Tracings of Iceland," the result of a visit to that interesting island. Under a hope of being more useful to his copartnery, he removed to London in 1861, and there brought out one of the most laborious of his works, the " Book of Days," 2 vols. royal 8vo. But here, in 1863, his health broke down ; the loss of his wife, and of a beautiful and interesting daughter, all within a month, disposed him to retirement ; and he was led to take up his residence for the future in a pretty sea-side villa which he built at St Andrews. Here health has been partially restored, but not so as to enable him to grapple with any literary task. In January 1863, at the installation of Sir "William Stirling Maxwell as Lord Rector, the University of St Andrews con- ferred upon him the honorary degree of LL.D. It ought to have been mentioned before, that in 1851 Dr Chambers published an elaborate work, " The Life and "Works of Robert Burns," 4 vols., and gave the profits (a not inconsiderable sum), to the surviving sister and nieces of the poet. He also prepared, 1858-61, what is perhaps the most valuable of his writings, " The Domestic Annals of Scotland," 3 vols. 8vo. YOUXG EAXDAL. TUNE " There grows a bonny brier-bush." YOTNG RANDAL was a bonnie lad when he gaed 'Twas in the sixteen hundred year o* grace and awa', thritty-twa, Young Randal was a bonnie lad when he gaed That Randal, the laird's youngest son, gaed 404 THE MODERNS SCOTTISH MINSTREL. It was to seek his fortune in the High Germanic, To fecht the foreign loons in the High Germanie, That he left his father's tower o' sweet Willans- lee, And monie mae friends in the Xorth Countrie. He left his mother in her bower, his father in the ha', His brother at the outer yett, but and his sisters twa', And his bonnie cousin Jean, that look'd owre the castle wa', And, mair than a' the lave, loot the tears down fa', "Oh, whan will ye be back," sae kindly did she speir, "Oh, whan will ye be back, my hinny and my dear?" "Whenever I can win eneuch o" Spanish gear, To dress ye out in pearlins and silks, my dear. " Oh, Randal's hair was coal-black when he gaed a\va' Oh, Randal's cheeks were roses red when he gaed awa', And in his bonnie ee, a spark glintit high, Like the merrie, merrie look in the morning sky. Oh, Randal was an altert man whan he came hame A sair altert man was he whan he came hame ; Wi' a ribbon at his breast, and a Sir at his name And grey, grey cheeks did Randal come hame. He lichtit at the outer yett, and rispit with the ring, And down came a ladye to see him come in, And after the ladye came bairns feifteen : "Can this muckle wife be my true love Jean? " " "\Vhatna stonre carl is this," quo' the dame, "Sae gruff and sae grand, and sae feckless and sae lame?" "Oh, tell me, fair madam, are ye bonnie Jeanie Graham?" "In troth," quo' the ladye, "sweet sir, the very same," He turned him about wi' a. waefu' ee, And a heart as sair as sair could be ; He lap on his horse, and awa' did wildly flee, And never mair came back to sweet Willanslee. Oh, dule on the poortith o' this countrie, And dule on the wars o' the High Germanie, And dule on the love that forgetfu' can be, For they've wreck'd the bravest heart in this hale countrie. THE LADYE THAT I LOVE. I a doughty cavalier On fire for high-born dame, "With sword and lance I would not fear To win a warrior's fame. But since no more stern deeds of blood The gentle fair may move, I '11 woo in softer better mood The ladye that I love. For helmet bright with steel and gold, And plumes that flout the sky, I'll wear a soul of hardier mould, And thoughts that sweep as high. For scarf athwart my corslet cast, With her fair name y-wove ; 1 11 have her pictured in my breast, The ladye that I love. No crested steed through battle throng Shall bear me bravely on, But pride shall make my spirit strong, Where honours may be won. Amidst the great of mind and heart, My prowess I will prove, And thus I '11 win, by gentler art, The ladye that I love. THOU GEXTLE AND KIND OXE. THOTJ gentle and kind one, Who com'st o'er my dreams, Like the gales of the west, Or the music of streams ; Oh, softest and dearest, Can that time e'er be, When I could be forgetful Or scornful of thee ? Xo ! my soul might be dark, Like a landscape in shade, And for thee not the half Of its love be display 'd, But one ray of thy kindness Would banish my pain, And soon kiss every feature To brightness again. And if, in contending With men and the world, My eye might be fierce, Or my brow might be curl'd ; That brow on thy bosom All smooth 'd would recline, And that eye melt in kindness When turn'd upon thine. If faithful in sorrow, More faithful in joy Thou shouldst find that no change Could affection destroy ; All profit, all pleasure, As nothing would be, And each triumph despised Unpartaken by thee. THOMAS AIRD. 40o LAMENT FOR THE OLD HIGHLAND WABBIOBa OH, where are the pretty men of yore ! Oh, where are the brave men gone? Oh, where are the heroes of the north ? Each under his own grey stone. Oh, where now the broad bright claymore? Oh, where are the trews and plaid? Oh, where now the merry Highland heart ? In silence for ever laid. Och on a rie, och on a rie, Och on a rie, all are gone ; Och on a rie, the heroes of yore, Each under his own grey stone. The chiefs that were foremost of old, Macdonald and brave Lochiel, The Gordon, the Murray, and the Graham, With their clansmen true as steel ; Who follow 'd and fought with Montrose, Glencairn, and bold Dundee ; Who to Charlie gave their swords and their all, And would aye rather fa' than flee. Och on a rie, etc. The hills that our brave fathers trod Are now to the stranger a store ; The voice of the pipe and the bard Shall awaken never more. Such things it is sad to think on They come like the mist by day And I wish I had less in this world to leave, And be with them that are away. Och on a rie, etc. THOMAS AIRD, THOMAS AIRD, one of the most distinguished of the living Scottish poets, was born in the village of Bowden, Roxburghshire, in 1802. He received the rudiments of his education at Bowden and Melrose parish schools ; and went through a course of literary and philosophical study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1827 he pub- lished a little treatise, entitled " Religious Characteristics." After a residence of some years in Edinburgh, in the course of which he contributed occasionally to Blackwood's Magazine, and other periodicals, he was, in 1835, on the recommendation of his stead- fast friend Professor Wilson, appointed editor of the Dumfries Herald, a conservative journal newly started in Dumfries. In 1845 he published " The Old Bachelor in the Old Scottish Village," a collection of tales and sketches of Scottish scenery, character, and life. In 1848 he collected and published his poems. In 1852 he wrote a memoir of his friend, David Macbeth Moir (the well-known "Delta" of Blackwood's Magazine), and prefixed it to an edition of Moir's poems, which he edited for behoof of the poet's family. In 1856 a new edition of Mr Aird's poems appeared, with many fresh pieces, and the old carefully revised. For several years Mr Aird has retired from his editorial duties, but he still continues to reside at a pleasant suburb of Dumfries. THE SWALLOW. THE little comer's coming, the comer o'er the sea, The comer of the summer, all the sunny days to be ; How pleasant, through the pleasant sleep, thy early twitter heard Oh, swallow by the lattice ! glad days be thy reward ! Thine be sweet morning, with the bee that's out for honey-dew, And glowing be the noontide, for the grass- hopper and you ; And mellow shine, o'er days' decline, the sun to light thee home What can molest thy airy nest ? Sleep till the morrow come. The river blue, that lapses through the valley, hears thee sing, And murmurs much beneath the touch of thy light dipping wing ; The thunder-cloud, over us bow'd, in deeper gloom is seen, When quick relieved it glances to thy bosom's silvery sheen. The silent power that brings thee back, with leading-strings af love, To haunts where first the summer sun fell on thee from above, Shall bind thee more to come aye to the music of our leaves, For here thy young, where thou hast sprung, shall glad thee in our eaves. I 406 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ROBERT WHITE, ROBERT WHITE, an indefatigable antiquary, and pleasing poet, was born at Yetholm, in Roxburghshire. His youth and early manhood were spent at Otterburn in Redes- dale, where his father rented a farm. Possessed of an ardent love of reading, he early became familiar with the English poets, and himself tried metrical composition. "While a very young man he ranked among the poetical contributors to the Newcastle Magazine. In 1825 he accepted the situation of clerk to a respectable brassfounder in Newcastle. After a period of nearly forty years spent in the counting-room, he has been enabled to retire from business in affluent circumstances. Mr White has been an industrious writer. In 1829 he published " The Tyne- mouth Nun," an elegantly versified tale. His other poetical works consist in " The Wind, a Poem," 1853; "England, a Poem," 1856; and a collected edition of his poems, songs, and metrical tales, which was published at Kelso in 1867. Mr White has afforded evidence of diligent research and superior historical talent in his works on the battles of Otterburn, Flodden, and Neville's Cross. In 1858 he published, at Kelso, a new edition of the poetical works of Dr John Leyden ; and he has an- nounced a work on the Battle of Bannockburn. Mr White is an extensive traveller, the friend of men of genius, and a zealous collector of ancient and modern works illustrative of the national history. As a song- writer, his name is familiar to the readers of " Whistle Binkie," and " The Book of Scottish Song." MY NATIVE LAND. FAIR Scotland ! dear as life to me Are thy majestic hills, And sweet as purest melody The music of thy rills. The wildest cairn, the darkest dell, Within thy rocky strand, Possess o'er me a living spell Thou art my native land. Loved country, when I muse upon Thy dauntless men of old, Whose swords in battle foremost shone Thy Wallace brave and bold ; And Bruce who, for our liberty, Did England's sway withstand ; I glory I was born in thee, Mine own ennobled land ! Nor less thy martyrs I revere, Who spent their latest breath To seal the cause they held so dear, And conquer'd even in death. Their graves evince, o'er hill and plain, No bigot's stern command Shall mould the faith thy sons maintain, My dear devoted land. And thon hast ties around my heart, Attraction deeper still The gifted poet's sacred art, The minstrel's matchless skill. Yea ; every scene that Burns and Scott Have touch'd with magic hand, IB in my sight a hallow'd spot, Mine own distinguished land 1 Oh ! when I wander' d far from thee I saw thee in my dreams ; I inark'd thy forests waving free, I heard thy rushing streams. Thy mighty dead in life came forth, I knew the honour'd band ; We spoke of thee thy fame thy worth- My high exalted land! Now if the lonely home be mine In which my fathers dwelt, And I can worship at the shrine Where they in fervour knelt ; No glare of wealth, or honour high, Shall lure me from thy strand ; Oh, I would yield my parting sigh In thee, my native laud 1 A SHEPHERD'S LIFE. ELIZA fair, the mirth of May Resounds from glen and tree ; Yet thy mild voice, I need not say, Is dearer far to me. And while I thus a garland cull, To grace that brow of thine, My cup of pure delight is full A shepherd's life be mine ! Believe me, maid, the means of wealth, Howe'er profuse they be, Produce not pleasure that in health Is shared by you and me ! ROBERT WHITE. 407 'Tis when elate with thoughts of joy We find a heart like thine, That objects grateful glad the eye A shepherd's life be mine ! mark, Eliza, how the flowers Around us sweetly spring ; And list how in these woodland towers The birds with rapture sing ; Behold that vale whose streamlet clear Flows on in waving line ; Can Paradise more bright appear? A shepherd's life be mine ! Now, dearest, not the morning bright, That dawns o'er hill and lea, Nor eve, with all its golden light, Can charm me without thee. To feel the magic of thy smile To catch that glance of thine To talk to thee of love the while, A shepherd's life be mine ! HER I LOVE BEST. THOU morn full of beauty That chases the night, And wakens all Nature With gladness and light, When warbles the linnet Aloof from its nest, scatter thy fragrance Round her I love best ! Ye hills, dark and lofty, That near her ascend, If she in her pastime Across thee shall wend, Let every lone pathway In wild flowers be drest, To welcome the footsteps Of her I love best ! Thou sun, proudly sailing O'er depths of the sky, Dispensing beneath thee Profusion and joy, Until in thy splendour Thou sink'st to the west, Oh, gaze not too boldly On her I love best ! Ye wild roving breezes, I charge you, forbear To wantonly tangle The braids of her hair ; Breathe not o'er her rudely, Nor sigh on her breast, Nor kiss you the sweet lip Of her I love best ! Thou evening, that gently Steals after the day, To robe with thy shadow The landscape in grey, fan with soft pinion My dearest to rest ! And calm be the slumber Of her I love best ! Ye angels of goodness, That shield us from ill, The purest of pleasures Awarding \is still, As near her you hover, Oh, hear my request ! Pour blessings unnumber'd On her I love best 1 THE rustling of the western gale Is music sweet to me ; It joyful comes o'er moor and dale, From off the distant sea, Whose waves in lines of snowy foam Salute the winding shore, Which circling bounds the peaceful home Of her whoir I adore. The slowly sinking radiant sun Is welcome to my sight, When lofty ridge and summit dun Are basking in his light ; I deem the while, ere he depart, He sheds his glory o'er The dark-eyed damsel of my heart, The maid whom I adore. I love to breathe at early day The balmy air of Spring, When dew-drops hang on every spray, And birds unnumber'd sing : The blossoms white, the foliage green, Expanding more and more, Recall to me my bosom-queen, The maid whom I adore. sweet is Summer's glorious smile, And Autumn's promise rare ! But what, o'er land, or sea, or isle, May with my love compare? So high in worth, surpassing far All nature's precious store, Is she my bright, my leading star, The maid whom I adore. ELLEN. OF wealth in profusion I seek not to share ; It brings but confusion, With trouble and care. One gem that is rarest I seek to obtain : bring me my dearest My Ellen again ! 403 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Her eyes are the brightest In lustre and hue ; Her step is the lightest That brushes the dew ; She smiles like the blossom Expanding in rain give to this bosom My Ellen again ! All objects in nature Attractive or fair Recall every feature Her form and her air ; But morning is lonely The evening how vain 1 bring to me only My Ellen again ! 1 loved her from childhood, And cannot forget, By streamlet and wildwood, The spots where we met. Ye powers bending o'er me, listen my strain In safety restore me My Ellen again ! THE BONNIE REDESDALE LASSIE. THE breath o' spring is gratefu', As mild it sweeps alang, Awakening bud an' blossom The broomy braes amang, And wafting notes o' gladness Frae ilka bower and tree ; Yet the bonnie Kedesdale lassie Is sweeter still to me. How bright is summer's beauty, When, smilin' far an' near, The wildest spots o' nature Their gayest livery wear ; And yellow cups an' daisies Are spread on ilka lea ; But the bonnie Redesdale lassie Mair charming is to me. Oh ! sweet is mellow autumn, When, wide o\vre a' the plain, Slow waves in rustlin' motion The heavy-headed grain ; Or in the sunshine glancin', And rowin' like the sea ; Yet the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is dearer far to me ! As heaven itsel', her bosom Is free o' fraud or guile ; What hope o' future pleasure Is centred in her smile ! I wadna lose for kingdoms The love-glance o' her ee ; Oh ! the bonnie Redesdale lassie Is life and a' to me 1 BONNIE COQUET-SIDE. MARY, look how sweetly spring Revives ilk opening flower : Here in this brake, where lintwhites sing, I ''11 form a simmer bower, Beneath whose shade, in sultry days, We '11 see the burnies glide, And sportive lambkins cluck the braes, On bonnie Coquet-side. At morn I'll mark how melting shine Thy een sae deeply blue ; Or, tempted thereby, press to mine Thy lips o' rosy hue. To breathe the halesome air, we'll rove Amang the hazels wide, And rest betimes, to speak o' love, By bonnie Coquet-side. The wild-rose pure, that scents the gale, Shall grace thy bosom fair : The violet dark, and cowslip pale, I '11 pu' to wreath thy hair. O'er shelving banks, or wimpling streams, Thy gracefu' steps I '11 guide To spots where nature loveliest seems On bonnie Coquet-side. And when we view ilk furzy dale Where hang the dews o' morn, Ilk winding, deep, romantic vale, Ilk snaw-white blossom'd thorn, Frae every charm, I '11 turn to thee, And think my winsome bride Mair sweet than aught that meets my ee By bonnie Coquet-side. WILLIAM CAMERON. WILLIAM CAMERON was born on the 3d December 1801, in the parish of Dunipace, Stirlingshire. His father was employed successively in woollen factories at Dumfries, Dalmellington, and Dunipace ; he subsequently became proprietor of woollen manu- factories at Slamannan, Stirlingshire, and at Blackburn and Torphichen, in the county of Linlithgow. While receiving an education with a view to the ministry, the death of his father in 1819 was attended with an alteration in his prospects, and he ALEXANDER TAIT. 409 was induced to accept the appointment of schoolmaster at the village of Armadale, near Bathgate. In 1836 he resigned thjs situation, and removed to Glasgow, where he has since engaged in merchandise. His songs, " Jessie o' the Dell " and " Meet me on the gowan lea," are deservedly popular. SWEET JESSIE 0' THE DELL. BRIGHT the beaming queen o' night Shines in yon flow'ry vale, And softly sheds her silver light O'er mountain, path, and dale. Short is the way, when light's the heart That's bound in love's soft spell ; Sae I'll awa' to Armadale, To Jessie o' the Dell, To Jessie o' the Dell, Sweet Jessie o' the Dell, The bonnie lass o' Armadale, Sweet Jessie o' the DelL We've pu'd the primrose on the braes Beside my Jessie's cot, We've gather'd nuts, we've gather'd slaes, In that sweet rural spot. The wee short hours danced merrily, Like lambkins on the fell ; As if they join'd in joy wi' me And Jessie o' the Dell. There's nane to me wi' her can vie, I '11 love her till I dee ; For she's sae sweet and bonnie aye, And kind as kind can be. This night in mutual kind embrace, Oh, wha our JO\ T S may tell; Then I '11 awa to Armadale, To Jessie o' the Dell. MEET ME ON THE GOWAN LEA. MEET me on the gowan lea, Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary ; Meet me on the gowan lea, My ain, my artless Mary. Before the sun sinks in the west, And nature a' ha'e gane to rest, There to my fond, my faithful breast, Oh, let me clasp my Mary. Meet me, etc. The gladsome lark o'er moor and fell, The lintie in the bosky dell, N ae blyther than your bonnie sel', My ain, my artless Mary. Meet me, etc. We '11 join our love notes to the breeze That sighs in whispers through the trees, And a' that twa fond hearts can please Will be our sang, dear Mary. Meet me, etc. There ye shall sing the sun to rest, While to my faithfu' bosom prest ; Then wha sae happy, wha sae blest, As me and my dear Mary. Meet me on the gowan lea, Bonnie Mary, sweetest Mary ; Meet me on the gowan lea, My ain, my art] ess Mary. ALEXANDER TAIT, ALEXANDER TAIT was born at Peebles, on the 18th December 1802.* Abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat, Pennicuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor. * Peebles Register of Births. E'EXIXG'S DEWY HOUR. AiR"Roslin Castle." WHEN rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene, And gloamin' spreads her mantle grey owre lake and mountain green ; When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflins seem to lower, How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour ! 410 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. "When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade, The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade ; "When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower, Be't mine to meet the lass I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour ! "When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray, And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight grey ; Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower, To meet the lass we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour ! The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky, The sun on rival beauties smiles wi* gladness in his eye ; But, oh ! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power, Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour ! JAMES BALLANTINE. JAMES BALLANTINE, an esteemed writer of Scottish songs, was born in 1808 at the West Port of Edinburgh. Of this locality, now considerably changed in its character, but still endeared to him by the associations of his boyhood, he has presented a graphic description in a poem, in which he records some of the cherished recollec- tions of the days when, amid its " howffs," and " laigh " half-doored shops, he " gat schulin' and sport." He lost his father, who was a brewer, when he was only ten years old, and, being the youngest of the family, which consisted of three daughters and himself, his early training devolved upon his mother, who contrived to obtain for her children the advantage of an ordinary education. James Ballantine must, however, be considered as a self-taught man. Beyond the training which he received in early life, he owes his present position to his own indefatigable exertions. By his father's death, the poet was necessitated, while yet a mere boy, to exert himself for his own support and the assistance of the family. He was, accordingly, apprenticed to a house-painter in the city, and very soon attained to considerable proficiency in his trade. On growing up to manhood he made strenuous exertions to obtain the educational advantages which were not within his reach at an earlier period of life, and about his twentieth year he attended the University of Edinburgh for the study of anatomy, with a view to his professional improvement. At a sub- sequent period he turned his attention to the art of painting on glass, and he has long been well known as one of the most distinguished of British artists in that de- partment. At the period Mr Ballantine began his career as a glass-painter, the art had greatly degenerated in character ; and the position to which it has of late years attained is chiefly owing to his good taste and archaeological researches. When the designs and specimens of glass-painting for the windows of the House of Lords were publicly competed for, the Royal Commissioners of the Fine Arts adjudged those produced by Mr Ballantine as the best which were exhibited, and the execution of the work was intrusted to him. A few years ago he published a work on stained glass, which has been translated and published in Germany, where it retains its popu- larity. Mr Ballantine has thus never allowed his literary pursuits to interfere with the exercise of his chosen avocations ; " he has," in the words of Lord Cockburn, " made the business feed the Muses, and the Muses grace the business." Although Mr Ballantine began at a very early age to woo the Muse, some of his most popular pieces having been produced about his sixteenth year, he made his first appearance in print in the pages of " Whistle Binkie." In 1843 his well-known work, " The Gaberlunzie's Wallet," was published in monthly numbers, illustrated by the late Alexander Ritchie. This production was enriched with some of his best JAMES BALLANTINE. 411 lyrics. His second work, " The Miller of Deanhaugh," likewise contains a number of songs and ballads. In 1856 Messrs Constable & Co., of Edinburgh, published an edition of his poems, including many of those which had been previously given to the world. This volume contains the happiest effusions of his genius, and has pro- cured him a prominent place in his country's literature. Mr Ballantine is the poet of the affections, a lover of the beautiful and tender among the humbler walks of life, and an exponent of the lessons to be drawn from familiar customs, common sayings, and simple character. NAEBODY'S BAIRN". SHE was Naebody's bairn, she was Naebody's bairn, She had mickle to thole, she had mickle to learn, Afore a kind word or kind look she could earn, For naebody cared about Naebody's bairn. Though faither or mither ne'er own'd her ava, Though rear'd by the fremmit for fee unco sma', She grew in the shade like a young lady-fern, For Nature was bounteous to Naebody's bairn. Though toited by some, and though lightlied by mair, She never compleened, though her young heart was sair, And warm virgin tears that might melted cauld airn "Whiles glist in the blue ee o' Naebody 's bairn. Though nane cheer' d her childhood, an' nane hail'd her birth, Heaven sent her an angel to gladden the earth ; And when the earth dooni'd her in laigh nook to dern, Heaven could na but tak' again Naebody 's bairn. She cam smiling sweetly as young mornin' dawj Like lown simmer gloamin' she faded awa, And lo ! how serenely that lone e'ening starn Shines on the greensward that haps Naebody 's bairn! CASTLES IN THE AIR. THE bonnie, bonnie bairn sits pokin' in the ase, Glowerin' in the fire wi' his wee round face ; Laughin' at the fuffin' lowe what sees he there ? Ha ! the young dreamer's biggin' castles in the air! His wee chubby face, an' his towzy curly pow, Are laughin' an' noddin' to the dancin' lowe ; He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, Glowerin' at the imps wi' their castles in the air. He sees muckle castles towerin' to the moon, He sees little sodgers puin' them a' doun ; "Warlds whomlin'up an' doun, blazin' wi' a flare, Losh ! how he loups, as they glimmer in the air. For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken? He 's thinkin' upon naething, like mony mighty men ; A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare, There are mair folks than him biggin' castles in the air. Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld ; His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld ; His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that Daddy Care "Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. He '11 glower at the fire, an' he '11 keek at the light; But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare, Hearts are broken heads are turn'd wi' castles in the air. ILKA BLADE 0' GRASS KEFS ITS AIN DRAP 0' DEW. CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind ; Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, ha'e faith an' ye '11 win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. Gin reft frae friends, or cross'd in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been, Grief lies deep-hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een, Believe it for the best, and trow there 's good in store for you, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. In lang, lang days o ? simmer when the clear and chadless sky Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry, The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars ver- dure spring anew, An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. 412 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Sae lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie, An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee, Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. WIFIE, COME HAME. "WIFIE, come hame, My couthie wee dame ! Oh, but ye 're far awa', "\Vifie, come hame ! Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo, Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine ee, Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou', A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea. Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair, Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee, Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me ! Wine, come hame, My couthie wee dame ! Oh, my heart wearies sair, Wifie, come hame ! Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie, Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee; Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie, Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee. Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye, Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree ; Oh, come awa', an' I'll dance round about ye, Ye '11 ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee. THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE CORBEL 0' THE NEST. OH, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken, For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben ; And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest, The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. The cauld grey misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day ; The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay ; The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the ne*t The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven may . be a lowin' sun, Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun ; The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he's slow, And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low ; The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest. CREEP AFORE YE GANG. CHEEP awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang ; Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld grannie's sang; Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road Creep awa', my bairnie creep afore ye gang. Creep awa', my bairuie, ye're ower young to learn To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn ; Better creepin' canuie, than i'a'in' wi' a bang, Duiitm' a' your wee brow creep afore ye gang. Ye'll creep, an' ye '11 laugh, an' ye'll nod to your mither, Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither ; Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang, An' ye'll be a braw chiel' yet creep afore ye gang. The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee; Folks are sure to tumble when they climb ower hie ; They wha dinna walk right are sure to come to wrang Creep awa', my bairnie creep afore ye gang. AE GUDE TURN DESERVES AX1THER. YE maunna be proud, although ye be great, The puirest bodie is still your britlu-r ; The king nuiy come in the cadger's gate Ae gude turn deserves anither. The hale o' us rise frae the same cauld clay, Ae hour we bloom, ae hour we wither ; Let ilk help ither to climb the brae Ae gude turn deserves anither. The highest among us are unco wee, Frae Heaven we get a' our gifts thegether; Hoard na, man, what ye get sae free! Ae gude turn deserves anither. JAMES BALLANTINE. 41S Life is a weary journey alane, Blythe's the road when we wend wi' ither; Mutual gi'eing is mutual gain- Ac gude turn deserves anither. THE NAMELESS LASSIE. THF.RE'S nane may ever guess or trow mj T bonnie lassie's name, There's nane may ken the humble cot my lassie ca's her hame ; Yet though my lassie 's nameless, an her kin o' low degree, Her heart is warm, her thochts are pure, and oh ! she's dear to me. She's gentle and she's bonnie, an' she's modest as she's fair, Her virtues, like her beauties a', are varied as they 're rare ; While she is light an' merry as the lamrnie on the lea For happiness an' innocence thegether aye maun be ! "Whene'er she shows her blooming face, the flowers may cease to blaw, An' when she opes her hinnied lips, the air is music a' ; But when wi' other's sorrow touch'd, the tear starts to her ee, Oh! that's the gem in beauty's crown, the priceless pearl- to me. "Within my soul her form's enshrin'd, her heart is a' my ain, An' richer prize or purer bliss nae mortal e'er can gain ; The darkest paths o' life I tread wi' steps o' bounding glee, Cheer'd onward by the love that lichts my nameless lassie's ee. BONNIE BONALY. BOXXIE Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, Murmurs and sobs like a child in a dream ; Falling where silver light gleams on its breast, Gliding through nooks where the dark shadows rest, Flooding with music its own tiny valley, Dances in gladness the stream o' Bonaly. Proudly Bonaly's grey-brow'd castle towers, Bounded by mountains, and bedded in flowers ; Here hangs the blue bell, and there waves the broom ; Nurtured by art, rarest garden sweets bloom ; Heather and thyme scent the breezes that dally, Playing amang the green knolls o' Bonaly. Pentland'shighhills raise their heather-crown'd crest, Peerless Edina expands her white breast, Beauty and grandeur are blent in the scene, Bonnie Bonaly lies smiling between ; Nature and Art, like fair twins, wander gaily ; Friendship and love dwell in bonnie Bonaly. SAFT IS THE BLINK 0' THINE EE, LASSIE. OH, saft is the blink o' thine ee, lassie, Saft is the blink o' thine ee ; An' a bonnie wee sun glimmers in its blue orb, As kindly it glints upon me. The ringlets that twine round thy brow, lassie, Are gowden, as gowden may be ; Like the wee curly cluds that play round the sun, "When he's just going to drap in the sea. Thou hast a bonnie wee mou', lassie, As sweet as a body may pree ; And fondly I '11 pree that wee hinny mou', E'en though thou shouldst frown upon me. Thou hast a lily-white hand, lassie, As fair as a body may see ; An' saft is the toiich o' that wee genty hand, At e'en when thou partest wi' me. Thy thoughts are sae haly and pure, lassie, Thy heart is sae kind and sae free ; My bosom is flooded wi' sunshine an' joy, Wi' ilka blythe blink o' thine ee. THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN. BE eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, , Be eident, be eident, bricht day will be gone ; To stand idle by is a profitless sin : The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed as it sweeps o'er the linn : The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. There's nought got by idling, there's nought got for nought Health, wealth, and contentment by labour are bought; In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin : The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. Let every man aim in his heart to excel, Let every man ettle to fend for himsel' ; Aye nourish ye stern independence within : The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. 414 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. WILLIAM BEATTIE, M.D. AN able physician, an accomplished writer of prose and poetry, and the generous friend and patron of men of letters, William Beattie was born, about the close of the century, in the parish of Dalton, in the vale of Annan, Dumfriesshire. Through the result of an accident, his father died in early life. After preparatory training at Clarencefield Academy, he entered* as a student the University of Edinburgh in 1813. At Edinburgh he took his degree as M.D. in 1820, and proceeded to London, where he continued to prosecute medical studies till 1822. He now visited the more celebrated medical schools on the Continent. During 1823-4 he resided chiefly in Italy, and in the two following years he travelled and studied in Germany and Holland. He commenced medical practice in London in 1830. Dr Beattie was appointed physician to William IV. and Queen Adelaide, when Duke and Duchess of Clarence, an office which he held for eight years. For three years he acted as private secretary to their Koyal Highnesses, and accompanied them during their several visits to foreign courts. A gift of silver plate constituted his entire recom- pence for his professional and other services. While actively following his practice as a physician, Dr Beattie industriously devoted himself to literary pursuits. His work on the Courts of Germany was published in 1827, in two octavo volumes. " John Huss, a Poem," appeared in 1829. In 1833 he published " Heliotrope ; or, A Pilgrim in Quest of Health," of which a third edition, greatly enlarged, appeared a few years later. His next work, " Polynesia, a Poem," celebrated the labours of missionaries in the South Seas. Among his descriptive and historical works are, " Switzerland Illustrated," Lond., 1836, 2 vols. 4to ; " Scotland Illustrated," Lond., 1858, 2 vols. 4to ; The Waldenses ; or Protestant Valleys of Piedmont," Lond., 1838, 4to ; " The Castles and Abbeys of England," Lond., 1842, 2 vols. 8vo ; and " The Danube, Illustrated," Lond., 1844, 8vo. In 1838 he edited two 8vo volumes of " Dramatic and Prose Miscellanies." Among his professional writings is a Latin Treatise on Pulmonary Consumption. Dr Beattie's most popular work is "The Life and Letters of Thomas Campbell," 3 vols. 8vo. Dr Beattie enjoyed the personal intercourse of the author of "The Pleasures of Hope," and, as physician and friend, essentially ministered to the comfort of the great poet in his declining years. Through his persevering efforts a statue of Campbell was placed in Westminster Abbey. With Samuel Eogers, Dr Beattie also enjoyed a cordial intimacy, and as he had closed the eyes of the Bard of Hope, the poet of "Memory" made request that he would close his also. When the Countess of Blessington experienced her unhappy reverses, Dr Beattie proved a steady friend ; he retained to the last the full confidence of that gifted gentlewoman. From Lady Byron Dr Beattie received an emphatic expression of her gratitude for valuable services. Dr Beattie is a member of many of the historical and , medical societies of Europe, and is an active director of charitable and other useful institu- tions in London. He has contributed to the leading periodicals, and several of his works have been translated into German and other continental languages. For a period of forty years he has rendered his professional services gratuitously to clergy- men and to the cultivators of learning. Many who were ready to perish have been cheered by his counsel and aided by his bounty. Though long resident in London, he has not forgotten the claims of his native Annandale, where many families have profited by his beneficence. FRANCIS BENNOCH. 415 SPRING-TIDE IN LAUTERBRUNNEN. Love in a Chftlfit. THE snows are departed, The uplands are green, Where the fountain leaps forth On the flower-spangled scene ! The goats climb aloft, While the smoke from the chalet, Cries, "Come, come away, Come away from the valley ! " The sleek herd is roaming Yon pastures at large, Where the keeper pipes sweet, As he follows his charge : While Bernard cries, "Litz! Come away from the valley! Let my chamois-eyed* maid Be the light of my chalet !" Shall I go ? Can I linger When Bernard says " Come ! How sweet on our flower-spangled Prairies to roam ! " * The chamois, like the gazelle, is remarkable for the beauty and lustre of its eyes. No, no! So adieux To the lake and the valley! My Bernard for me, The green Alps, and a chalet ! FLOWERS THAT NEVER DIE. THE balmy West is blowing, And, veil'd in smiles and tears, With rose-buds round her blowing, The infant Spring appears. Again, the voice of gladness Falls sweetly on the ear ; And from the cheek of sadness, Hope wipes away the tear. The sky looks bright above us ; The earth is deck'd with flowers ; And, shared with those who love us, Joy wings the fleeting hours ! But earthly flowers, how fading ! A breath can make them blow I A breath, its leaves invading, May chill the rose's glow. But Faith, that faith we cherish, Points upward to the sky ! To joys that never perish To flowers that never die 1 FRANCIS BENNOCH, FRANCIS BENNOCH was born at Dmmcool, in the parish of Durrisdeer, and county of Dumfries, on the 25th June 1812. In his sixteenth year he proceeded to London, and entered a house of business in the city. In 1837 he formed a copartnership, and commenced business as a silk merchant in the city of London. He has latterly con- ducted merchandise on his own account. In 1849 Mr Bennoch published "The Storm, and other Poems," which passed into a second edition. He has contributed somewhat extensively both in prose and verse to various periodicals and newspapers. The columns of the Dumfries Courier have frequently been adorned by his verses. Mr Bennoch was a kind friend to Haydon, the ingenious but unfortunate artist ; he befriended Miss Mitford ; and the late Mr William Jerdan and other literary friends have testified as to the value of his friend- ship. Mr Bennoch resides at the Knoll, Blackheath, Kent ; he has held the office of common councilman in the city of London ; he is a Fellow of the Society of Anti- quaries, and a member of the Society of Arts, and of the Eoyal Society of Literature. TRUTH AND HONOUR. IF wealth thou art wooing, or title, or fame, There is that in the doing brings honour or shame; There is something in running life's perilous race, Will stamp thee as worthy, or brand thee a base. Oh, then, be a man and, whatever betide, Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. 416 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. If a king be thy kingship right royally shown, And trust to thy subjects to shelter thy throne ; Rely not on weapons or armies of might, But on that which endureth, laws loving and right. Though a king, be a man and, whatever betide, Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. If a noble remember, though ancient thy blood, The heart truly noble is that which is good ; Should a stain of dishonour encrimsonthy brow, Thou art slave to the peasant that sweats at the plough. Be noble as man and, whatever betide, Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. If lover or husband be faithful and kind, For doubting is death to the sensitive mind ; Love's exquisite passion a breath may destroy ; The sower in faith, reapeth harvests of joy. Love dignifies man and, whatever betide, Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. If a father be firm, yet forgiving, and prove How the child honours him who rebuketh with love. If rich, or if poor, or whate'er thou may'st be, Remember the truthful alone are the free, Erect in thy manhood, whatever betide, Keep truth thy companion, and honour thy guide. Then, though sickness may come, or misfor- tunes may fall, There is that in thy bosom surviveth them all ? Truth, honour, love, friendship, no tempests can pale, They are beacons of light in adversity's gale. Oh, the manlike is godlike no ill shall betide While truth's thy companion, and honour thy guide. AULD PETER MACGOWAN. AIR "The Brisk Young Lad." AULD Peter MacGowan cam' down the craft, An' rubbit his han's an' fidged an' laugh 't; little thought he o' his wrinkled chaft, When he wanted me to lo'e ; He patted my broo, an' smooth'd my chin, He praised iny een an' sleek white skin, Syne fain wad kiss ; but the laugh within Cam' rattlin' out, I trow. sirs, but he was a canty carle, Wi' rings o' gowd, an' a brooch o' pearl, An' aye he spoke o' his Men' the Earl, And thought he would conquer lo'e. He boasted o' gear an' acres wide, 0' his bawsand yaud that I should ride When I was made his bonny wee bride, Returning lo'e for lo'e ; That I a lady to kirk should gang, Ha'e writ my virtues in a sang ; But I sriapp'd my thumb, and said, "gae hang, Gin that 's the best ye can do. " sirs, but he was a silly auld man, Nae mair he spak' o' his gear an' Ian' ; An' through the town like lightning ran The tale o' auld Peter's lo'e. An' sae the auld carle spiel'd up the craft, And raved and stamped like ane gane daft, Till tears trickled owre his burning chaft, Sin' he couldna win my lo'e. " Far better be single," the folk a' said, " Than a warming pan in an auld man's bed ;" He will be cunning wha gars me wed, Wi' ane that I never can lo'e ; Na, na! he maun be a fine young lad, A canty lad, an' a dainty lad ; Oh, he maun be a spirited lad, Wha thinks to win my lo'e. THE FLOWER OF KEIR. WHAT care I where love was born ; I know where oft he lingers, Till night's black curtain 's drawn aside, By morning's rosy fingers. If you would know, come, follow me, O'er mountain, moss, and river, To where the Nith and Scar agree To flow as one for ever. Pass Kirk-o'-Kier and Clover lea, Through leanings red with roses ; But pause beside the spreading tree, That Fanny's bower incloses. There, knitting in her shady grove, Sits Fanny singing gaily ; Unwitting of the chains of love, She 's forging for us daily. Like light that brings the blossom forth, And sets the corn a-growing, Melts icy mountains in the north, And sets the streams a-flowing ; So Fanny's eyes, so bright and wise, Shed loving rays to cheer us, Her absence gives us wintry skies, 'Tis summer when she's near us ! 0, saw ye ever such a face, To waken love and wonder ; A brow with such an arch of grace, And blue eyes shining under ! Her snaring smiles, sweet nature's wiles, Are equall'd not by many ; Her look it charms, her love it warms, The flower of Keir is Fanny. MY BONNIE WEE WIFIE. MY bonnie wee wifie, I'm waefu* to leave thee, To leave thee sae lanely, and far frae me ; Come night and come morning, I'll soon be returning ; Then, oh, my dear wifie, how happy we'll be ! FRANCIS BENNOCH. 417 Oh, cauld is the night, and the way dreigh and dreary, The snaw's drifting blindly o'er moorland an' lea ; All nature looks eerie. How can she be cheery, Since weel she maun ken I am parted frae thee? Oh, wae is the lammie, that's lost its dear mammy, An' waefu' the bird that sits chirping alane ; The plaints they are making, their wee bit hearts breaking, Are throbbings o' pleasure compared wi' my pain. The sun to the simmer, the bark to the timmer, The sense to the soul, an' the light to the ee, The bud to the blossom, sae thou'rt to my bosom ; Oh, wae's my heart, wine, when parted frae thee. There's nae guid availing in weeping or wailing, Should friendship be failing wi' fortune's decay ; Love in our heart's glowing, its riches be- stowing, Bequeaths us a treasure life takes not away. Let nae anxious feeling creep o'er thy heart, stealing The bloom frae thy cheek when thou'rt thinking of me ; Come night and come morning, I'll then be returning ; Nae mair, cosy wifie, we parted shall be. COME WHEN THE DAWN. COME when the dawn of the morning is breaking, Gold on the mountain-tops, mist on the plain, Come when the clamorous birds are awaking Man unto duty and pleasure again ; Bright let your spirits be, Breathing sweet liberty, Drinking the rapture thatgladdens the brain. High o'er the swelling hills shepherds are climbing, Down in the meadows the mowers are seen, Haymakers singing, and village bells chiming ; Lasses and lads lightly trip o'er the green, Flying, pursuing, Toying, and wooing Nature is now as she ever has been. Then when the toils of the day are all over, Gather'd, delighted, set round in a ring Youth, with its mirthfulness age, with its cheerfulness, Brimful of happiness, cheerily sing, " Bright may our spirits be Happy and ever free ; Blest are the joy's that from innocence spring." THE NITH. FLOW on, flow on, beloved stream, My dear, delightful river, By castles grey and meadows green, Flow on in peace for ever. In youth I wander'd by thy side, The Tynron hills before me, And now as bridegroom loves his bride, In spirit I adore thee. I'm wedded to thy glens and holms, So wild, so full of beauty; The past into the present glides, And blends with love and duty. I hear the pulsing evening breeze Among the branches beating ; My heart, attuned to winds and trees, The cadence is repeating. High up the sky in clouds I trace The day's departing glory, While by my side a sunny face Eeflects a sweeter story : The story of a loving life, The passing hours renew it ; Nor joy, nor care, nor worldly strife, Can conquer or subdue it. The cloven rocks make dismal dens, In which your waters darkle, Emerging from their gloomy glens, Oh, how you dash and sparkle ! So life must pass through clouds and tears, Few rays of hope surrounding ; As mists roll off the sky appears, With light and love abounding. Dear stream, thou emblem of my days, Thou child of moss and mountain, My heart to thee would be of praise A never-failing fountain. So flow for aye, beloved stream ! Dear Nith, delightful river, By castles grey and meadows green, Flow on in peace for ever. HEY, MY BONNIE WEE LASSIE. HEY, my bonnie we lassie, Blythe and cheery wee lassie, Will ye wed a canty carle, Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie ? I ha'e sheep, an' I ha'e kye, I ha'e wheat, an' I ha'e rye, An' heaps o' siller, lass, forbye, That ye shall spend wi' me, lassie ! Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, Blythe and cheerie wee lassie, Will ye wed a canty carle, Bonnie, bonnie wee lassie ? 418 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Ye shall dress in damask fine, My gowd and gear shall a' be thine, And I to ye be ever kin'. Say, will ye marry me, lassie? Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, Blythe and cheerie wee lassie, Will ye wed a canty carle, Bonnie, smiling wee lassie ? Gae hame, auld man, an' darn your hose, Fill up your lanky sides wi' brose, An' at the ingle warm your nose ; But come na courtin' me, carle. Oh, ye tottering auld carle, Silly, clavering, auld carle, The hawk and doo shall pair, I trow, Before I pair wi' ye, carle ! I winna share your gowd wi' ye, Your withering heart, an' watery ee ; In death I'd sooner shrouded be Than wedded to ye, auld carle ! Oh, ye tottering auld carle, Silly, clavering auld carcle, When roses blaw on leafs o' snaw, I'll bloom upon your breast, carle. But there's a lad, an' I'm his ain. May Heaven blessings on him rain ! Though plackless, he is unco fain, And he's the man for me, carle! Oh, youth and age can ne'er agree ; Though rich, you're no the man for me. Gae hame, auld carle, prepare to dee ; Pray Heaven to be your bride, carle. BESSIE. OH, mony a year has come and gane, An' mony a weary day, Sin' frae my hame, my mountain hame, I first was lured away, To wander over unco lands, Far, far ayont the sea ; But no to find a land like this, The hame o' Bess an' me ! I've traversed mony a dreary land, Across the braid, braid sea ; But, oh, my native mountain hame, My thochts were aye wi' thee. As certain as the sun wad rise, And set ahint the sea, Sae constant, Bessie, were my prayers, At morn an' nicht for thee ; When I return'd unto my hame, The hills were clad wi 1 snow ; Though they look'd cold and cheerless, love, My heart was in a glow. Though keen the wintry north wind blew, Like summer 'twas to me ; For, Bess, my frame was warm wi' love, Of country, kindred, thee! Nae flower e'er hail'd wi' sweeter smiles Eeturning sunny beams, Than I then hail'd my native hame, Its mountains, woods, and streams. Now we are met, my bonnie Bess, We never mair will part ; Although to a' we seem as twa, We only ha'e ae heart ! We '11 be sae loving a' the niclit, Sae happy a' the day, That though our bodies time may change, Our love shall ne'er decay : As gently as yon lovely stream Declining years shall run, An' life shall pass frae our auld clay, As snow melts 'neath the sun. COURTSHIP. YESTREEN on Cample's bonnie flood The summer sun was shining ; While on a bank in Chrichope wood Two lovers were reclining : They spak' o' youth an' hoary age, 0' time how swiftly fleeting, Of ilka thing, in sooth, but ane, The reason of their meeting. When Willie thocht his heart was firm, An' might declare its feeling, A glance frae Bessy's starry een Sent a' his senses reeling ; For aye when he essay'd to speak, An' she prepared to hear him, The thought in crimson dyed his cheek, But words would no come near him ! 'Tis ever thus that love is taught By his divinest teacher ; He silent adoration seeks, But shuns the prosy preacher. Now read me right, ye gentle anes, ' Nor deem my lesson hollow ; The deepest river silent rins, The babbling brook is shallow. FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE. WITH lofty song -we love to cheer The hearts of daring men ; Applauded thus, they gladly hear The trumpet's call again. But now we sing of lowly deeds Devoted to the brave, Where she, who stems the wound that bleeds, A hero's life may save : And heroes saved exulting tell How well her voice they knew ; How sorrow near it could not dwell, But spread its wings and flew. Neglected, dying in despair, They lay till woman came MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL. 419 To soothe them with her gentle care, And feed life's flickering flame. When wounded sore, on fever's rack, Or cast away as slain, She called their fluttering spirits back And gave them strength again. Twos grief to miss the passing face That suffering could dispel ; But joy to turn and kiss the place On which her shadow fell.* * " She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many more, but she could not do it to all ; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content." Soldier's Letter from the Crimea. When words of wrath profaning rung, She moved with pitying grace ; Her presence still'd the wildest tongue, And holy * made the place. They knew that they were cared for then, Their eyes forgot their tears ; In dreamy sleep they lost their pain, And thought of early years Of early years, when all was fair, Of faces sweet and pale. They woke : the angel bending there Was Florence Nightingale ! * " Before she came there was cursin' and swearin', but after that it was as holy as a church." Soldier's Letter from the Crimea. MARY MAXWELL CAMPBELL, THE authoress of the four following songs is Miss Mary Maxwell Campbell, Pitlour, Fifesliire. Her father was Dugald Campbell, Esq. of Skerrington, Ayrshire ; her mother, Janet Baillie, was a daughter of Lord Polkemmet, one of the Senators of the College of Justice. Miss Campbell composed the words and music of "The March of the Cameron Men " many years ago ; she has been induced to acknowledge the authorship, consequent on the song being assigned to others. These four songs have been published with music composed by the authoress. LAMENT FOR CLENCOE. YE loyal Macdonalds, awaken ! awaken ! Why sleep ye so soundly in face of the foe? The clouds pass away, and the morning is breaking ; But when will awaken the Sons of Glencoe ? They lay down to rest with their thoughts on the morrow, Nor dreamt that life's visions were melting like snow ; But daylight has dawn'din the silence of sorrow, And ne'er shall awaken the Sons of Glencoe. Oh! dark was the moment that brought to our shealing The black-hearted foe with his treacherous smile. We gave him our food with a brother's own feeling ; For then we believed there was truth in Argvle. The winds howl a warning, the red lightning flashes, We heap up our faggot's a welcome to show ; But traitors are brooding on death near the ashes Now cold on the hearths of the Sons of Glencoe. My clansmen, strike boldly let none of ye count on The mercy of cowards who wrought us such woe; The wail of their spirits, when heard on the mountain, Must surely awaken the Sons of Glencoe. Ah ! cruel as adders, ye stung them while sleeping ; But vengeance shall track ye wherever ye go. Our loved ones lie murder'd ; no sorrow nor weeping, Shall ever awaken the Sons of Glencoe. THE MAECH OF THE CAMERON MEN.* THERE'S many a man of the Cameron clan That has follow'd his chief to the field ; He has sworn to support him, or die by his side, For a Cameron never can yield. I hear the pibroch sounding, sounding, Deep o'er the mountain and glen, While light-springing footsteps are tramp- ling the heath, 'Tis the march of the Cameron Men. Oh proudly they walk, but each Cameron knows He may tread on the heather no more ; But boldly he follows his chief to the field, Where his laurels were gather'd before. I hear the pibroch sounding, etc. * " I composed this song when very young, after travelling from morning to night through Highland scenery with a member of the family of Lochiel." Note by the autfwress. 420 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, The moon has arisen, it shines on that path Now trod by the gallant and true High, high are their hopes, for their chieftain has said That whatever men dare, they can do. I hear the pibroch sounding, etc. THE MOLE AND THE BAT.* MY friend is a Mole, and I am a Bat, Two travellers are we ; And we have gone over the wide, wide world, To see what we could see. But the Mole and I came back again, And both of us agree, That there's no place in all the world So good as our countrie. And first we went to merry France, Where the sun shines warm and bright ; But frogs to eat were no great treat, So we only stayed a night. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. And next we went to Holland, But 'twas far too damp for me ; "Twas all as flat as the crown of your hat, And nothing could we see. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. We then set off to Germany, Where they made us understand That they smoked their pipe and drank their beer For the good of the Fatherland. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. We went to Spain and Portugal, And thought them pretty places ; But 'twould appear that water's dear, For they never wash their faces. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. Oh, then we came to Italy, Where beggars swarm like bees ; The Mole had to work like any Turk, While they sat at their ease. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. Then we went off to Austria, Where, much to our surprise, They tried to shut us up for life, And called us English spies. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. And next we got to Russia, Where we tried to look about ; But we chanced to stare at the Russian Bear, And he order'd us the knout. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. * The words and music of this song, and of that which follows it, were composed by Miss Campbell for the amusement of the young. We started off to America, The land of the free and the brave, But they said the Mole was as black as a coal, And they'd sell him for a slave. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. We traveU'd off to Africa, To see a wondrous lake, But turned our tail, and made all sail, When we met a rattlesnake. So the Mole and I came back again, etc. Then last we went to Scotland, Where we met some pleasant fellows, But every one wore waterproofs, And carried large umbrellas. So the Mole and I came back again, And satisfied are we, That there 's no place in all the world So good as our countrie. 0, WHAT WILL WE DO IX THE MORNING. 0, WHAT will we do in the morning 0, what will we do in the morning? When we open our eyes we will cheerfully rise, And dress ourselves neat in the morning. what will we do in the morning what will we do in the morning? With water and soap, our faces I hope, We'll wash till they're clean in the morning. 0, what will we do in the morning 0, what will we do in the morning? We've a brush and a comb, so we'll never leave home Without smoothing our hair in the morning. 0, what will we do in the morning 0, what will we do in the morning? Be contented and good with the plainest of food, And never be cross in the morning. 0, what will we do in the morning 0, what will we do in the morning? We must make it a rule to go early to school, And never be late in the morning. 0, what will we do in the morning 0, what will we do in the morning? As quiet's pussy cats, we'll put off our hats, And say to our teacher, Good morning. ELIZA A. H. OGILVY. 421 MRS ELIZA A. H. OGILVY was born in India, in January 1822. Her father, Aber- crombie Dick, Esq., was many years a Judge in the East India Company's Civil Service. Her childhood was passed in Scotland, under the care of her uncle, Sir Robert Dick of Tullymett, who afterwards, at the head of his division, fell at the battle of Sobraon. In 1843, she married David Ogilvy, Esq., a cadet of the Ogilvys of Inverquharity, in Forfarshire. Several years of her married life were spent in Italy. She has long resided in London or its neighbourhood. Mrs Ogilvy has published "Highland Minstrelsy," 1848, 4to ; "Traditions of Tuscany," 1851, 12mo ; and "Poems of Ten Years," 1856, 12mo. She has extensively contributed to the periodicals both in prose and verse. CRAIG ELAGHIE. BLUE are the hills above the Spey, The rocks are red that line his way ; Green is the strath his waters lave, And fresh the turf upon the grave AY here sleep my sire and sisters three, "Where none are left to mourn for me : Stand fast, stand fast, Ciaig Elachie! The roofs that shelter'd me and mine Hold strangers of a Sassenach line ; Our hamlet thresholds ne'er can show The friendly forms of long ago ; The rooks upon the old yew-tree Would e'en have stranger notes to me : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! The cattle feeding on the hills, We tended once o'er moors and rills, Like us have gone ; the silly sheep Now fleck the brown sides of the steep, And southern eyes their watchers be, And Gael and Sassenach ne'er agree : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! Where are the elders of our glen, Wise arbiters for meaner men? Where are the sportsmen, keen of eye, Who track'd the roe against the sky ; The quick of hand, of spirit free ? Pass'd, like a harper's melody : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! Where are the maidens of our vale, Those fair, frank daughters of the Gael? Changed are they all, and changed the wife, Who dared for love^the Indian's life ; The little child she bore to me Sunk in the vast Atlantic sea : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie! Bare are the moors of broad Strathspey, Shaggy the western forests grey ; Wild is the corri's autumn roar, Wilder the floods of this far shore ; Dark are the crags of rushing Dee, Darker the shades of Tennessee : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! Great rock, by which the Grant hath sworn, Since first amid the mountains born ; Great rock, whose sterile granite heart Knows not, like us, misfortune's smart, The river sporting at thy knee, On thy stern brow no change can see : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! Stand fast on thine own Scottish ground, By Scottish mountains flank'd around, Though we uprooted, cast away From the warm bosom of Strathspey, Flung pining by this western sea, The exile's hopeless lot must dree : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! Yet strong as thou the Grant shall rise, Cleft from his clansmen's sympathies ; In these grim wastes new homes we '11 rear, New scenes shall wear old names so dear ; And while our axes fell the tree, Eesound old Scotia's minstrelsy : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! Here can no treacherous chief betray For sordid gain our new Strathspey ; No fearful king, no statesmen pale, Wrench the strong claymore from the Gael. With armed wrist and kilted knee, No prairie Indian half so free : Stand fast, stand fast, Craig Elachie ! 422 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THOMAS TOD STODDART, THOMAS TOD STODDART, -well-known through his ingenious works on angling, was born on the 14th February 1810, in Argyle Square, Edinburgh. In the chamber of his birth Dr Robertson is believed to have written the " History of Scotland." His father, a rear-admiral in the navy, shared in several distinguished sen-ices : he was present at Lord Howe's victory ; at the landing in Egypt ; at the battles of the Nile and Copenhagen, and in many desperate encounters between Russia and Sweden. Young Stoddart was educated at the Moravian establishment at Fairiield, near Man- chester, and subsequently passed through a course of philosophy and law in the University of Edinburgh. Early devoted to verse-making, he composed a tragedy in his ninth year ; and at the age of sixteen was the successful competitor in Professor "Wilson's class, for a poem on " Idolatry." He was an early contributor to the Edin- burgh Literary Journal. Mr Stoddart studied for the Bar, and passed advocate in 1833. Finding the legal profession uncongenial, he soon relinquished it ; and entering upon the married state in 1836, he has since resided at Kelso. For many years he has divided his time between the pursuits of literature, and the recreation of angling. In 1831, he pub- lished "The Deathwake, or Lunacy, a Poem;" in 1834, "The Art of Angling;" in 1836, " Angling Reminiscences ;" in 1839 " Songs and Poems;" and in 1844, " Abel Massinger, or the Aeronaut, a Romance." The second of these publications has been remodelled, and under the title of " The Angler's Companion," has exhausted several impressions, and continues in general favour. Living at Kelso, Mr Stoddart has every opportunity of prosecuting his favourite pastime in the Tweed, and enjoying scenery calculated to foster the poetic temperament. ANGLING SONG. BRISG the rod, the line, the reel ! Bring, oh, bring the osier creel ! Bring me flies of fifty kinds, Bring me showers, and clouds, and winds, All things right and tight, All things well and proper, Trailer red and bright, Dark and wily dropper ; Casts of midges bring, Made of plover hackle, With a gaudy wing, And a cobweb tackle. Lead me where the river flows, Show me where the alder grows, Reed and rushes, moss and mead, To them lead me quickly lead, Where the roving trout Watches round an eddy, With his eager snout Pointed up and ready, Till a careless fly, On the surface wheeling, Tempts him, rising sly From his safe concealing. There, as with a pleasant friend, I the happy hours will spend, Urging on the subtle hook, O'er the dark and chancy nook, With a hand expert Every motion swaying, And on the alert When the trout are playing ; Bring me rod and reel, Flies of every feather, Bring the osier creel, Send me glorious weather ! LET ITHER ANGLERS. LET ither anglers choose their am, An' ither waters tak' the lead ; 0' Hieland streams we covet nane, But gi'e to us the bonnie Tweed ! An* gi'e to us the cheerfu' burn That steals into its valley fair The streamlets that at ilka turn, Sae saftly meet an' mingle there. The lanesome Tala and the Lyne, An' Manor wi' its mountain rills, An' Etterick, whose waters twine Wi' Yarrow, frae the forest hills ; ALEXANDER MACLAGAN. 423 An* Gala, too, an' Teviot bright, An' mony a stream o' playfu' speed ; Their kindred valleys a' unite Amang the braes o' bonnie Tweed. There's no a hole abune the Crook, Nor stane nor gentle swirl aneath, Kor drumlie rill, nor fairy brook, That daunders through the flowr'y heath, But ye may fin' a subtle troot, A' gleamin' ower wi' starn an' bead, An' mony a sawmon sooms aboot, Below the bields o' bonnie Tweed. Frae Holylee to Clovenford, A chancier bit ye canna ha'e, So gin ye tak' an' angler's word, Ye'd through the whins an' ower the brae, An' work awa' wi' cunnin' hand Yer birzy hackles black and reid ; The saft sough o' a slender wand Is meetest music for the Tweed 1 THE BRITISH OAK. THE oak is Britain's pride ! The lordliest of trees, The glory of her forest side, The guardian of her seas ! Its hundred arms are brandish'd wide To brave the wintry breeze. Our hearts shall never quail Below the servile yoke, Long as our seamen trim the sail, And wake the battle smoke Long as they stem the stormy gale On planks of British oak ! Then in its native mead The golden acorn lay, And watch with care the bursting seed, And guard the tender spray ; England will bless us for the deed In some far future day ! Oh ! plant the acorn tree Upon each Briton's grave ; So shall our island ever be The island of the brave The mother-nurse of liberty, And empress o'er the wave ! ALEXANDER MACLAGAN, ALEXANDER MACLAGAN was born at Bridgend, Perth, on the 3d April 1811. His father Thomas Maclagan, was bred to farming, but early abandoning this occupation, settled in Perth as a manufacturer. Unfortunate in business, he removed to Edin- burgh, with a young family of three children ; the subject of this sketch being the eldest. Catherine Stuart, the poet's mother, was descended from the Stuarts of Breadalbane, a family of considerable rank in that district. At the period of his father's removal to Edinburgh, Alexander was only in his fifth year. Not more successful in his pursuits in Edinburgh, where three additional children were born to him, Thomas Maclagan was unable to bestow upon Ms son Alexander the liberal education which his strong natural capacity demanded ; but acquiring the common rudiments of knowledge at several schools in the Old Town, he was at the early age of ten taken thence, and placed in a jeweller's shop, where he remained two years. Being naturally strong, and now of an age to undertake more laborious employment, his father rather against the son's inclinations, bound him apprentice to a plumber in Edinburgh, with whom he served six years. About this time he pro- duced many excellent drawings, which received the approbation of the managers of the Edinburgh School of Design, but the arduous duties of his occupation precluded the possibility of his following his natural bent. His leisure time was chiefly de- voted to the cultivation of literature. So early as his thirteenth year he entered the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library as a member ; and from this early age he dates his taste for poetry. In 1829, while yet an apprentice, Maclagan became connected with the Edinburgh Literary Journal, edited by Mr Glassford Bell. As a contributor to that publication, he was introduced to the Ettrick Shepherd, Professor "Wilson, and "William Mother- well, who severally commended his verses. On the expiry of his apprenticeship he 424 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. worked for some time as a journeyman plumber. He was married in his eighteenth year ; and he has three surviving children. In 1831 he commenced on his own account, in a shop at the head of the Mound, Edinburgh ; but finding he had inade- quate capital, he proceeded to London in quest of employment in some managing department of his trade. In the metropolis he was well received by Allan Cunning- ham, and was, through his recommendation, offered an appointment under Mr Cubitt, the well known builder. A strike among Mr Cubitt's workmen unfortunately inter- fered with the completion of the arrangement, and the poet, much disappointed, returned to Edinburgh. He now accepted an engagement as manager of a plumbery establishment in Dunfermline, where he continued two years. He has since devoted himself to literary pursuits. In 1841 Maclagan published a collected edition of his poems, which attracted the favourable notice of Lord Jeffrey. He invited the poet to his residence, and on many occasions proved his benefactor. On the publication, in 1849, of another volume, entitled, " Sketches from Nature," the great reviewer wrote to the poet in these words, " I can remember when the appearance of such a work would have pro- duced a great sensation, and secured to its author both distinction and more solid advantages." Among the last written of Lord Jeffrey's letters, was one addressed to Mr Maclagan in regard to the second edition of his Poems. Shortly after his patron's death, the poet found a new friend in Lord Cockburn, who procured him a junior clerkship in the office of the Inland Revenue, Edinburgh. This situation proved uncongenial ; the poet found himself unsuited to the practice of lengthened arithmetical summations, and he resigned his post under the promise of being trans- ferred to another department, more suitable to his habits. In 1851 he was, by a number of his admirers, entertained at a public dinner in the hall attached to Burns' Cottage, and more lately he received a similar compliment in his native town. Considerate attentions have been shown him by the Duchess of Sutherland, the Duke of Argyle, the Eev. Dr Guthrie, and other distinguished individuals. In the autumn of 1856 he had conferred on him a Civil List pension. Maclagan published, in 1854, " Ragged and Industrial School Rhymes." Imbued with a keen perception of the beautiful and pleasing, alike in the natural and moral world, his poetry is marked by refinement of thought, elegance of expression, and an earnest devotedness. He delights to depict the praises of virtue. The lover's tale he has told with simplicity and tenderness. CURLING SONG. HURRAH for Scotland's worth and fame, A health to a' that love the name ; Hurrah for Scotland's darling game, The pastime o' the free, boys. While head, an' heart, an' arm are strang, We'll a' join in a patriot's sang And sing its praises loud and lang The roarin' rink for me, boys. Hurrah, hurrah, for Scotland's fame, A health to a' that love the name ; Hurrah for Scotland's darling game ; The roarin' rink for me, boys. Gi'e hunter chaps their break-neck hours, Their slaughtering guns amang the muirs ; Let wily fisher prove his powers At the flinging o' the flee, boys. But let us pledge ilk hardy chid, Wha's hand is sure, wha's heart is leal, Wha glories in a brave bonspiel The roarin' rink for me, boys. Hurrah, hurrah, etc. In ancient days fame tells the fact That Scotland's heroes werena slack The heads o' stubborn foes to crack, And mak' the feckless flee, boys. Wi" brave hearts, beating true and warm, They aften tried the curlin' charm To cheer the heart and nerve the arm The roarin' rink for me, boys. Hurrah, hurrah, etc. May love and friendship crown our cheer Wi' a' the joys to curlers dear; We ha'e this nicht some heroes here We aye are blythe to see, boys. ALEXANDER MACLAGAN. 425 A' brithers brave are they, I ween ; May fickle Fortune, slippery queen, Aye keep their ice baith clear and clean The roarin' rink for me, boys. Hurrah, hurrah, etc. May health an' strength their toils reward, And should misfortune's gales blow hard, Our task will be to plant a guard, Or guide them to the tee, boys. Here's three times three for curlin' scenes, Here's three times three for curlin* freen's, Here 's three times three for beef an' greens The roarin' rink for me, boys. Hurrah, hurrah, etc. A' ye that love auld Scotland's name, A' ye that love auld Scotland's fame, A" ye that love auld Scotland's game, A glorious sicht to see, boys. Up, brothers, up, drive care awa' ; Up, brothers, up, ne'er think o' thaw ; Up, brothers, up, and sing hurrah The roarin' rink for me, boys. THE SCOTCH BLUE-BELL. THE Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell, The dear blue-bell for me ! Oh ! I wadna gi'e the Scotch blue-bell For a' the flowers I see. I lo'e thee weel, thou Scotch blue-bell, I hail thee, floweret fair ; Whether thou bloom'st in lanely dell, Or wavest mid mountain air Blythe springing frae our bare rough rocks, Or fountain's flowery brink : Where, fleet as wind, in thirsty flocks, The deer descend to drink. The Scotch blue-bell, etc. Sweet flower ! thou deck'st the sacred nook ' Beside love's trystin' tree ; I see thee bend to kiss the brook, That kindly kisseth thee. 'Mang my love's locks ye 're aften seen, Blythe noddin' o'er her brow, Meet marrows to her lovely een 0' deep endearin' blue! The Scotch blue-bell, etc. When e'enin's gowden curtains hing O'er moor and mountain grey, Methinks I hear the blue-bells ring A dirge to deein' day ; But when the licht o' mornin' wakes The young dew-drooket flowers, I hear amid their merry peals The mirth o' bridal hours ! The Scotch blue-bell, etc. How oft wi' rapture ha'e I stray'd The mountain's heather crest ; There aft wi' thee ha'e I array'd My Mary's maiden breast ; Oft rremblin' mark'd amang thy bells, Her bosom fa' and rise, Like snawy cloud that sinks and swells 'Neath summer's deep blue skies. The Scotch blue-bell, etc. Oh ! weel ye guess when morning daws I seek the blue-bell grot ; An' weel ye guess when e'enin' fa's Sae sweet, I leave it not ; An' when upon my tremblin' breast Reclines my maiden fair, Thou know'st full well that I am blest, And free frae ilka care. The Scotch blue-bell, the Scotch blue-bell, The dear blue-bell for me ! Oh ! I wadna gi'e the Scotch blue-bell For a' the flowers I see. THE THISTLE. HUKRAH for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me ! A fig for the flowers, in your lady-built bowers The strong-bearded, weel-guarded thistle for me ! 'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight, When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might ; Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows, For the stronger the tempest, the greener it grows! Hurrah for the thistle, etc. Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land On the bonneted brow, on the hilt of the brand On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts o' the free, May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be ! Hurrah for the thistle, etc. Hale hearts we ha'e yet to bleed in its cause ; Bold harps we ha'e yet to sound its applause ; How, then, can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer, And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here? Then hurrah for the thistle ! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me ! A fig for the flowers in your lady -built bowers The strong-bearded, well-guarded thistle for me ! 426 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE WIDOW. OH, there's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain, Oh, there's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain ; Though the heart o' this warld's as hard as a stane, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain. Though totterin' noo, like her auld crazy biel, Her step ance the lichtest on hairst-rig or reel ; Though sighs tak'the place o' the heart-cheerin' strain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain! Though humble her biggin', and scanty her store, The beggar ne'er yet went unserved frae her door; Though she aft lifts the lid o' her girnel in vain, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain! Though thin, thin her locks, noo like hill- drifted snaw, Ance sae glossy and black, like the wing o' the craw ; Though grief frae her mild cheek the red rose has ta'en, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain. The sang o' the lark finds the Widow asteer, The birr o' her wheel starts the nicht's dreamy ear; The tears o'er the tow-tap will whiles fa' like rain, Yet there's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain ! Ye may hear in her speech, ye may see in her claes, That auld Widow Miller has seen better days, Ere her auld Robin dee'd, sae fond an' sae fain' Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain ! Oh, sad was the hour when the brave Forty-twa, Wi' their wild-sounding pipes, march'd her callant awa' ; Though she schules, feeds, an' deeds his wee orphan wean, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain 1 Ye wild wintry winds, ye blaw surly and sair On the heart that is sad, on the wa's that are bare ; When care counts the links o' life's heavy chain, The poor heart is hopeless that winna complain. The Sabbath-day comes, and the Widow is seen I'the aisle o'the auld kirk, baith tidy and clean; Though she aft sits for hours on the mossy- grave-stane, Yet there 's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain ! An' then when she turns frae the grave's lanely sod, To breathe out her soul in the ear of her God ; What she utters to Him is no kent to ane, But there's naebody hears Widow Miller com- plain! Ye wealthy an" wise in this fair world o' ours, When your fields wave wi" gowd, your gardens wi' flowers ; When ye bind up the sheaves, leave out a few grains To the heart-broken Widow wha never com- plains. THE HIGHLAND PLAID. WHAT though ye ha'e nor kith nor kin, An' few to tak' your part, love ; A happy hame ye '11 ever fin' Within my glowing heart, love. So ! while I breathe the breath o' life, Misfortune ne'er shall steer ye ; My Highland Plaid is warm and wide- Creep closer, my wee dearie ! The thunder loud, the burstin' cloud, May speak o' ghaists an' witches, An' spunkie lichts may lead puir wichts Through bogs an' droouin' ditches ; There's no ae imp in a' the host, This nicht will daur come near ye ; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide Creep closer, my wee dearie ! Why do you heave sic heavy sighs, Why do ye sab sae sair, love ? Altho' beneath my rustic plaid An earl's star I wear, love, I woo'd ye as a shepherd youth, And as a queen revere thee ; My Highland Plaid is warm an' wide Creep closer, my wee dearie ! JANE C, SIMPSON, MRS SIMPSON nee Jane Cross Bell, is the daughter of the late James Bell, Esq., Advocate, and is a native of Glasgow. Her first effusions, written in early youth, were published in the Greenock Advertiser, while her father for a short time resided in that town, as assessor to the Magistrates. To the pages of the Edinburgh Literary JANE C. SIMPSON. 427 Journal, edited by her brother Henry Glassford Bell, she afterwards contributed numerous poetical compositions, and subsequently various articles in prose and verse to the Scottish Christian Herald, then under the editorship of the Rev. Dr Gardner. She assumed the literary nom de plume of ' ; Gertrude," and under this designation she reproduced her poetical compositions in " April Hours," a small duodecimo, which appeared in 1838. She had previously published in 1836 a volume of tales and sketches, entitled " The Piety of Daily Life." In 1848 she published " Woman's History." Her latest work, " Linda; or Beauty and Genius," appeared in 1859. She is at present engaged in editing the works of Robert Burns. " Gertrude " has been for many years married to her cousin Mr J. B. Simpson, of Glasgow. GENTLENESS. OH ! the winning charm of gentleness, so beau- tiful to me, "Tis this has bound my soul so long, so tenderly, to thee ; The gentle heart, like jewel bright, beneath the ocean blue, In every look and tone of thine, still shining sweetly through ! What though the crowd with wonder bow, before great genius' fire, And wit, with lightning flash, commands to reverence and admire ; 'Tis gentleness alone that gains the tribute of our love, And falls upon the ear like dew on flowers, , from heaven above ! Ah ! many a day has passed since then, yet I remember well, Once from my lips an angry thought, in hasty accents fell ; A word of wrath I utter'd, in a light and way- ward mood Of wrath to thee, my earliest friend, the noble and the good ! No answering words were given for mine, but, calm and bright as now, Thy speaking eyes a moment dwelt upon my ruffled brow, And then a sweet, forgiving smile came o'er thy pensive face, And thy hand was softly tender'd me, with melancholy grace. An instant mute and motionless, before thee did I stand, And gazed upon thy placid mien, thy smile, thy proffer'd hand Ah ! ne'er could angel, sent to walk this earth of sinful men, Look lovelier in his robes of light, than thou to me wert then ! I long'd to weep I strove to speak no words came from my tongue, Then silently to thy embrace, I wildly, fondly sprung; The sting of guilt, like lightning, struck to my awaken'dmind; I could have borne to meet thy wrath 'twas death to see thee kind ! 'Tis ever thus ! when anger wins but anger in return, A trifle grows a thing of weight, and fast the fire will burn ; But when reproachful words are still in mild forgiveness past, The proudest soul will own his fault, and melt in tears at last ! Gentleness ! thy gentleness, so beautiful to me! It will ever "bind my heart in love and tender- ness to thee ; 1 bless thee for all high-born thoughts, that fill that breast of thine, But most, I bless thee for that gift of gentle- ness divine! HE LOVED HER FOE HER MERRY EYE. HE loved her for her merry eye, That, like the vesper star, In evening's blue and deepening sky, Shed light and joy afar ! He loved her for her golden hair, That o'er her shoulders hung ; He loved her for her happy voice, The music of her tongue. He loved her for her airy form Of animated grace ; He loved her for the light of soul; That brighten'd in her face. He loved her for her simple heart, A shrine of gentle things ; He loved her for her sunny hopes, Her gay imaginings. But not for him that bosom beat, Or glanced that merry eye, Beneath whose diamond light he felt It would be heaven to die. i-28 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. He never told her of his love, He breathed no prayer no vow ; But sat in silence by her side, And gazed upon her brow. And when, at length, she pass'd away, Another's smiling bride, He made his home 'mid ocean's waves He died upon its tide. MARION PAUL AIRD, MARION PAUL AIRD is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors -were re- spectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother, a niece of Hamil- ton Paul,* was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth, Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in Kilmar- nock. She composed verses in early youth. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, entitled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems ;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the title of " Heart Histories." * See ante, p. 128. THE FA' 0' THE LEAF. 'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin', The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae; The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in', Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay. Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters, No a gowden-eed gowan on a' the green lea ; Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee. The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie, When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray; But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay. " How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather, Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wedo awa' ;" An' the rose-bloom o* beauty, e'er autumn winds wither, Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw: But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely, Man shake like a wan leaf in poortith's cauld blast; The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane H" An" the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is , past." The fire that's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted, An' a* wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn ; An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted, An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return : But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin', An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night ! When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin', Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light. The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie, Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa', An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie, May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw. Kin' spring'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer," Its heart burst in blosom 'neath simmer's warm breath ; But when shall the warm blush o' life's "faded simmer Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death? How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an* forgi'en, When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa'; When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein' But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa' ! WILLIAM SINCLAIR. 429 FAR, FAR AWAY. TUNE "Long, long ago." HAD I the wings of a dove, I would fly Far, far away ; far, far away ; Where not a cloud ever darkens the sky, Far, far away; far, far away; Fadeless the flowers in yon Eden that blow, Green, green the bowers where the still waters flow, Hearts, like their garments, are pure as the snow, Far, far away; far away. There never trembles a sigh of regret, Far, far away ; far, far away ; Stars of the morning in glory ne'er set, Far, far away ; far, far away ; There I from sorrow for ever would rest, Leaning in joy on Immanuel's breast ; Tears never fall in the homes of the blest, Far, far away ; far away. Friends, there united in glory, ne'er part, Far, far away ; far, far away ; One is their temple, their home, and their heart, Far, far away ; far, far away ; The river of crystal, the city of gold, The portals of glory, such glory unfold, Thought cannot image, and tongue hath not told, Far, far away ; far away. List ! what yon harpers on golden harps play ; Come, come away ; come, come away ; Falling and frail is your cottage of clay ; Come, come away ; come, come away : Come to these mansions, there's room yet for you, Dwell with the Friend ever faithful and true ; Sing ye the song, ever old, ever -new ; Come, come away ; come away. WILLIAM SINCLAIR, A PLEASING lyric poet, William Sinclair, was born at Edinburgh in 1811. His father was a trader in the city. Receiving an ordinary education, he became in his four- teenth year apprentice to a bookseller in Frederick Street. A large circulating library connected \\Ith the establishment enabled him to gratify an ardent love of reading, and brought him into contact with persons of literary tastes. Quitting the business of bookseller, he proceeded to Dundee, as clerk in a lawyer's office. He afterwards accepted a situation in the Customs at Liverpool. His official services were subsequently transferred to Leith, where he had the privilege of associating with the poets Moir, Gilfillan, and Vedder. Early devoted to song-writing, Mr Sinclair, while a bookseller's apprentice, con- tributed verses to the newspapers and popular periodicals. Some of his poetical compositions have appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. The poet Robert Nicoll sub- mitted the first edition of his poems to his revision. In 1843 he published an octavo volume of poems and songs, with, the title " Poems of the Fancy and the Affections." Several of his songs have been set to music. Mr Sinclair has latterly resided in Stirling. THE ROYAL BREADALBANE OAK. THY queenly hand, Victoria, By the mountain and the rock, Hath planted 'midst the Highland hills A Royal British Oak ; Oh, thou guardian of the free ! Oh, thou mistress of the sea ! Trebly dear shall be the ties That shall bind us to thy name, Ere this Royal Oak shall rise To thy fame, to thy fame ! The oak hath scatter'd terror O'er our foemen from our ships, They have given the voice of England's fame In thunders from their lips ; 'Twill be mirror'd in the rills ! It shall wave among the hills ! And the rallying cry shall wake Nigh the planted of thy hand, That the loud acclaim may break O'er the land, o'er the land ! While it waves unto the tempest, It shall call thy name to mind, Andthe "Gathering" 'mong the hills shall be Like the rushing of the wind ! Arise! ye Gaels, arise! Let the echoes ring your cries, By our mountain's rocky throne, By Victoria's name adored 430 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. We shall reap her enemies down With the sword, with the sword ! Oh, dear among the mountains Shall thy kindly blessing be; Though rough may be our mien, we bear A loyal heart to thee ! 'Neath its widely spreading shade Shall the gentle Highland maid Teach the youths, who stand around, Like brave slips from Freedom's tree, That thrice sacred is the ground Unto thee, unto thee ! In the bosom of the Highlands Thou hast left a glorious pledge, To the honour of our native land, In every coming age : By the royal voice that spoke On the soil where springs the oak By the freedom of the land That can never bear a slave The Breadalbane Oak shall stand With the brave, with the brave ! MARY. IF there's a word that whispers love In gentlest tones to hearts of woe, If there's a name more prized above, And loved with deeper love below, 'Tis Mary. If there 's a healing sound beneath To soothe the heart in sorrow's hour, If there 's a name that angels breathe In silence with a deeper power, 'Tis Mary. It softly hangs on many a tongue In ladies' bower and sacred fane, The sweetest name by poets sung The high and consecrated strain Is Mary. And Scotia's Bard life's holiest dream Was his, the silent heavens above, When on the Bible o'er the stream He vowed his early vows of love To Mary. Oh, with the sweet repose of even, By forest lone, by fragrant lea, And by thy beauties all, Loch Leven, How dear shall the remembrance be Of Mary. Scotland and Mary are entwined With blooming wreath of fadeless green, And printed on the undying mind ; For, oh ! her fair, though fated Queen, Was Mary. By the lone forest and the lea, When smiles the thoughtful evening star, Though other names may dearer be, The sweetest, gentlest, loveliest far, Is Mary. ABSENCE. THE fields, the streams, the skies are fair, There 's freshness in the balmy air, A grandeur crowns thine ancient woods, And pleasure fills thy solitudes, And sweets are strewn where'er we rove But thou art not the land we love. How glorious, from the eastern heaven, The fulness of the dawn is given ! How fair on ocean's glowing breast Sleeps the soft twilight of the west I All radiant are thy stars above But thou art not the land we love. Fair flowers, that kiss the morning beam, Hang their bright tresses o'er the stream; From morn to noon, from noon to even, Sweet songsters lift soft airs to heaven, From field and forest, vale and grove But thou art not the land we love. To high and free imaginings Thy master minstrels swept the strings, The brave thy sons to triumph led, Thy turf enshrouds the glorious dead, And Liberty tljy chaplet wove But thou art not the land we love. From the far bosom of the sea A flood of brightness rests on thee, And stately to the bending skies Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise : Thy heavens how fair they smile above ! But thou art not the land we love. Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand, The mountains of our native land ! Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free, And their rejoicing minstrelsy ! The heath below, the blue above, The altars of the land we love 1 THE BATTLE OF STIRLING. To Scotland's ancient realm Proud Edward's armies came, To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm Our martial force in shame : " It shall not be ! " brave Wallace cried; " It shall not be ! " his chiefs replied ; " By the name our fathers gave her, Our steel shall drink the crimson stream, We'll all her dearest rights redeem Our own broadswords shall save her ! " With hopes of triumph flush'd, The squadrons hurried o'er Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving msh'd Like wild waves to the shore : "They come they come!" was the gallant cry; ' ' They come they come ! " was the loud reply ; CHARLES MACKA Y, LL.D. 431 " strength, tliou gracious Giver ! By Love and Freedom's stainless faith, We'll dare the darkest night of death We'll drive them back for ever !" All o'er the waving broom, In chivalry and grace, Shone England's radiant spear and plume, By Stirling's rocky base : And, stretching far beneath the view, Proud Cressingham ! thy banners flew, When, like a torrent rushing, God ! from right and left the flame Of Scottish swords like lightning came, Great Edward's legions crushing ! High praise, ye gallant band, Who, in the face of day, With a daring heart and a fearless hand, Have cast your chains away! The foemen fell on every side In crimson hues the Forth was dyed Bedew'd with blood the heather, While cries triumphal shook the air ' ' Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare, Wherever Scotsmen gather! " Though years like shadows fleet O'er the dial-stone of Time, Thy pulse, Freedom ! still shall beat With the throb of manhood's prime ! Still shall the valour, love, and truth, That shone on Scotland's early youth, From Scotland ne'er dissever ; The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern Shall wave around her Wallace cairn, And bless the brave for ever ! CHARLES MACKAY, LL.D, CHARLES MACKAY is of ancient and honourable extraction. His paternal ancestors were the Mackays of Strathnaver, in Sutherlandshire ; while, on the mother's side, lie is descended from the Roses of Kilravock, for many centuries proprietors of one of the most interesting feudal strongholds in the Highlands. The Mrs Rose of Kilravock, whose name appears in the " Correspondence" of Burns, was Charles Mackay's maternal grandmother. He was born at Perth in 1814 ; but his early years were spent in London, his parents having removed to the metropolis during his infancy. There he received the rudiments of an education which was completed in the schools of Belgium and Germany. His relation, General Mackay, intended that he should adopt the military profession ; but family arrangements and other circum- stances prevented the fulfilment of that intention. & In 1836, he gave his first poems to the public. The unpretending volume at- tracted the attention of John Black, the distinguished editor of the Morning Chronicle. Ever ready to recognise genius wherever it could be found, he offered young Mackay a place on the paper, which was accepted, and filled with such ability that he was rapidly promoted to the position of sub -edit or. In 1844, he undertook the editorship of the Glasgow Argus, a journal which advocated advanced liberal opinions. This paper he conducted for three years, and returned to London, to become editor of the Illustrated London News. In 1859 he delivered a series of lectures in the United States ; and at the commencement of the American civil war, he again crossed the Atlantic as the special correspondent of the Times newspaper. Dr Mackay's works have been numerous. His first, as has been stated, was a small volume of " Poems," published in 1836. This was followed by the " Hope of the World," a poem, in heroic verse, published in 1839. Soon afterwards appeared " The Thames and its Tributaries," a suggestive and gossiping book. In 1841 ap- peared his " Popular Delusions," a work which has lately been published iu a popular form ; and next came, in 1 S42, his romance of " Longbeard, Lord of London," so well conceived and properly executed, that an archseologist of considerable pretentious mistook it for a genuine historical record of the place on which it was written. His next work, and his best poem, " The Salamandrine, or Love and Immortality," ap- peared in 1843. Dr Mackay's residence in Scotland enabled him to visit many places 432 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. famous in Scottish history. The results were his " Legends of the Isles," published in 1845, and his "Voices from the Mountains" in 1846. A few months before the publication of the last named volume, the University of Glasgow conferred upon him the degree of LL.D. When the London Daily News was started, he contributed to that journal some stirring lyrics, under the title of " Voices from the Crowd." In 1847 appeared his " Town Lyrics," a series of ballads which unveiled many of the secret miseries of London. In 1850 was published his poem of " Egeria," probably the most artistic of his productions ; and in 1856 he gave to the world " The Lump of Gold," and " Under Green Leaves," two volumes of charming poetry ; the first tracing the evils of unrestrained cupidity ; the second pointing to the delights of the country. In 1857 he published " The Mormons : their Rise, Progress, and Present Condition." " Life and Liberty in America," one of his most popular works, ap- peared in 1859. . In 1860 he published " The "Whisky Demon," and " A Man's Heart, a Poem." " The Gouty Philosopher " appeared in 1862. In 1864 he added to his literary reputation by his work " Studies from the Antique." His latest publication "The Souk of Children," appeared in 1869. Besides these original works, Dr Mackay has edited "The Book of English Songs," London, 1856, 8vo ; " The Songs of Scot- land," London, 1857, 8vo ; " The Home Affections portrayed by the Poets," London, 1858, 8vo ; " The Legendary and Romantic Ballads of Scotland," Lond. 1861, 8vo ; " A Thousand and one Gems of English Poetry," London, 1867, 8vo. Dr Mackay originated the London Review. He has composed airs to several of his own lyrics. With the late Sir Henry Bishop he was associated in arranging one hundred of the choicest English melodies. He enjoys a pension on the Civil List. LOVE AWEARY OF THE WORLD. OH ! my love is very lovely, In her mind all beauties dwell ; She, robed in living splendour, Graee and modesty attend her, And I love her more than well. But I'm weary, weary, weary, To despair my soul is hurl'd ; I am weary, weary, weary, I ain weary of the world ! She is kind to all about her, For her heart is pity's throne ; She has smiles for all men's gladness, She has tears for every sadness, She is hard to me alone. And I'm weary, weary, weary, From a love-lit summit hurl'd ; I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world ! When my words are words of wisdom All her spirit I can move, At my wit her eyes will glisten, But she flies and will not listen If I dare to speak of love. Oh ! I 'm weary, weary, weary, By a storm of passions whirl'd ; I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world ! True, that there are others fairer Fairer? No, that cannot be Yet some maids of equal beauty, High in soul and firm in duty, May have kinder hearts than she. Why, my heart, so weary, weary, To and fro by passion whirl'd ? Why so weary, weary, weary, Why so weary of the world? Were my love but passing fancy, To another I might turn ; But I 'm doom'd to love unduly One who will not answer truly, And who freezes when I burn. And I 'm weary, weary, weary, To despair my soul is hurl'd j I am weary, weary, weary, I am weary of the world ! THE LOVER'S SECOND THOUGHTS ON WORLD WEARINESS. HEART ! take courage ! 'tis not worthy For a woman's scorn to pine, If her cold indifference wound thee, There are remedies around thee For such malady as thine. Be no longer weary, wt'ury, From thy love-lit summits hurl'd ; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world! CHARLES MACK A F, LL.D, 433 If thou must be loved by woman, Seek again the world is wide ; It is full of loving creatures, Fair in form, and mind, and features- Choose among them for thy bride. Be no longer weary, weary, To and fro by passion whirl'd ; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world! Or if Love should lose thy favour, Try the paths of honest fame, Climb Parnassus' summit hoary, Carve thy way by deeds of glory, Write on History's page thy name. Be no longer weary, weary, To the depth of sorrow hurl'd ; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world! Or if these shall fail to move thee, Be the phantoms unpursued, Try a charm that will not fail thee When old age and grief assail thee Try the charm of doing good. Be no longer weak and weary, By the storms of passion whirl'd ; Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world ! Love is fleeting and uncertain, And can hate where it adored, Chase of glory wears the spirit, Fame not always follows merit, Goodness is its own reward. Be no longer weary, weary, From thine happy summit hurl'd j Be no longer weary, weary, Weary, weary of the world! A CANDID WOOING. I CAXXOT give thee all my heart, Lady, lady, My faith and country claim a part, My sweet lady ; But yet I'll pledge thee word of mine That all the rest is truly thine ; The raving passion of a boy, Warm though it be, will quickly cloy- Confide thou rather in the man Who vows to love thee all he can, My sweet lady. Affection, founded on respect, Lady, lady, Can never dwindle to neglect, My sweet lady ; And, while thy gentle virtues live, Such is the love that I will give. The torrent leaves its channel dry, The brook runs on incessantly ; The storm of passion lasts a day, But deep, true love endures alway, My sweet lady. Accept, then, a divided heart, Lady, lady, Faith, Friendship, Honour, each have part, My sweet lady. While at one altar we adore, Faith shall but make us love the more ; And Friendship, true to all beside, "Will ne'er be fickle to a bride; And Honour, based on manly truth, Shall love in age as well as youth, My sweet lady. PROCRASTINATIONS. IF Fortune with a smiling face Strew roses on our way, When shall we stoop to pick them up ? To-day, my love, to-day. But should she frown with face of care, And talk of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve if grieve we must ? To-morrow, love, to-morrow. If those who've wrong'd us own their faults And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen and forgive? To-day, my love, to-day. But if stern Justice urge rebuke And warmth from memory borrow, When shall we chide if chide we dare ? To-morrow, love, to-morrow. If those to whom we owe a debt Are harm'd unless we pay, When shall we struggle to be just ? To-day, my love, to-day. But if our debtor fail our hope, And plead his ruin thorough, When shall we weigh his breach of faith? To-morrow, love, to-morrow. If Love, estranged, should once again His genial smile display, When shall we kiss his proffer 'd lips ? To-day, my love, to-day, But, if he would indulge regret, Or dwell with bygone sorrow, When shall we weep if weep we must ? To-morrow, love, to morrow. For virtuous acts and harmless joys The minutes will not stay ; We've always time to welcome them To-day, my love, to-day. But care, resentment, angry words, And unavailing sorrow, Come far too soon, if they appear To-morrow, love, to-morrow. BELIEVE IF YOU CAN. Music by the Author. HOPE cannot cheat us, Or Fancy betray ; Tempests ne'er scatter The blossoms of May ; 1 E 434 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The wild winds are constant, By method and plan ; Oh ! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can ! Young Love, who shows us His midsummer light, Spreads the same halo O'er Winter's dark night ; And Fame never dazzles To lure and trepan ; Oh ! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can ! Friends of the sunshine Endure in the storm ; Never they promise And fail to perform. And the night ever ends As the morning began ; Oh! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can ! Words softly spoken No guile ever bore ; Peaches ne'er harbour A worm at the core ; And the ground never slipp'd Under high -reaching man ; Oh ! believe me, believe me Believe if you can ! Seas undeceitful, Calm smiling at morn, Wreck not ere midnight The sailor forlorn. And gold makes a bridge Every evil to span ; Oh ! believe me, believe me, Believe if you can. OH, THE HAPPY TIME DEPARTED! Air by Sir H. R. Bishop. OH, the happy time departed ! In its smile the world was fair; We believed in all men's goodness ; Joy and hope were gems to wear ; Angel visitants were with us, There was music in the air. Oh, the happy time departed! Change came o'er it all too soon ; In a cold and drear November Died the leafy wealth of June ; Winter kill'd our summer roses ; Discord marr'd a heavenly tune. Let them pass the days departed What befell may ne'er befall ; Why should we with vain lamenting Seek a shadow to recall? Great the sorrows we have suffer'd Hope is greater than them all. COME BACK! COME BACK! COME back ! come back ! thou youthful Time, When joy and innocence were ours, When life was in its vernal prime, And redolent of sweets and flowers. Come back and let us roam once more, Free-hearted, through life's pleasant ways, And gather garlands as of yore Come back come back ye happy days ! Come back! come back ! 'twas pleasant then To cherish faith in love and truth, For nothing in dispraise of men Had sour'd the temper of our youth. Come back and let us still believe The gorgeous dream romance displays, Nor trust the tale that men deceive Come back come back ye happy days ! Come back ! oh, freshness of the past, When every face seem'd fair and kind, When sunward every eye was cast, And all the shadows fell behind. Come back 'twill come ; true hearts can turn Their own Decembers into Mays ; The secret be it ours to learn Come back come back ye happy days ! TEARS. Music by Sir H. R. Bishop. YE tears ! ye tears ! that have long refused to flow, Ye are welcome to my heart thawing, thawing, like the snow ; 1 feel the hard clod soften, and the early snow- drops spring, And the healing fountains gush, and the wil- dernesses sing. ye tears ! ye tears ! I am thankful that ye run ; Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun ; The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall, And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all. ye tears ! ye tears ! till I felt you on my cheek, 1 was selfish in my sorrow, I was stubborn, I was weak, Ye have given me strength to conquer, and I stand erect and free, And know that I am human by the light of sympathy. ye tears ! ye tears ! ye relieve me of my pain ; The barren rock of pride has been stricken once a<'ain ; CHARLES MACKA Y, LL.D. 435 Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land. There is light upon my path, there is sunshine in my heart, And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart. Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago ye tears ! happy tears ! I am thankful that ye flow. CHEER, BOYS! CHEER! CHEER, boys ! cheer ! no more of idle sorrow ; Courage, true hearts, shall bear us on our way! Hope points before, and shows the bright to- morrow Let us forget the darkness of to-day ! So farewell England ! much as we may love thee, We'll dry the tears that we have shed before ; Why should we weep to sail in search of fortune ? So farewell, England ! farewell evermore ! Cheer, boys ! cheer ! for England, mother England ! Cheer, boys! cheer! the willing strong right hand ; Cheer, boys ! cheer ! there's work for honest labour, Cheer, boys ! cheer ! in the new and happy land ! Cheer, boys ! cheer ! the steady breeze is blow- ing. To float us freely o'er the ocean's breast ; The world shall follow in the track we 're going, The star of empire glitters in the west. Here we had toil and little to reward it, But there shall plenty smile upon our pain ; And ours shall be the mountain and the forest, And boundless prairies, ripe with golden grain. Cheer, boys ! cheer ! for England, mother England ! Cheer, boys! cheer! united heart and hand! Cheer, boys! cheer! there's wealth for honest labour, Cheer, boys ! cheer ! in the new and happy land ! A PLAIN MAN'S PHILOSOPHY. Music by the Author. I 'VE a guinea I can spend, I've a wife, and I've a friend, And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown ; I 've a cottage of my own, With the ivy overgrown, .And a garden, with a view of the sea, John Brown ; I can sit at my door By my shady sycamore, Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown ; So come and drain a glass In my arbour as you pass, And I '11 tell you what I love and what I hate, John Brown. I love the song of birds, And the children's early words, And a loving woman's voice, low and sweet, John Brown ; And I hate a false pretence, And the want of common sense, And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown ; I love the meadow flowers, And the brier in the bowers, And I love an open face without guile, John Brown ; And I hate a selfish knave, And a proud, contented slave, And a lout who'd rather borrow than he'd toil, John Brown. I love a simple song That awakes emotions strong, And the word of hope that raises him who faints, John Brown; And I hate the constant whine Of the foolish who repine, And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown ; But ever when I hate, If I seek my garden gate, And survey the world around me, and above, John Brown, The hatred flies my mind, And I sigh for human kind, And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown. So, if you like my ways, And the comfort of my days, I will tell you how I live so unvex'd, John Brown ; I never scorn my health, Nor sell my soul for wealth, Nor destroy one day the pleasures of the next, John Brown ; I Ve parted with my pride, And I take the siinny side, For I Ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown ; I keep a conscience clear, I Ve a hundred pounds a-year, And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown. THE MEN OF THE NORTH. FIERCE as its sunlight, the East may be proud Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud ; Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast ; 436 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm, In its groves, where the midnight is sleepy with balm : Fair though they be, There 's an isle in the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free ! Hear it, ye lands ! let the shout echo forth The lords of the world are the Men of the North! Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies, There 's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes; Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do Our watchword is "Duty," our maxim is "Through!" Winter and storm only nerve us the more, And chill not the heart, if they creep through the door : Strong shall we be In our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free ! Firm as the rocks when the storm flashes forth, We'll stand in our courage the Men of the North ! Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine, In the face of the slave and the coward may shine; Eoses may blossom where Freedom decays, And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays. Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil, Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil: Proud let us be Of our isle of the sea, The home of the brave and the boast of the free! Men with true hearts let our fame echo forth Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North! THE LOVER'S DREAM OF THE WIJS T D. I DREAM'D thou wert a fairy harp Untouch'd by mortal hand, And I the voiceless, sweet west wind, A roamer through the land. I touch'd, I kiss'd thy trembling strings, And lo ! my common air, Throbb'd with emotion caught from thee, And turn'd to music rare. I dream'd thou wert a rose in bloom, And I the gale of spring, That sought the odours of thy breath, And bore them on my wing. No poorer thou, but richer I So rich, that far at sea, The grateful mariners were glad, And bless'd both thee and me. I dream'd thou wert the evening star, And I a lake at rest, That saw thine image all the night Reflected on thy breast. Too far! too far! come dwell on earth! Be Harp and Rose of May ; I need thy music in my heart, Thy fragrance on my way. HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. HENRY GLASSFORD BELL is a son of the late James Bell, Esq., adv&cate. His maternal grandfather, the Rev. John Hamilton, was parish minister of Cathcart. He was born at Glasgow, but his early life was spent chiefly in Edinburgh, whither his parents removed in his sixth year. Having studied at the University of Edin- burgh, he passed advocate in 1832. Prior to commencing the study of law, he devoted himself to literary pursuits. In 1826 he contributed to Constable's Miscellany, " Life of Mary Queen of Scots," 2 vols. 12mo ; " Military and Political Operations in the Burmese Empire ; " and " The Most Remarkable Phenomena of Nature." In 1828 he originated the Edinburgh Literary Journal, which he conducted for several years with great ability and success. In 1831 he published " Summer and Winter Hours," a volume of poems, which attracted a considerable share of attention. " My Old Portfolio," an interesting melange of prose and poetry, appeared from his pen in 1832. In 1835 he published " The Cabinet, a series of essays, moral and literary," 2 vols. 12mo. "The Stranger, a Tale," appeared in 1839. In the same year Mr Bell was appointed one of the Sheriff-Substitutes of Lanarkshire. During the inter- vals of leisure from the duties of his office, which he has most efficiently discharged, he has continued to prosecute his literary studies. He published in I860 an impor- tant paper on the " Bankruptcy Law of England and Scotland." In 1865 he pub- HENRY GLASS FORD BELL. 437 lished an edition of Shakespeare, with a biographical introduction. An edition of his poetical works, entitled, " Romances and Minor Poems," appeared during the same year. His latest work, " The Merchant of Rotterdam," a novel, was published in 1866. Mr Bell was rewarded for a long career of active usefulness by receiving in 1867 the appointment of Sheriff of Lanarkshire, in succession to the late Sir Archibald Alison, Bart. MY LIFE IS ONE LONG THOUGHT OF THEE. SAY wilt thou, Leila, when alone, Remember days of bliss gone by ? Wilt thou, beside thy native Rhone, E'er for our distant streamlets sigh ? Beneath thy own glad sun and sky, Ah! Leila, wilt thou think of me? She blush'd, and murmur'd in reply, "My life is one long thought of thee. " Sweet girl ! I would not have it so ; My destiny must not be thine, For wildly as the wild waves flow, Will pass this fleeting life of mine. "And let thy fate be weal or woe, My thoughts, " she smiling said, ' ' are free ; And well the watchful angels know My life is one long thought of thee." Then, Leila, may thy thoughts and prayers Be with me in my hour of need, "When round me throng the cold world's cares, And all my heart's fresh sorrows bleed! "Why, dearest, nurse so dark a creed? For full of joy thy years shall be ; And mine shall share the blissful meed, For life is one long thought of thee." ELLEN MAR. As a. father loves a daughter, As the moon may love a star, As a wild flower loves sweet water, So I love thee, Ellen Mar. Had we met when hope was crescent, Beaming like an orient sign, Not a youth of all the present Could have loved with love like mine. But the day with me is over, When I lay at beaxity's feet ; Never more as joyful lover Can I woo thee, Ellen sweet ! And at times my heart is swelling With a dull and heavy pain, When I wish for thy sake, Ellen, Bygone days could come again. Yet, although my life is laden With the years, that crowd so fast ; Though I cannot bring thee, maiden, All that perished in the past ; Though I ask for no surrender Of a single thought to me, Still the love is true and tender Which thy beauty wins from me. Take it, Ellen, as I give it Purer that it shines afar ; Nought of mine will now outlive it, Take it, keep it, Ellen Mar ! GEORDIE YOUNG. I'LL no walk by the kirk, mother, I'll no walk by the manse ; I aye meet wi' the minister, Wha looks at me askance. What ails ye at the minister? A douce and sober lad ; I trow it is na every day That siclike can be had. I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair, Nor yet his pawkie face ; I dinna like a preacher, mother, But in a preaching place. Then ye '11 gang down by Holylee Ye needna look sae scared For wha kens but at Holylee Ye '11 aiblins meet the laird? I canna bide the laird, motLer, He says sic things to me ; Ae half he says wi' wily words, And ae half wi' his ee. Awa! awa! ye gLiikit thing! It's a' that Geordie Young; The laird has no an ee like him, Nor the minister a tongue ! He's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye ha'e, For nane but him ye care ; But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn, That aye gangs cauld and bare. The faithfu' heart will aye, mother, Put trust in ane above, And how can folks gang bare, mother, Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love ( Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn, And walk ye slow and sly ; My certie ! weel ye ken the gate That Geordie Young comes by ! 438 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. His plighted troth is mine, mother, And lang afore the spring I '11 loose my silken snood, mother, And wear the gowden ring. THE TALL GENTLEMAN'S APOLOGY. UPBRAID me not I never swore eternal love to thee, For thou art only five feet high, and I am six feet three ; I wonder, dear, how you supposed that I could look so low ; There 's many a one can tie a knot who cannot fix a beau. Besides, you must confess, my love, the bar- gain's scarcely fair, For never could we have a match although we made a pair. Marriage, I know, makes one of two ; but here's the horrid bore, My friends declare of you and me, that I at least am four. 'Tis true the moralists have said, that Love has got no eyes ; But why should all my sighs be heaved for one who has no siz ! And on our wedding-day I'm sure I'd leave you in the larch, For you never saw a steeple, dear, in the inside of a church. 'Tis usual for a wife to take her husband by the arm ; But, pray, excuse me, should I hint a sort of fond alarm, That when I offered you my arm this happiness to beg, Your highest effort, dear, would be to take me by the leg. I do admit I wear a glass, because my sight's not good, But were I always quizzing you it might be counted rude ; And though I use a concave lens by all the gods, I hope My wife will ne'er look up to me through a Herschel telescope. Then fare-thee-well my gentle one ! I ask no parting kiss I must not break my back to gain so exquisite a bliss ; Nor will I weep lest I should hurt so delicate a flower, The tears that fall from such a height would be a thunder-shower. I Farewell ! and pray don 't drown yourself in a basin or a tub, For that would be a sore disgrace to all the Six-Feet Club ; But if you ever love again, love on a smaller plan, For why extend to six feet three a life that's but a span ! A BACHELOR'S COMPLAINT. THEY 'RE stepping off, the friends I knew, They're going one by one ; They're taking wives to tame their lives, Their jovial days are done ; I can't get one old crony now To join me in a spree ; They've all grown grave, domestic men, They look askance on me. I hate to see them sober'd down, The merry boys and true, I hate to hear them sneering now At pictures fancy drew ; I care not for their married cheer, Their puddings and their soups, And middle-aged relations round, In formidable groups. And though their wife perchance may have A comely sort of face, And at the table's upper end Conduct herself with grace, I hate the prim reserve that reigns, The caution and the state, I hate to see my friend grow vain Of furniture and plate. 0, give me back the days again, When we have wander'd free, And stole the dew from every flower, The fruit from every tree ; The friends I loved they will not come, They've all deserted me ; They sit at home and toast their toes, Look stupid and sip tea. Alas ! alas ! for years gone by, And for the friends I've lost ; When no warm feeling of the heart Was chill'd by early frost. If these be Hymen's vaunted joys, I'd have him shun my door, Unless he quench his torch, and live Henceforth a bachelor. WILLIAM BENNET. 439 WILLIAM BENNET, "WILLIAM BENXET was born on the 29th September 1802, in the parish of Glencairn, and county of Dumfries. He first wrote verses while apprenticed to a mechanic in a neighbouring parish. In his nineteenth year he published a volume of poems, which excited some attention, and led to his connection with the newspaper press. He became a regular contributor to the Dumfries Courier, and in 1825 and the following year conducted the Dumfries Magazine, in which appeared many interesting articles from his pen. In December 1826 he became editor of the Glasgow Free Press, which supported the liberal cause during the Eeform Bill struggle. Along with Sir Daniel Sandford, he afterwards withdrew from the Whig party, and established the Glasgow Constitutional, the editorship of which he resigned in 1836. In 1832-3, he published a periodical, entitled, " Bennet's Glasgow Magazine." Continuing to write verses, he afterwards published a poetical volume, with the title, " Songs of Solitude." His other separate works are, "Pictures of Scottish Scenes and Character," in three volumes; "Sketches of the Isle of Man ;" and " The Chief of Glen-Orchay," a poem in five cantos, illustrative of Highland manners in the middle ages. Mr Bennet, subsequent to leaving Glasgow, resided successively in Ireland and in London. He afterwards lived in Galloway, and he has latterly fixed his abode at Burntisland. BLEST BE THE HOUR OF NIGHT. BLEST be the hour of night, When, his toils over, The swain, with a heart so light, Meets with his lover ! Sweet the moon gilds their path, Arm in arm straying ; Clouds never rise in wrath, Chiding their staying. Gently they whisper low : Unseen beside them, Good angels watch, that no 111 may betide them. Silence is everywhere, Save when the sighing Is heard, of the breeze's fall, Fitfully dying. How the maid's bosom glows, While her swain's telling The love, that's been long, she knows, In his heart swelling ! How, when his arms are thrown Tenderly round her, Fears she in words to own What he hath found her ! When the first peep of dawn Warns them of parting, And from each dewy lawn Blythe birds are starting, Fondly she hears her swain Vow, though they sever, Soon they shall meet again, Mated for ever. THERE'S MUSIC IN A MOTHER'S VOICE. THERE'S music in a mother's voice, More sweet than breezes sighing ; Tli ere 's kindness in a mother's glance, Too pure for ever dying. There's love within a mother's breast, So deep 'tis still o'erflowing, And for her own a tender care, That's ever, ever growing. And when a mother kneels to heaven, And for her child is praying, Oh, who shall half the fervour tell That burns in all she's saying! A mother, when she, like a star, Sets into heaven before us, From that bright home of love, all pure, Still minds and watches o'er us. I'LL THINK ON THEE, LOVE. I '11 think on thee, Love, when thy bark Hath borne thee far across the deep ; And, as the sky is bright or dark, 'Twill be my fate to smile or weep ; For oh, when winds and waters keep In trust so dear a charge as thee, My anxious fears can never sleep Till thou again art safe with me! 440 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. I '11 think on thee, Love, when each hour Of twilight comes, with pensive, mood, And silence, like a spell of power, Rests, in its depth, on field and wood ; And as the mingling shadows brood Still closer o'er the lonely sea, Here, on the beach where first we woo'd, I '11 pour to heaven my prayers for thee. Then haply on the breeze's wing, That to me steals across the wave, Some angel's voice may answer bring That list'ning heaven consents to save. And oh, the further boon I crave Perchance may also granted be, That thou, return'd, no more shalt brave The wanderer's perils on the sea ! HENRY INGLIS. HENRY INGLIS, of Torsonce, is the son of "William Inglis, Esq. of Glaspin, "W.S. He was born at Edinburgh on the 6th November 1806. His early years were spent at Middleton, Ms father's residence in Linlithgowshire. Completing with distinction the usual course of classical study at the High School of Edinburgh, he entered the University of that city. At the close of a philosophical curriculum, he devoted him- self to legal pursuits, and became a Writer to the Signet. In 1851 he published " Marican, and other Poems," in one volume octavo. Another poetical work, en- titled, " The Briar of Threave," appeared from his pen in 1855. He published in 1859, "Death Scenes of the Scottish Martyrs," a volume of interesting lays descrip- tive of striking scenes and events in the history of the Scottish Covenanters. His latest poetical work, " Ballads from the German," which appeared in 1864, has amply sustained his reputation. The representative of the old Border family of Inglis of Branxholme, Mr Inglis is great-grandson of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, who fell at the battle of Prestonpans in 1745. WEEP AWAY. WEEP away, heart, weep away ! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep ; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid. The lofty sky weeps in cloud, The earth weeps in dews From its core ; The diamond brooks weep aloud, The flowers change the hues Which they wore. The grass mourns in the sunbeam, In gums weep the trees And in dye ; And if mourn meadow and stream Inanimate these May not I ? The wood-pigeon mourns his mate, The caged birds bewail Freedom gone ; Shall not man mourn over fate ? Dumb sorrow assail Him alone? Then weep on, heart, weep away ! Let no muleteer Be afraid To weep ; for a brave heart may Lament for a dear, Fickle maid. JAMES HEDDERWICK, JAMES HEDDERWICK, proprietor and editor of the Glasgow Citizen, was born at Glasgow on the 18th January 1814. His father, who bore the same Christian name, was latterly Queen's printer in that city. At an early age the subject of this sketch was put to the printing business in his father's office. His tastes, however, being more literary than mechanical, he gradually became dissatisfied with his position, JAMES HEDDERWICK. 441 and occupied his leisure hours by contributing, in prose and verse, to sundry periodi- cals. In his sixteenth year he spent some time in London, in the course of which he attended the rhetoric class of the London University, and carried off the first prize. When little more than twenty years of age, he obtained the situation of sub-editor of the Scotsman newspaper. He now applied himself assiduously to political writing, but continued, at the same time, to seek recreation in those lighter departments of literature which were more in accordance with his personal tastes. Several of his poetical pieces, contributed to the Scotsman, were copied into Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, and have since frequently appeared in different periodicals. In 1842 he .returned to his native city, and started the Glasgow Citizen, now published as a daily evening newspaper. In 1854 he printed a small volume of verses, and in 1859 pro- duced his " Lays of Middle Age, and other Poems." A few years ago he edited a weekly periodical, entitled Heddenvick's Miscellany, which met with a considerable share of public support. THE LINNET. TUCK, tuck, feer from the green and growing leaves ; Ic, ic, ic from the little song-bird's throat ; How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, And the summer in the heavens is afloat ! "Wye, wye, chir 'tis the little linnet sings ; Weet, weet, weet -how his pipy treble trills ! In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, Giving gladness to the music of the rills ! Ic, ic, ir from a happy heart unbound ; Lug, lug, jee from the dawn till close of day! There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay! Jug, jug, joey oh, how sweet the linnet's theme ! Peu, peu, poy is he wooing all the while? Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, Or waiting for her lover at the stile ? Pipe, pipe, chow will the linnet never weary ? Bel, bel, tyr is he pouring forth his vows? The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, "With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs ! THE LAND FOR HE. I 'VE been upon the moonlit deep When the wind had died away, And like an Ocean-god asleep The bark majestic lay ; But lovelier is the varied scene, The hill, the lake, the tree, "When bathed in light of Midnight's Queen The land ! the land ! for me. The glancing waves I 've glided o'er When gently blew the breeze ; But sweeter was the distant shore, The zephyr 'mong the trees. The murmur of the mountain rill, The blossoms waving free, The song of birds on every hill ; The land ! the land ! for me. The billows I have been among When they roll'd in mountains dark, And Night her blackest curtain hung Around our heaving bark ; But give me, when the storm is fierce, My home and fireside glee, Where winds may howl, but dare not pierce; The land ! the land ! for me. And when around the lightning flash'd I 've been upon the deep, And to the gulf beneath I've dash'd Adown the liquid steep ; But now that I am safe on shore, There let me ever be ; The sea let others wander o'er ; The land ! the land ! for me. SORROW AND SONG. WEEP not over poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances ; Sorrow is the source of song, And of gentle fancies. 442 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Kills o'er rocky beds are borne Ere they gush in whiteness ; Pebbles are wave-chafed and worn Ere they shew their brightness. Sweetest gleam the morning flowers When in tears they waken ; Earth enjoys refreshing showers When the bonghs are shaken, Ceylon's glistening pearls are sought In its deepest waters ; From the darkest mines are brought Gems for beauty's daughters. Through the rent and shiver'd rock Limpid water breaketh ; Tis but when the chords are struck That their music waketh. Flowers, by heedless footstep press' d, All their sweets surrender ; Gold must brook the fiery test Ere it shew its splendour. When the twilight, cold and damp, Gloom and silence bringeth, Then the glow-worm lights its lamp, And the night-bird singeth. Stars come forth when Night her shroud Draws as Daylight faiuteth j Only on the tearful cloud God his rainbow painteth. Weep not, then, o'er poet's wrong, Mourn not his mischances ; Sorrow is the source of song And of gentle fancies. WILLIAM BROCKIE, WILLIAM BROCKIE was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by publishing a small periodical, entitled, The, Galashiels Weekly Journal. He subsequently edited The Border IVatch, a newspaper published at Kelso. This concern proving unfortunate, he accepted the editorship of the Sliields Gazette. He now conducts a newspaper published in Sunderland. Besides a number of pamphlets oil a variety of subjects, Mr Brockie has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, entitled, " The Dusk and the Dawn." YE'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR. WHAT ails ye, my lassie, my dawtie, my ain ? I've gi'en ye my word, and I'll gi'e ye't again. There's naething to fear ye be lichtsome and cheerie ; I '11 never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane. We're sune tae be married I needna say mair; Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare; In a house o* our ain we '11 be canty and fain, An' ye '11 never gang back to yer mither iiae mair. We needna be troubled ere trouble be spning ; The warld's afore us we're puir, but we're young ; An' fate will be kind if we're willint in mind Sae keep up yer heart, lass, and dinna be dung. Folk a' ha'e their troubles, and we'll get our share, But we '11 warsle out through them, and scorn to despair ; Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part, An' ye '11 never gang back to yer mither uae mair. While we live for each other, our lot will be blest ; An' though freens sud forget us, they'll never be miss'd ; We'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien, An' the cares o' the world '11 a' be dismiss' d. A couple that strive to be honest and fair May be rich without siller, and guid without lear; Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue, Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair. ROBERT WILSON. JOHN CRAWFORD. 443 ROBERT WILSON, ROBERT WILSON was born in the parish of Carnbee, Fifeshire. He practised for some time as a surgeon at St Andrews. In 1856, a duodecimo volume of " Poems" from his pen was published at Boston, U.S. His other publications are a small volume on " The Social Condition of France," " Lectures on the Game Laws," and several brochures on subjects of a socio-political nature. He resides at Aberdour, Fifeshire. LOVE. WHAT fond, delicious ecstasy does early love impart ! Resistless, as a spring-tide sea, it flows into the heart, Pervading with its living wave the bosom's inmost core, That thrills with many a gentle hope it never felt before. And o'er the stripling's glowing heart, extend- ing far and wide, Through passion's troubled realm does Love with angel sway preside ; And smiles are shed that cast a light o'er many a future year, And whispers soft are conjured up of lips that are not near. With promises of fairyland this daylight world teems, And sleep comes with forgetfulness or fraught with lovely dreams ; And there is magic in the touch, and music in the sigh, And, far more eloquent than speech, a language in the eye. And hope the constant bosom cheers with prospects ever new ; But if the favour'd one prove false, oh ! who can then be true? Our fond illusions disappear, like slumber's shadowy train, And we ne'er recall those vanish'd hopes, nor feel that love again. AWAY, AWAY, MY GALLANT BARK. AWAY, away, my gallant bark ! The waves are white and high ; And fast the long becalmed clouds Are sailing in the sky. The merry breeze which wafts them on And chafes the billow's spray, Will urge thee in the watery flight : My gallant bark, away ! Now, like the sea-bird's snowy plumes, Are spread thy winged sails, To soar above the mountain waves, And scoop their glassy vales ; And, like the bird, thou'lt calmly rest, Thy azure journey o'er, The shadow of thy folded wings Upon the sunny shore. Away, away, my gallant bark ! Across the billow's foam ; I leave awhile, for ocean's strife, The quiet haunts of home ; The green fields of my fatherland For many a stormy bay ; The blazing hearth for beacon-light : My gallant bark, away ! JOHN CRAWFORD, A POET of no inconsiderable merit, John Crawford was, on the 31st August 1816, born at Greenock, in the same apartment which, thirty years before, had witnessed the death of Burns's " Highland Mary," his mother's cousin. With only a few months' attendance at school, he was, in boyhood, thrown on his own resources for support. Selecting the profession of a house-painter, he left Greenock in his eighteenth year, and has since prosecuted his vocation in the town of Alloa. In 1850 he published a small duodecimo volume of lyrics, entitled, " Doric Lays." This little work received the strong approbation of Miss Mitford. " There is," wrote the latter to a corre- spondent, " an originality in his writings very rare in a follower of Burns 444 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. This is the true thing a flower springing from the soil, not merely cut and stuck into the earth. Will you tell Mr Crawford how much pleasure he has given to a poor invalid?" In 1860 Mr Crawford published " Doric Lays, Second Series." He has long heen engaged in preparing an historical and descriptive work, to he entitled, " Memorials of the Town and Parish of Alloa." 1IY AULD WIFIE JEAN. AIR " There 1 II never be peace till Jamie comes hame." MY couthie auld wine, aye blythesome to see, As years slip awa' aye the dearer to me ; For ferlies o' fashion I carena ae preen When I cleek to the kirk wi' my auld wifie Jean. The thoughts o' the past are aye pleasin' to me, And mair sae when love lights my auld wifie 's ee; For then I can speak o' the days I ha'e seen When care found nae hame i' the heart o' my Jean. A hantle we've borne since that moment o' bliss, Frae thy lips, breathin' balm, when I stole the first kiss, When 1 read a response tp my vows in thy een, An, blushin', I prest to my bosom my Jean. Like a rose set in snaw was the bloom on thy cheek, Thy hair, wi' its silken snood, glossy and sleek, When the Laird o' Drumlochie, sae lithless and lean, Wad ha'e gane a Jang mile for ae glisk o' my Jean. Thy mither was dead, and thy farther was fain That the lang-luggit lairdie wad ca' thee his ain ; But auld age and frailty could ne'er gang atween The vows I had nifler'd wi' bonnie young Jean. I canna weel work, an' ye're weary an' worn, The gudes an' the ills lang o' life we ha'e borne ; But we ha'e a hame, an' we : re cozie and bien, And the thrift I 've to thank o' my auld wifie Jean. Baith beddin' an' cleadin' o' a* kind ha'e we, A sowp for the needy we 've aye had to gi'e, A bite and a drap for baith fremit an' frien', Was aye the warst wish o' my auld wifie Jean. The puir beildless body has scugg'd the cauld blast, 'Yont our hallan he's houft till the gurl gaed past, An' a bite aff our board, aye sae tidy an' clean, He 's gat wi' gudewill frae my auld wifie Jean. Our hopes we ha'e set where our bairnies ha'e gaen; Though lyart we've grown since they frae us were ta'en ; The thoughts o' them yet brings the tears to our een, And aft I've to comfort my auld wifie Jean. The paughty and proud ha'e been laid i' the dust, Since the first hairst I shore, since the first clod I cuist ; And soon we '11 lie laigh ; but aboon we 've a Frien', And bright days are comin' for me an' my Jean. THE LAND 0' THE BONNET AND PLAID. HTTRRA ! for the land o' the broom-cover'd brae, The land o' the rowan, the haw, and the slae ; Where waves the blue harebell in dingle and glade The land o' the pibroch, the bonnet, and plaid. Hurra ! for the hills o' the cromlech and cairn, Where blossoms the thistle by hillocks o' fern; There Freedom in triumph an altar has made For holiest rites in the land o' the plaid. Acoronal wreath, where the wild flowers bloom, To garnish the martyr and patriot's tomb : Shall their names ever perish -their fame ever fade Who ennobled the land o' the bonnet and plaid? Oh, hame o' my bairnhood, ye hills o' my love ? The haunt o' the freeman for aye may ye prove ; And honour'd forever be matron and maid In the land o' the heather, the bonnet, and plaid. Hurra ! for the land o' the deer and the rae, 0' the gowany glen and the bracken-clad brae. Where blooms our ain thistle, in sunshine and shade Dear badge o' the land o' the bonnet and plaid. SIXG ON, FAIRY DEVON.* SIKG on, fairy Devon, 'Mong gardens and bowers, "Where love's feast lies spread In an Eden o' flowers. "What visions o' beauty My mind has possess'd, In thy gowany dell Where a seraph might rest. * Written for the present work. JOHN CRA WFORD. 445 Sing on, lovely river, Ther're runkles on my broo, To hillock and tree Ther're furrows on my cheek, A lay o' the loves My wither'd heart fills fu' 0* my Jessie an me ; "Whan o' bygone days I speak. For nae angel lightin', For I 'm weary, A posie to pu', I 'm weary, Can match the fair form I 'm weary o' care 0' the lassie I lo'e. Whare my bairnies ha'e gane, Oh, let me gang there. Sweet river, dear river, Sing on in your glee, In thy pure breast the mind O' my Jessie I see. How aft ha'e I wander'd, I ance was fu' o' glee, And wha was then sae gay, "Whan dreamin' life wad be But ae lang simmer day ? As grey gloamin' fell, Bare dreamin's o' heaven My lassie to tell. My feet, like lichtnin', flew Roun' pleasure's dizzy ring, They j imply staucher noo Aneath a feckless thing. Sing on, lovely Devon, For I 'm weary, The sang that ye sung I 'm weary, When earth in her beauty Frae night's bosom sprung, For lanesome and eerie I 'm weary o' care Whare my first luve lies cauld, Oh, let me lie there. This warld aye would be The ourie breath o' eild Did clouds ever fa' Has blown ilk Men' frae me ; Atween Jessie and me. They come na near my beild I ha'e dawted on my knee ; They haud awa' their heids, My frailties no to see ; ANN 0' CORNYLEE. My blessings on them, ane and a' GAELIC AIR " Soraiadh. slan dona Ailieagan." I 've naething else to gie. For I'm weary, I 'LL twine a gowany garland A\ 7 ' lilies frae the spring ; I 'm weary and worn I 'in weary and worn The fairest flowers by Clutha's side To the frien's o' my youth In a' their bloom I'll bring. I maun soon, soon return. I'll wreath a flowery wreath to shade My lassie's scornfu' ee For oh, I cauna bide the frown MY MARY DEAR.* 0' Ann o' Cornylee. TUNE " Annie Laurie'' Xae gilded ha', nae downie bed THE gloamin' star was showerin' My lowly cot maun cheer, A sheilin' on the banks o' Gryfe Its siller glories doun, And nestled in its mossy lair Is a' my worldly gear ; A laiiely cot, wi' moss o'ergrowu, Is a' I ha'e to gi'e ; The Untie sleepit soun' ; The lintie sleepit soun', And the starnies sparkled clear, A leal heart, sinking 'neath the scorn When on a gowany bank I sat 0' Ann o' Cornylee. Aside my Mary dear. The linty 'mang the yellow broom, The laverock in the lift, Ha'e never sang the waes o' love 0' hope and joy bereft ; Nor has the mavis ever sang The ills I ha'e to dree, For loviu' o' a paughty maid, Fair Ann o' Cornylee. The burnie wanders eerie Roun' rock and ruin'd tower, By mony a fairy hillock And mony a lanely bower ; Roun' mony a lanely bower, Love's tender tale to hear, Where I in whisper'd vows ha'e woo'd And won my Mary dear. Oh, hallow'd hours o' happiness Frae me for ever ta'en ! Wi' summer's flowery loveliness THE WAES 0' EILD. Ye come na back again ! Ye come na back again, (for an old Gaelic air.) The waefu' heart to cheer, THE cranreuch's on my heid, For lang the greedy grave has closed The mist's now on my een, Aboou my Mary dear. A lanesome life I lead, 1 'm no what I ha'e been. * Written for the present work. 446 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. LADY WAKE, LADY WAKE, nee Charlotte Tait, is the second daughter of Crawfurd Tait, Esq. of Harvieston, Clackmannanshire. Her mother, Susan Campbell, was third daughter of Sir Islay Camphell, Bart., of Succoth, Lord President of the Court of Session, whose wife, Helen Wallace, was only child and heiress of John Wallace, Esq. of Ellerslie, lineal descendant and representative of Sir Malcolm Wallace, eldest brother of the celebrated Scottish chief. The subject of this notice married, on the 1st June 1822, Charles Wake, Esq., eldest son of Sir William Wake, Bart., of Clevedon, Somersetshire. Sir Charles succeeded his father as tenth baronet in 1846, and died in 1864. Lady Wake's youngest brother is the Most Reverend Archibald Campbell Tait, D.D., Archbishop of Canterbury. GR1ZELL COCHRANE; OR, THE DAUGHTER DEAR.* THROUGH clouds o' gold, wi' gladsome ray, The sun shone blythe and cheery, And glitter'd o'er the prison wa's, And through the grate sae dreary. " Keep up your heart, my father dear, The sun shines sweet and fair." ' ' It weel may shine, for soon I fear 'Twill shine for me nae mair. ' ' This day the fatal warrant comes That takes frae me my breath ; But the thought o' thee, my daughter dear, Is sharper far than death ! When I maun yield my hoary head Unto the headsman stern, They'll lay the rebel in his grave ; But wha will shield his bairn ? " She smooth'd his hair with playful hand, Syne kiss'd his forehead grey. " This breast shall be thy resting place, I ween, for mony a day." And syne about his neck she threw Her arm wi' maiden grace : " Be this," she cried, "thine only bond Thy daughter's fond embrace. " And now farewell, my father dear, For surely I maun go ; For Heaven has breathed to me a thought To ward the coming blow. " And she has bound a horseman's cloak Around her slender waist ; And she has dofFd her maiden robes ; In corslet she is laced. And she 1ms dofFd her silken snood, And braided back her hair, And deeply slouch'd her warrior's cap, To hide her forehead fair ; And syne she mounts a gude black steed, Her hands the pistols bear ; And wha that met this knight could guess It was a maiden fair ? And if her bosom struggled sair, Or felt a maiden fear, She drew a lang, lang breath, and thought Upon her father dear ! And she's ta'en the road that traveller's gae, Prepared for doule and strife : She's met the postman on his way; He stands or yields his life. "Yield, yield to me, ye coward loon, If the morrow's sun ye'd see ; I trow this day shall be thy last, If that packet ye winna gi'e." She clasp'd the warrant to her breast, Nor heed's the craven's stare. Who wonders that this robber bold Should ha'e a form sae fair. Her steed she syne gave to the wind, And dash'd away a tear; 'Twas joy that wet her lovely cheek She 's saved her father dear ! Throiigh clouds o' gold, wi' gladsome ray, The sun shone bright and cheery, And glitter'd o'er the prison wa's, And through the grate sae dreary. But the sunbeam fell on an empty cell, It held no pris'ner grey; For they're fled owre the sea to a far countrie, To bide a blyther day. Oh ! bonnie blue hills, tho' shadow'd with ills, Ha'e trust in thy daughter dear ; For Heaven has care for the maiden's prayer, And blesses the maiden's tear. * The intrepid act of filial devotion, which is the subject of this ballad, took place in July 1685. The heroine was Grizell Cochrane ; and her father, whose life was saved in consequence of the interception of the death-warrant on its way from London, was Sir John Cochrane of Ochiltree, who was found guilty of high treason on the 2?d May 1685, for accession to the plot entered into towards the end of Charles II. 's reign chiefly for the purpose of excluding the Duke of York (James II.) from succeeding to the throne. It was for their alleged connection with the same plot, that Lord Russell and Algernon Sydney were executed; and it was afterwards followed up by the rising of Argyle in Scotland. Naif by the autlwrtss. LAD Y JOHN SCO TT. 447 LADY JOHN SCOTT. THE authoress of the words and music of many popular songs, Lady John Scott, nee Alicia Anne Spottiswoode, is the eldest daughter of John Spottiswoode, Esq. of Spottiswoode, Berwickshire. Her mother, Helen Wauchope, was second daughter of Andrew Wauchope, Esq. of Niddrie-Mains, near Edinburgh. The subject of this notice married, on the llth March 1836, Lord John Douglas Scott, second son of Charles, fourth Duke of Buccleuch. Lord John died on the 3d January 1860. The whole of Lady John Scott's musical compositions have been published by Mr C. Lonsdale, 26 Old Bond Street, London, by whose kind permission her Ladyship's songs are subjoined. KATHERINE LOGIE. WHEN the sun sets o'er the lily lea, And the night is gath'ring silently ; Oh, then my lane I mourn for thee, My dearest Katherine Logie. I wander awa' by the Heuch Wood Scaur, And silently gaze at the evening star ; And I mind thy face that was bonnier far, My loveliest Katheiine Logie. The bird upon the forest tree, Singing his wildest melody, Had na a voice sae sweet as thee, My darling Katherine Logic. The bright munebeam is no' sae fair As the light that play'd on the gowden hair; "\Vaes me, I shall never see thee mair, My sweetest Katherine Logie. Thou art far abune this warld o' pain, Where I maun wander dark and lane ; For the light o' my life wi' thee is gaue, My dearest Katherine Logie. LAMMEBMOOB. OH, wild and stormy Lammermoor ! Would I could feel once more The cold north wind, the wintry blast, That sweeps thy mountains o'er. Would I could see thy drifted snow Deep, deep in cleuch and glen, And hear the scream of the wild birds, And was free on thy hills again ! I hate this dreary southern land, I weary day by day For the music of thy many streams In the birchwoods far away ! From all I love they banish me, But my thoughts they cannot chain ; And they bear me back, wild Lammermoor ! To thy distant hills again ! SHAME ON YE, GALLANTS! SHAME on ye, gallants ! that rise not readily ; Rouse ye and march at your Prince's call; Wha sae base but would arm him speedily For the noblest Stuart amang them ail ? He comes like the dawn on our lang night of slavery, Hope in his smile, and light in his ee ; He sought us alone in his youth and his bravery Frae the tyrant usurper to set us free. Shame on ye, gallants ! the sun shineth fairly To brighten each step of the conqueror's way; The winds are singing a welcome to Charlie, And the rebels are running before him the day. Weel may we trust him to bear himsel' daunt- lessly ; Scotland can witness frae heroes he springs ; Noble his spirit, untainted his gallantry, Worthy the son of a hundred kings. ETTRICK. OH, murmuring waters ! Have ye no message for me? Ye come from the hills of the west, Where his step wanders free. Did he not whisper my name?. Did he not utter one word ? And trust that its sound o'er the rush Of thy streams might be heard. Oh, murmuring waters ! The soiinds of the moorlands I hear, The scream of the heron and the eagle, The bell of the deer ; The rustling of heather and fern, The shiver of grass on the lea, The sigh of the wind from the hill, Hast thou no voice for me ? Oh, murmuring waters ! Flow on ye have no voice for me ; Bear the wild songs of the hills To the depths of the sea ! 448 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Bright stream, from the founts of the west Rush on with thy music and glee 1 Oh ! to be borne to my rest In the cold waves with thee ! YOUR VOICES ARE NOT HUSH'D. YOTTR voices are not hush'd, No bitter tear is shed ; Your spirits are uncrush'd, And she is with the dead ! Do ye not miss her voice, And the light of her glorious eyes ? No ye can still rejoice, While she in her cold grave lies. Since she was smiling here, But few short years have fled ; Your laugh is on my ear, And she is with the dead. Do ye not pine to see Her radiant face again? No in your careless glee No thoughts of the dead remain. O'er all the joyous earth, The Spring's soft light is shed ; Her home is fill'd with mirth, And she is with the dead. Have ye no thought or care That the light of our life is gone ? No in my deep despair, I feel I am all alone. THE FOUL FORDS. THE muirs and the waters remain ! The road ower the brae We sae aft used to gae ; But Jamie is gane ! And noo I gang wanderin' my lane ! I keep frae them a', I 've iiae spirit ava', Since Jamie is gane ! He '11 ne'er come to Rathock again ! He's seen others ower fair, And he minds me uae mair, And Jamie is gaiie ! Parting was never sae pain ! For hope it was strang, That it was na for lang ; But Jamie is gane ! I ken that my grief is in vain, Yet my heart's like to break, I wad die for his sake ! And Jamie is gane ! DURIS-DEER. * WE'LL meet nae mair at sunset, when the weary day is dune, Nor wander name thegether by the lee licht o" the mune : I '11 hear your step nae langer amang the dewy corn, For we'll meet nae mair, my bonniest, either at e'en or morn. The yellow broom is waving abune the sunny brae, And the rowan berries dancing where the sparkling waters play ; Though a' is bright and bonnie, it's an eerie place to me, For we'll meet nae mair, my dearest, either by burn or tree. Far up into the wild hills there 's a kirkyard auld and still, Where the frosts lie ilka morning, and the mists hang low and chill ; And there ye sleep in silence, while I wander here my lane, 'Till we meet ance mair in Heaven never to part again ! JOHN STUART BLACKIE, JOHN STUART BLACKIE, Professor of Greek in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Glasgow in the year 1809. His father, who had originally come from Kelso, removed from Glasgow to Aberdeen, as agent for the Commercial Bank in that city, while his son was still very young. The boy was sent to a private school in the city, where he remained until, in his twelfth year, he became a student in Marischal College. He was a student of arts for five years in Aberdeen and Edinburgh and then he attended theological classes for three years. In 1829 he proceeded to the Continent, and studied at Gottingen and Berlin, where he mastered the German language, and dived deep into the treasures of German literature. From Germany he went to Rome, where he spent fifteen months, devoting himself to the Italian JOHN STUAR T LA CKIE. 449 language and literature, and to the study of archaeology. His first publication testifies to his success in both studies. It is entitled, " Osservazioni sopra un antico sarco- phago." It was written in Italian, and published in the Annali del Institute ArcluBO- logico, Roma, 1831. . Mr Blackie had given up the idea of entering the Church, and on his return to Scotland he studied law, and passed advocate in 1834. The study of law was never very congenial to him, and the practice of the profession was still less so. Accord- ingly, at this period he occupied himself with literary work, principally writing for Reviews. It was at this time that his translation of "Faust" appeared. It is entitled, " Faust : a Tfegedy, by J. W. Goethe. Translated into English Verse, with Notes, and Preliminary Remarks, by John S. Blackie, Fellow of the Society for Archaeological Correspondence, Rome." Mr Blackie had taken upon him a very difficult task in attempting to translate the great work of the great German, and we need not wonder that he did not succeed entirely. We believe, with Mr Lewes, that the perfect accomplishment of this task is impossible, and that Goethe's work is fully intelligible only to the German scholar. But, at the same time, Mr Blackie fully succeeded in the aim which he set before him. He says in the preface, " The great principle on which the excellence of a poetical translation depends, seems to be, that it should not be a mere transposing, but a re-casting, of the original. On this prin- ciple, it has been my first and chief endeavour to make my translation spirited to seize, if possible, the very soul and living power of the German, rather than to give a careful and anxious transcription of every individual line, or every minute expres- sion." If this is what a translator should do, there can be no question that the "Faust" of Blackie is all that can be desired full of spirit and life, harmonious from beginning to end, and reading exactly like an original. The best proof of its success is that Mr Lewes, in his biography of Goethe, prefers it, as a whole, to any of the other poetical translations of Goethe. The preliminary remarks are very charac- teristic, written with that intense enthusiasm which still animates all his writings. The notes at the end are full of curious information regarding the witchcraft and astrology of the Middle Ages, gathered with assiduous labour from the stores of the Advocates' Library. The translation of " Faust " established Mr Blackie's reputation as a German scholar ; and, for some time after this, he was chiefly occupied in reviewing German books for the Foreign Quarterly Review. He was also a contributor to Blackwood, Tait, and the Westminster Review. The subjects on which he principally wrote were poetry, history, or religion ; and among his articles may be mentioned a genial one on Uhland, a deeply earnest article on Jung Stillung, whose life he seems to have studied very thoroughly, and several on the later campaigns of Napoleon. To this last subject he then gave very great attention, as almost every German and English book on the subject that appeared is reviewed by him ; and the article which describes Napoleon's Leipzig campaign is one of the clearest military monographs that has been written. During this time Mr Blackie was still pursuing his Latin and Greek studies ; and one article, on a classical subject, deserves especial notice. It is a thorough criticism of all the dramas of Euripides, in which he takes a view of the dramatist exactly the reverse of that maintained by Walter Savage Landor asserting that he was a bungler in the tragic art, and far too much addicted to foisting his stupid moralisings into his plays. Another article in the Westminster, on the Prussian Constitution, is worthy of remark for its thoroughness. The whole machinery of the Prussian bureaucracy is explained in a way very satisfactory to an English reader. In 1841 Mr Blackie was appointed Professor of Humanity in Marischal College, Aberdeen a post which he held for eleven years. To this new labour he gave him- 450 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. self with all Ms heart, and was eminently successful. The Aberdeen students were remarkable for their accurate knowledge of the grammatical forms and syntax of Latin, acquired under the careful training of Dr Melvin ; but their reading, both classical and general, was restricted, and they were wanting in literary impulses. Professor Blackie strove to supply both deficiencies. He took his students over a great deal of ground, opening up to them the beauties of the authors read, and laying the foundation of higher criticism. Then he formed a class-library, delivered lec- tures on Roman literature in all its stages, and introduced the study of general history. From this period dates the incessant activity which he has displayed in educational, and especially University reform. At the time he commenced his work, the subject was a disagreeable one to Scottish ears, and he had to bear the apathy not only of his fellow-countrymen, but also of his fellow-professors. He never, however, bated a jot of heart, and he has reaped his reward. The reforms which he advocated have been adopted, the test abolished, and the administration of university affairs placed on a wide and popular basis. Mr Blackie delivered public lectures on education in Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Aberdeen, and published pamphlets and wrote various articles on it in the news- papers. He gave himself also to the study of the philosophy of education. His most noteworthy contributions in this direction are, his review of Beneke's masterly work on education, in the Foreign Quarterly, and two lectures "On the Studying and Teaching of Languages." During the whole of this period, his main strength was devoted to Latin and Greek philology; some of the results were published in the Classical Museum. One of the contributions to that journal was published separately " On the Rhythmical Declamation of the Ancients." It is a clear exposition of the principles of accentua- tion, drawing accurately the distinction between accent and quantity, and between the accents of common talk and the musical accents that occur in poetry. It is the best monograph on the subject, of which we know. Another article, " On Prome- theus," clears JSschylus from the charge of impiety, because he appears to make Zeus act tyrannically towards Prometheus in the " Prometheus Vinctus." He also gave the results of some of his classical studies, in lectures in Edinburgh and Glasgow on Roman History and Greek literature. The principal works on which he was engaged at this time were translations of Horace and JEschylus. Translations of several odes of Horace have appeared in various publications. The translation of all the dramas of JEschylus appeared in 1850. It was dedicated to the Chevalier Bunsen and Edward Gerhard, Royal Archaeologist, " the friends of his youth, and the directors of his early studies." This work is now universally admitted to be the best complete translation of JEschylus in English. In 1852 he was elected to the chair of Greek in Edinburgh University. His first publication after his election to this professorship was " The Pronunciation of Greek ; Accent and Quantity. A Philological Inquiry. " In this work he sought to show what authority there is for the modern Greek pronunciation of Greek, advocat- ing a return, in the reading of prose, to that pronunciation which was the only one known in Europe anterior to the time of Erasmus. This method is consistently carried out in the Greek classes. In 1853 he travelled in Greece, living in Athens for two months and r.-half, and acquiring a fluent use of the living Greek language. On his return, he gave the results of his journey in various articles, especially in one in the North British on Modern Greek Literature, and in another in the Westminster on Greece. He also expressed some of them in an introductory lecture " On the Living Language of Greece." Since that time he has written in Blackwood and the North British, discussing subjects of general literature, and introducing any new JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 451 German book which he considers of especial interest. Among his papers may be mentioned his reviews, in the North British, of Bunsen's " Signs of the Times," and of Perthes* Life. His articles more especially relating to his own department are jEschylus and Homer, in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, an article on accents in the Cambridge Philological, and an essay on Plato in the " Edinburgh Essays." In 1857 was published the first work which brings him into the list of Scottish poets " Lays and Legends of Ancient Greece, with other Poems." Two other poetical works have since proceeded from his pen "Lyrical Poems," Edinburgh, 1861, 8vo; and "Husa Burschicosa, a Book of Songs for Students and University Men," Edin- burgh, 1869, 12mo. In 1863 he published a discourse on "Beauty," which has become standard, and much enhanced his reputation as a philosopher. A lecture on the Gaelic language appeared in 1864 ; "Democracy, a Lecture," in 1867, and a volume of " Political Tracts," in 1868. But the work by which Professor Blackie possesses his highest title to reputation, both as poet and scholar, is his translation of Homer's Iliad, a work which was published in 1866. To these particulars concerning an active and laborious career, it may be added that Professor Blackie's entire writings, in- cluding his songs, evince deep religious feeling, great simplicity, earnestness, and manliness, confidence in the goodness of men, and delight in everything that is pure, beautiful, and honest, with thorough detestation of all falsehood. SOXG OF BEN CRUACHAN. BEN CETTACHAX is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe ; Loch Ettive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark -rushing Awe. With his peak so high He cleaves the sky That smiles on his old grey crown, While the mantle green, On his shoulders seen, In many a fold flows down. He looks to the north, and he renders A greeting to Nevis Ben ; And Nevis, in white snowy splendours, Gives Cruachan greeting again. O'er dread Glencoe The greeting doth go And where Ettive winds fair in the glen ; And he hears the call In his steep north wall, "God bless thee, old Cruachan Ben." When the north winds their forces muster, And ruin rides high on the storm, All calm, in the midst of their bluster, He stands with his forehead enorm. When block on block, With thundering shock, Comes hurtl'd confusedly down, No whit recks he, But laughs to shake free The dust from his old grey crown. And while torrents on torrents are pouring Down his sides with a wild, savage glee, And when louder the loud Awe is roaring, And the soft lake swells to a sea, He smiles through the storm, And his heart grows warm As he thinks how his streams feed the plains, And the brave old Ben Grows young again, And swells with his lusty veins. For Cruachan is king of the mountains That gird in the lovely Loch Awe ; Loch Ettive is fed from his fountains, By the streams of the dark -rushing Awe. Ere Adam was made He rear'd his head Sublime o'er the green winding glen ; And when flame wraps the sphere, O'er earth's ashes shall peer The peak of the old granite Ben. BONNIE STRATHNAVER. BONXIE Strathnaver ! Sutherland's pride ! With thy stream softly flowing and mead spreading wide. Bonnie Strathnaver ! where now are the men That peopled with gladness thy green-mantled glen? Boimie Strathnaver ! where now are the men That peopled with gladness thy green- mantled glen ? Bonnie Strathnaver! Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's pride ! Sweet is the breath of the birks on thy side ; But where is the blue smoke that curl'd from thy glen, When thy lone hills were dappled with dwell- ings of men ? Bonnie Strathnaver ! 452 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Bonnie Stratlmaver ! fearful to tell Are the harsh deeds once done on thy bonnie green dell ! When to rocks of the storm-brewing ocean were driven The men on thy green turfy walks who had thriven. Bonnie Strathnaver ! When the strong-sinew'd lad, and the light- tripping maid, Look'd their last on the hills where their infancy stray'd ; When the grey drooping sire, and the old hirpling dame, Were chased from their hearths by the fierce- spreading flame. Bonnie Strathnaver ! Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's pride ! Wide is the ruin that spreads on thy side ! The bramble now climbs o'er the old ruin'd wall, And the green fern is rank in the tenantless hall Of Bonnie Strathnaver ! Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's pride ! Loud is the baa of the sheep on thy side ; But the pipe, and the song, and the dance are no more, And gone the brave clansmen that trod thy green floor. Bonnie Strathnaver ! Bonnie Strathnaver ! Sutherland's pride ! Vain are the tears that I weep on thy side. The praise of the bard is the meed of the glen, But where is the charm that can bring back the men To Bonnie Strathnaver? THE BRAES OF MAR. FAREWELL ye braes of broad Braemar, From you my feet must travel far, Thou high-peak'd steep-cliffd Loch-na-Gar, Farewell, farewell for ever ! Thou lone green glen where I was born, Where free I stray'd in life's bright morn, From thee my heart is rudely torn, And I shall see thee never ! The braes of Mar with heather glow, The healthful breezes o'er them blow, The gushing torrents from them flow, That swell the rolling river. Strong hills that nursed the brave and free, On banks of clear, swift -rushing Dee, My widow'd eyne no more shall see Your birchen bowers for ever ! Farewell thou broad and bare Muicdhui, Ye stout old pines of lone Glen Lui, Thou forest wide of Ballochbuie, Farewell, farewell for ever ! In you the rich may stalk the deer, Thou 'It know the tread of prince and peer; But oh, the poor man's heart is drear To part from you for ever ! May God forgive our haughty lords, For whom our fathers drew their swords ; No tear for us their pride affords, No bond of love they sever. Farewell ye braes of broad Braemar, From bleak Ben Aon to Loch-na-Gar The friendless poor is banished far From your green glens for ever ! HAIL, LAND OF MY FATHERS! HAIL, land of my fathers ! I stand on thy shore, 'Neath the broad fronted bluifs of thy granite once more ; Old Scotland, my mother, the rugged, the bare, That reared me with breath of the strong mountain air. No more shall I roam where soft indolence lies 'Neath the cloudless repose of the featureless skies, But where the white mist sweeps the red furrow'd scaur, I will fight with the storm and grow strong by the war ! What boots all the blaze of the sky and the billow, Where manhood must rot on inglorious pillow? 'Tis the blossom that blooms from the taint of the grave 'Tis the glitter that gildeth the bonds of the slave. But, Scotland, stern mother, for struggle and toil Thou trainest thy children on hard, rocky soil; And thy stiff-purposed heroes go conquering forth, With the strength that is bred by the blasts of the north. Hail, Scotland, my mother! and welcome the day When again I shall brush the bright dew from the brae, And light as a bird, give my foot to the heather, Myhand to my staff, andmy face to the weather, Then climb to the peak where the ptarmigan flies, Or stand by the linn where the salmon will rise, And vow never more with blind venture to roam From the strong land that bore me my own Scottish home. DORA, I CAN like a hundred women, I can love a score, Only one with heart's devotion Worship and adore. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 453 Mary, Jessie, Lucy, Nancy, With a fine control Hold my eye or stir my fancy ; Dora fills my soul. Dainty doves are doves of Yenus, (Plumy, soft delighj), But my dove (0 wonder!), Dora, Hath an eagle's might. Doves are pretty, doves are stupid, But who Dora loves Finds Minerva masqued in Cupid, Strength in downy doves. Like the sun's face brightly dancing On the shimmering sea, But, like Ocean, deep is Dora, Strong, and fair, and free. Chirping like a gay Cicala In a sunny bower, But a Muse in that Cicala Sings with thoughtful power. Like a beck that bickers blythely Down the daisied lea, So her bright soul bursts and blossoms In spontaneous glee. Full of gamesome show is Dora ; But behind the scene Sits the lofty will of Dora Throned like a queen. Lovely marvel ! oak and lily From one root came forth, Turn'd in leafy grace together At my Dora's birth. Mellow Eve, and bright Aurora, Sober Night, and Noon, Dwell, divinely blent, in Dora, To a jarless tune. I can like a hundred women, I can love a score, Only one with heart's devotion Worship and Adore. Mary, Jessie, Lucy, Nancy, With a fine control Hold my eye or stir my fancy ; Dora fills mv soul. A SPRIG OF WHITE HEATHER. A SPRIG of white heather I pluck'd on the brae ; To whom shall I give it ? To whom shall I give it? Not to the sportive, the light, and the gay, Not to Jessie with flashing display, In the flush of June, when the roses are out, Flinging her frolicsome fancies about ; But beautiful Phcebe, to thee, to thee, Thou deep-thoughted Phoebe, to thee ! A sprig of white heather I pluck'd on the brae ; To whom shall I give it ? To whom shall I give it? Not to the haughty, the high, and the proud, Not to Clotilda, who sails through the crowd With a lofty look and a fine disdain, As if all were born to hold her train ; But beautiful Phcebe, to thee, to thee, Thou mild-eyed Phoebe, to thee ! A sprig of white heather I pluck'd on the brae ; To whom shall I give it ? To whom shall I give it ? Not to the clever, the keen, and the knowing, With eye never resting, and tongue ever going, Not to Rebecca, who all has read That goes, and goes not into her head ; But beautiful Phoebe, to thee, to thee, Thou silently -loving, to thee ! A sprig of white heather I pluck'd on the brae? To whom shall I give it ? To whom shall I give it? I '11 give it to one, or I '11 give it to none, I '11 give it to Phcebe, my beautiful one ; The rare white bloom that peeps from the brae So chaste and so pure 'mid the purple display ; It grew, dear Phcebe, for thee, for thee, Thou rairest and fairest, for thee ! THE MAID OF GRISHORNISH. THE clouds are scowling on the hill, the mist is thick and grey, The sun slants out behind the cloud, a cold and meagre ray, The shepherd wraps his plaid about, and reads the tristful skies, And to his faithful collie dog across the moor he cries ; But in my heart there sings a bird, with song both loud and clear, A song that makes me bright within, while all without is drear ; And thus the little bird doth sing with happy chirp to me, The lovely maid of Grishornish thy bonnie biide shall be. Grishornish, thy rocks are black, thy moors are brown and bare ! Who would have thought so fair a thing was kindly nurtur'd there? As mild as summer's balmy breath upon thy wintry shore, As gentle as an angel's wing 'bove thy rude tempest's roar, As pure as pearl in lucid seas, and like a star serene, When rifted clouds are racing past, with azure stripes between ; And thus the bird within my breast sings sweetly still to me, Right soon the maid of Grishornish thy bonnie bride shall be% Grishornish, and Vaternish, and every Nish in Skye, On you let heaven pour down the rain till all its wells be dry 1 454 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. With rain, and wind, and mist, and storm, I am content to dwell, If but the maid of Grishornish shall live and love me well ; If but her fine and dainty lip, and mildly beaming eye, Shall make me lord of more than all Macleod commands in Skye; If but the little bird shall sing within my breast to me, The lovely maid of Grishornish thy winsome wife shall be. But now I 'm old and worn, And my locks are thinly spread, And I 'm come to die in peace By the Gareloch Head. When I was young and strong, Oft a wandering I would go By the rough shores of Loch Long, Up to lone Glenooe. But now I'm fain to rest, And my resting-place I Ve made On the green and gentle bosom Of the Gareloch Head. 'Twas here my Jeanie grew, Like a lamb amid the flocks, With her eyes of bonnie blue, And her gowden locks. And here we often met, When with lightsome foot we sped O'er the green and grassy knolls At the Gareloch Head. 'Twas here she pined and died ! the salt tear in my ee Forbids my heart to hide What Jeanie was to me ! 'Twas here my Jeanie died, And they scoop'd her lowly bed 'Neath the green and grassy turf At the Gareloch Head. Like a leaf in leafy June From the leafy forest torn, She fell, and I '11 fall soon, Like a sheaf of yellow corn. For I 'm sere and weary now, And I soon shall make my bed With my Jeanie, 'neath the turf At the Gareloch Head. MY FANNY ! AIR " The Lass in yon Town." WAT ye wha's in yon house, Yon stern and stately palace ? A forest flower's in yon house, Fresh frae the mountain valleys ! The city dames are nice and prim, Tight, tight with laces many ! But she with love doth freely brim, And thinks nae harm, my Fanny ! wat ye wha's in yon big house, And gars my rhymes sae jingle ? A lass would I had her crouse The queen of my blythe ingle ! wat ye wha's in yon house, Yon proud and lordly palace ? Wha would expect in yon house The bloom o' mountain valleys ? Though fairer features I ha'e seen, And forms more slender many ; Yet twa sic frank and friendly een I only found in Fanny ! The learn'd may mark the lines of art, Split nice distinctions many ; But gi'e thou me the truthful heart, The open eye of Fanny ! Where Beaumont water glides wi' glee Frae Cheviot green and grassy 0, There might I wander free wi' thee, My blythe, true-hearted lassie ! shun the arts of city dames, Nae prickly fashion dress thee ! sport not thou with fickle flames, Nae fopling false caress thee ! shun the taint of pride and pelf, And, 'mid thy lovers many 0, Choose him who loves the simple self Of fresh, free-hearted Fanny ! THE WEE HERD LADDIE.* , LITTLE Andrew, lively Andrew, Herding of the kine, Looking 'neath thy curly locks Wi' bright and merry eyne ! Stretch'd upon a furzy brae, Wi' bonnet, plaid, and crook, What should a wee herd laddie do Wi' a Greek and Latin book? There's mony a thought in Andrew's head ; His fancy freely wanders North and south, and east and west, And still he reads and ponders. There's something brewing in his brain ; Beneath his plain grey plaidie, Adventures beat in every vein 0' the wee bare-footed laddie. THE OLD SOLDIER OF THE GARELOCH HEAD. I'VE wander 'd east and west, And a soldier I ha'e been ; The scars upon my breast Tell the wars that I have seen. * The hero of this descriptive song is Sir Andrew Halliday. Respecting the early history of this distin- guished physician, see Poems by John Johnston, Edin- burgh, 1857. JOHN STUART BLACKIE. 455 And what's become of Andrew now? I hear lie's gone to college ; He saved a penny in the hills To pay his fees of knowledge. And Andrew now is doctor bright, And now the leech is gone, To serve their need who bravely bleed In Spain with Wellington. And Andrew's now a man of proof At sacred duty's call ; Brave Andrew never stands aloof On him hang great and small. And now he's come from Waterloo Wi' the Duke that ruled the wars, And they, who know his service true, Have gemni'd his breast wi' stars. And now he's grown a belted knight, The wee bare-footed laddie, Wi' heart as pure and eye as bright As when he wore the plaidie. The mightiest Duke in a' the land, Who scorns a wee herd laddie, Now shakes " Sir Andrew " by the hand- The knight that wore the plaidie ! MY LOVES. NAME the leaves on all the trees, Name the waves on all the seas, Name the notes of all the groves-r- Thus thou namest all my loves. I do love the dark, the fair, Golden ringlets, raven hair, Eye that swims in sunny light, Glance that shoots like lightning bright. I do love the stately dame And the sportive girl the same ; Every changeful phase between Blooming cheek and brow serene. I do love the young, the old, Maiden modest, virgin bold, Tiny beauties, and the tall Earth has room enough for all. Which is better who can say? Lucy grave or Mary gay? She who half her charms conceals ? She who sparkles while she feels ? Why should I confine my love ? Nature bids us freely rove ; God hath scatter'd wide the fair, Blooms and beauties everywhere. Paris was a pedant fool, Meting beauty by a rule : Pallas? Juno? Venus? he Should have chosen all the three. I am wise, life's every bliss Thankful tasting ; and a kiss Is a sweet tiling, I declare, From a dark maid or a fair. LIKING AND LOVING. LIKIXG is a little boy Dreaming of a sea employ, Sitting by the stream, with joy Paper frigates sailing : Love's an earnest-hearted man, Champion of beauty's clan, Fighting bravely in the van, Pushing and prevailing. Liking hovers round and round, Capers with a nimble bound, Plants his foot on easy ground, Through the glass to view it : Love shoots sudden glance for glance, Spurs the steed, and rests the lance, With a brisk and bold advance, Sworn to die or do it. Liking's ever on the wing, From new blooms new sweets to bring ; Nibbling aye, the nimble thing From the hook is free still : Love's a tar of British blue, Let mad winds their maddest do, To his haven carded true, As I am to thee still. YOUNG MAN, BE WISE ! AIR "One there is above all others." WOULD 'ST thou reap life's golden treasure, Young man, be wise ! Cease to follow where light pleasure Cheats blinking eyes ! Let no flattering voices win thee, Let no vauntful echoes din thee, But the peace of God within thee Seek and be wise ! Where the fervid cup doth sparkle, Young man, be wise ! Where quick glances gleam and darkle, Danger surmise ! Where the rattling car is dashing, Where the shallow wave is plashing, Where the coloured foam is flashing, Feast not thine eyes ! Rocking on a lazy billow With roaming eyes, Cushion'd on a dreary pillow, Thou art not wise ; Wake the powers within thee sleeping, Trim the plot that's in thy keeping ; Thou wilt bless the task when reaping Sweet labour's prize. 456 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Since the green earth had beginning, Land, sea, and skies, Toil their rounds with sleepless spinning, Suns sink and rise ; God, who with his image crown'd us, Works within, above, around us ; Let us, where His will hath bound us, Work and be wise ! All the great that won before thee Stout labour's prize, Wave their conquering banners o'er thee ; Up and be wise ! Wilt thou from their sweat inherit Fruits of peace and stars of merit, While their sword, when thou shouldst wear it, Rust-eaten lies? Work and wait, a sturdy liver; (Life fleetly flies!) Work, and pray, and sing, and ever Lift hopeful eyes ; Let no blaring folly din thee ! Wisdom, when her charm may win thee, Flows a well of life within thee ; Young man, be wise ; BOB AND BILLY. AIR " Fill the bumper fair." FARE thee well, my boy ! Where my brain grows muddy, You find bright employ, And fatten on d^ep study ; While on books you thrive, Pondering and poring, Bill must keep alive, Rambling and exploring. Then God bless thee, boy ! A rose is not a lily ; You be steady Bob, And 1 '11 be roving Billy ! You will rise and climb, On the steps of learning, To the seat sublime, Where your heart is yearning : From the pulpit then You will flash and thunder, King of Scottish men, People's love and wonder ! Then God bless thee, boy ! etc. Or perhaps you may, Should the creeds offend you, With grave judgment sway Where fees and wigs attend you ; Sitting like a god, Thorny laws expounding, Thrilling with your nod Awe-struck throngs surrounding ! Then God bless thee, boy ! etc. Or perhaps you may, In high deliberation, With sage counsel sway The rapt-expecting nation ; And when Church and State To their base are reeling, Waft to small and great Wise words of happy healing. Then God bless thee, boy ! etc. Some are thinkers born, Some readers, and some riders ; Some from cats do turn, And some do shrink from spiders ; But I the truth to tell Above all life's embroglios, Do chiefly hate the smell Of Greek and Latin folios ! Then God bless thee, boy ! etc. Something in my blood, Savage and uncivil, Loves by foaming flood And waving wood to revel : While my neck is free From yoke of gilded collar, Glad I leave to thee Both dignity and dollar ! Then God bless thee, boy 1 etc. Where the whistling breeze Swells the roaring billow, There I rock at ease On a stormy pillow. Or where the cannon booms On field of battle gory, Dashing through the fumes I pluck the star of glory ! Then God bless thee, boy! etc. Up the cliffy rocks With the goat I scramble, With the nimble fox I jump across the bramble. Where the tiger stands Through the jungle glaring, My heart leaps to my hands, And revels in the daring. Then God bless thee, boy ! etc. Now, farewell, Bob, my boy ; While you sit and study, Bright be still your eye, And still your cheek be niddy ! I must go : for me The ship waits in the harbour; Wisdom waits for thee In Plato's thoughtful arbour. Then God bless thee, boy ! Nor think my wisdom silly, That you be steady Bob, And I '11 be roving Billy. THOMAS C. LATTO. 457 THOMAS C, LATTO, THOMAS CARSTAIRS LATTO was born on the 1st December 1818,* in the parish of Kingsbarns, Fifeshire. Instructed in the elementary branches at the parochial school, he entered, in his fourteenth year, the University of St Andrews. Having studied during five sessions at this University, he was, in 1838, admitted into the writing- chambers of Mr John Hunter, "W.S., Edinburgh, afterwards Auditor of the Court of Session. He subsequently became advocate's clerk to the celebrated Professor Aytoun. After a period of employment as a Parliament House clerk, he accepted the situation of managing clerk to a solicitor in Dundee. In 1852 he entered into business as a commission-agent in Glasgow. Subsequently emigrating to the United States, he has for some years been engaged in literary and mercantile concerns at New York. Latto first became known as a song- writer in the pages of " Whistle Binkie." In 1845 he edited a poem, entitled " The Minister's Kail Yard," which, with a number of lyrics of his own composition, appeared in a duodecimo volume. To the " Book of Scottish Song" he made several esteemed contributions. Verses from his pen have appeared in Blackwood's Magazine. * "ist Dec. 1818, Thomas Carstairs Latto, son of Alexander Latto, schoolmaster of Kingsbarns, and of Betsy Simpson, his spouse." Kingsbarns Register of Births. THE KISS AHINT THE DOOR. AIR " There's nae luck about the House." THERE'S meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, Whiles mair than in a score ; But wae betak' the stowin smack I took ahint the door. laddie, whisht ! for sic a fricht I ne'er was in afore ; Fu' brawly did my mother hear The kiss ahint the door. The wa's are thick ye needna fear ; But, gin they jeer and mock, 1 '11 swear it was a startit cork, Or wyte the rusty lock. There's meikle bliss, etc. We stappit ben, while Maggie's face Was like a lowin' coal;- An' as for me, I could ha'e crept Into a mouse's hole. The mither look't saff's how she look't ! Thae mithers are a bore, An' gleg as ony cat to hear A kiss ahint the door. There's meikle bliss, etc. The douce gudeman, tho' he was there, As weel micht been in Kome, For by the fire he puffd his pipe, An' never fash'd his thumb ; But, titterin' in a corner, stood The gawky sisters' four A winter's nicht for me they micht Ha'e stood ahint the door. There's meikle bliss, etc. " How dam* ye tak' sic freedoms here?" The bauld gudewife began ; Wi' that a foursome yell got up I to my heels and ran. A besom whiskit by my lug, An' dishclouts half-a-score : Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain, At kissin 'hint the door. There's meikle bliss, etc. THE WIDOW'S AE BIT LASSIE. TVNE " My only Joe and Dearie O !" OH, guess ye wha I met yestreen On Kenly banks sae grassy, ! Wha cam' to bless my waitin' een? The widow's ae bit lassie, ! She brak' my gloamin' dream sae sweet, Just whaur the wimplin' burnies meet ; The smother'd laugh I flew to greet The widow's ae bit lassie, ! They glintit slee the moon and she The widow's ae bit lassie, ! On tremblin' stream an' tremblin' me : She is a dear wee lassie, ! How rapture's pulse was beating fast As Mary to my heart I claspt ! Oh, bliss divine owre sweet to last I 've kiss'd the dear bit lassie, ! She nestled close, like croodlin' doo The widow's ae bit lassie, ! My cheek to hers, syne mou' to mou' The widow's ae bit lassie, ! 458 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Unto my breast again, again, I prest her guileless heart sae fain ; Sae blest were baith now she's my ain, The widow's ae bit lassie, ! Ye powers aboon, wha made her mine The widow's ae bit lassie, ! My heart wad break gin I should tyne The widow's ae bit lassie, ! Our hearth shall glad the angels' sight ; The lamp o' love shall lowe sae bright On me and her, my soul's delight, The widow's ae bit lassie, ! TELL ME, DEAR. AIR " London's Bonnie Woods and Braes." TELL me dear ! in mercy speak, Has Heaven heard my prayer, lassie? Faint the rose is on thy cheek, But still the rose is there, lassie ! Away, away each dark foreboding, Heavy days with anguish clouding, Youthfu' love in sorrow shrouding, Heaven could ne'er allow, lassie ! Day and night, I 've tended thee, Watching, love, thy changing ee ; Dearest gift that Heaven could gi'e, Say thou'rt happy now, lassie! Willie, lay thy cheek to mine Kiss me, oh ! my ain laddie ! Never mair may lip o' thine Press where it hath lain, laddie ! Hark ! I hear the angels calling, Heavenly strains are round me falling, But the stroke thy soul appalling 'Tis my only pain, laddie ! Yet the love I bear to thee Shall follow where I soon maun be ; I'll tell how gude thou wert to me We part to meet again, laddie ! Lay thine arm beneath my head Grieve na sae for me, laddie ! I'll thole the doom that lays me dead, But no a tear frae thee, laddie ! Aft where yon dark tree is spreading, When the sun's last beam is shedding, Where no earthly foot is treading, By my grave thou 'It be, laddie! Though my sleep be wi' the dead, Frae on high my soul shall speed, And hover nightly round thy head, Although thou wilt na see, laddie ! WILLIAM CADENHEAD, WILLIAM CADENHEAD was born at Aberdeen on the 6th April 1819. With a limited education at school, he was put to employment in a factory in his ninth year. His leisure hours were devoted to mental culture, and ramblings in the country. The perusal of Beattie's " Minstrel " inspired him with the love of poetry, and at an early age his compositions in verse were admitted into the Aberdeen Herald. In 1839 he published a small poetical work, entitled " The Prophecy," which, affording decided evidence of power, established his local reputation. Having contributed verses for some years to several periodicals and the local journals, he published a collection of these in 1853, with the title, " Flights of Fancy, and Lays of Bon-Accord." "The New Book of Bon-Accord," a guide-book to his native town on an original plan, appeared from his pen in 1856. Mr Cadenhead is established as a commission-agent in his native city. DO YOU KNOW WHAT THE BIRDS ARE SINGING? Do you know what the birds are singing? Can you tell their sweet refrains, When the green arch'd woods are ringing With a thousand swelling strains? To the sad they sing of sadness, To the blythe, of mirth and glee, And to me, in my fond love's gladness, They sing alone of thee ! They sing alone of thee, love, Of thee, through the whole day long, And each its own dear charm extols, And each with its own sweet song ! Do you know what the soft winds whisper When they sigh through blooming trees When each bough is a choral lisper Of the woodland melodies? To some they seem to be grieving For the summer's short lived glee ; But to me they are always weaving Sweet songs in praise of thee! Sweet songs in praise of thee, love, And telling the flowers below, How far thy charms outshine them all, Though brightly their soft leaves glow ! THOMAS ELLIOTT. 459 Do you know what the streamlet trilleth As it glides or leaps along, While the cool green nook it filleth With the gushes of its song ? Do you think it sings its dreaming Of its distant home, the sea? Oh, no, but the voice of its streaming Is still of thee, of thee ! Is still of thee, of thee, love, Till echoes and woodland fays Yea, Nature all is eloquent And vocal in thy praise. AN HOUR WITH AN OLD LOVE. LAT me look into thy face, Jeanie, As I 've look'd in days gane by, When you gae me kiss for kiss, Jeanie, And answer'd sigh for sigh ; When in our youth's first flame, Jeanie, Although poor and lane together, We had wealth in our ain love, Jeanie, And were a' to ane anither ! Oh, blessin's on thy lips, Jeanie, They ance were dear to me, As the honey-savour'd blossoms To the nectar-hunting bee ! It kens whar dwalls the banquets 0' the sweetest dewy wine And as the chosen flower to it, Sae were thy lips to mine. I see thy very thochts, Jeanie, Deep in thy clear blue ee, As ye'll see the silver fishes flash, When ye sail the midnicht sea ; And ye needna close the lids, Jeanie, Though the thochts they are nae mine, For I see there 's nae repentant ane, That they ance were sae langsyne. Oh, lat me hear thy voice, Jeanie Ay, that 's the very chime, Whase silver echoes haunted me Through a' my youthfu' prime. Speak on ! thy gentle words, Jeanie, Awake a blessed train Of memories that I thocht had slept To never wake again ! God's blessin's on your heart, Jeanie, And your face sae angel fair ! May the ane be never pierced wi' grief, Nor the ither blanch' d wi' care ; And he wha has your love, Jeanie, May he be dear to thee, As I may aiblins ance have been And as thou'rt still to me ! THOMAS ELLIOTT. THOMAS ELLIOTT is descended from a branch of the old Border family of that name, which settled in the north of Ireland subsequent to the Eevolution. His father was a shoemaker at Bally-ho-bridge, a hamlet in county Fermanagh, province of Ulster, where the poet was born on the 22d December 1820. Entering school at the age of five years, he was not removed till he had acquired a considerable acquaintance with the ordinary branches of education. In his fifteenth year he apprenticed himself to his father. The family removed to Belfast in 1836, and there he had opportunities of occupying his leisure hoxirs in extensive and varied reading. After a few years of desultory employment, he proceeded to Glasgow in 1847, where he has continued to reside. Elliott assigns the commencement of his poetical efforts to the year 1842, when he was led to satirise a pedagogue teacher of music, who had given him offence. His poetical volume, entitled " Doric Lays and Attic Chimes," appeared in 1856, and has been well received. Several of his lyrics have been published with music in " The Lyric Gems of Scotland," a collection of songs published at Glasgow. MY AIN MOUNTAIN LAND. OH! wae's me on gowd, wi' its glamour and fame, It tint me my love, and it wiled me frae hame, Syne dwindled awa' like a neivefu* o' sand, And left me to mourn for my ain mountain land. I long for the glens, and the brown heather fells, The green birken shades, where the wild lintie dwells, The dash o" the deep, on the grey rocky strand, That girds the blue hills o' my ain mountain land. 460 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. I dream o' the dells where the clear burnies flow, The bonnie green knowes where the wee gowans grow; But I wake frae my sleep like a being that's bann'd, And shed a saut tear for my ain mountain land. I ken there's a lass that looks out on the sea, "Wi* tears in the een that are watchin' for me ; Lang, lang she may wait for the clasp o* my hand, Or the fa' o' my foot in my ain mountain land. CLYDE BOAT SONG. Music by A. Hume. LEAVE the city's busy throng Dip the oar, and wake the song, While on Cathkin Braes the moon Rises with a star aboon : Hark ! the boom of evening bells Trembles through the de\vy dells. Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, While the golden eventide Lingers o'er the vale of Clyde, Row, lads, row ; row, lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row. Life's a river, deep and old, Stemm'd by rowers, brave and bold ; Now in shadow, then in light, Onward aye a thing of might ; Sons of Albyn's ancient land, Row with strong and steady hand, Row, lads, row ; row, lads, row ; Gaily row, and cheery sing, Till the woodland echoes ring ; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row, O'er the tide, up the Clyde, Row, lads, row. Hammers on the anvil rest, Dews upon the gowan's breast ; Young hearts heave with tender thought, Low winds sigh, with odours fraught, Stars bedeck the blue above, Earth is full of joy and love ; Row, lads, row; row, lads, row; Let your oars in concert beat Merry time, like dancers' feet ; Row, lads, row ; row, lads row, With the tide, down the Clyde, Row, lads, row. DIMPLES AND A'. I LOVE a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true Than ony young, wood-loving, wild cushie doo ; Her cheeks they are dimpled, her jimp waist is sma', She says she's my ain lassie, dimples and a' Dimples and a', dimples and a' That bonnie wee lass wi' her dimples and a'. Her brown wavy hair has a dark gowden tinge, Her bonnie black ee has a long jetty fringe, Her footstep is light as the thistle doun's fa', Her wee hand is lily-white, dimpled and a' Dimpled and a', dimpled and a' And I ken it's my ain hand, dimples and a'. I '11 wed my dear lassie, and gi'e her my name, I '11 get a bit housie, and bring my love hame ; When winter is eerie, and stormy winds blaw, She'll mak' me fu' cheerie wi' dimples and a' Dimples and a', dimples and a' My ain bonnie wine, wi' her dimples and a', When the day's wark is done, and stars blink above, I'll rest in her smile, and be bless'd wi' her love; She'll sing a' the cares o' this world awa' Frae our cosy ingle, wi' dimples and a'. Dimples and a', dimples and a' Our ain cosy ingle, wi' dimples and a'. WHEN I COME HAME AT E'EN. GIVE me the hour when bells are rung, And dinsome wheels are still, When engines rest, and toilers leave The workshop, forge, and mill : With smiling lip, and gladsome ee, My gudewife welcomes me ; Our bairnies clap their wee white hands, And speel upon my knee. When 1 come hame at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me the bairnies' glee, When I come hame at e'en. Our lowly bield is neat and clean, And bright the ingle's glow ; The table's spread with halesome fare, The teapot simmers low. How sweet to toil for joys like these With strong and eident hand, To nurture noble hearts to love, And guard our fatherland. When I come hame at e'en, etc. Let revellers sing of wassail bowls, Their wines and barley bree ; My ain wee house and winsome wife Are dearer far to me ; To crack with her of joys to come, Of days departed long, When she was like a wee wild rose, And I a bird of song. When I come name at e'en, When I come hame at e'en, How dear to me these memories When I come hame at e'en. GEORGE W. DONALD. 461 GEORGE W, DONALD, A SONG-WRITER of no inconsiderable merit, George "W. Donald was born on the 2d April 1820, in a cottage on the estate of "Westfield, near Forfar. His progenitors were employed on the estate of the Earl of Airlie ; his great-grandfather Allan Stuart Donald attended Lord Airlie as piper on the field of Culloden. Through an accident in childhood the poet was deprived of the proper use of his right limb, and became a confirmed cripple. Confined to the fireside by his accident, he early learned to read, and having an ear for music, listened with delight to the scraps of ballad and song with which his mother sought to comfort him. In his eleventh year, his father took in lease the small farm of "West Drum Park, in the parish of Dunnichen ; and while tending his father's 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 ex- pressions of praise prompted him to more ambitious efforts. In his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the loom. During the intervals of leisure he prosecuted various studies and composed songs. In 1843 he was appointed to the charge of a non- parochial school near the village of Dunnichen, from which he*was preferred to the more lucrative office of schoolmaster at Kingsmuir in the same parish. Having acquired a systematic acquaintance with the art of teaching at one of the Normal Seminaries, Mr Donald was, in 1847, elected teacher of a school at Tarfside, Lochlee, under the superintendence of the Society for Propagating Christian Knowledge. In 1852 he removed to the Society's school at Luthermuir, parish of Mary kirk. This situation he resigned in 1858 with the view of proceeding to America; but abandon- ing his intention, he taught an adventure school at Forfar, and subsequently at Dun- nichen and St Vigeans. Eemoving to Arbroath in 1862, he there supported himself by tuition and basket-making. In September 1866 he was appointed to the keeper- ship of Arbroath Abbey, a post of respectable emolument, and otherwise suited to his tastes. Mr Donald published a small volume of poems in 1854. His more recent work, entitled "Poems, Ballads, and Songs," Arbroath, 1867, 12mo, contains many poetical compositions, indicating vigorous thought and lively fancy. Several of his songs have attained local celebrity, and are entitled to an honourable place in the national minstrelsy. I RUE THE DAY SHE GAED AWA', YE winds that wander idly by, Or chase the mist in fairy rings, If ere ye bore a lover's sigh, Tak' mine upon your wanton wings, And waft it ower ilk bonnie flower To where yon gowden sunbeams fa', An' saftly breathe in Mary's bower I rue the day she gaed awa'. Ye needna stay the eident bee, Nor sportive lamb 'mang gowans fair ; Ye neediia climb the lintie's tree, He sings o' joys I canna share. But linger near yon cot sae dear, Mair dear to me than lordly ha', An' whisper in my Mary's ear I rue the day she gaed awa. An* when ye turn, by brake or burn, Frae norlin' hill to sunny lea, 'Twere bliss to know the glad return, That Mary's heart is true to me. A' beauteous things her image brings, By woods or wilds where'er ye blaw ; While round my soul remembrance clings I '11 rue the day she gaed awa'. THE WEARY DRAW TO REST. AIR "Oh, why left I my home." THE weary draw to rest, The bairns are sleepin' sound, To me, wi' care oppress'd, The hours gae slowly round ; 462 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Till the dawnin' comes again Nae slumber faulds my ee : But the warld maunna ken 0' the pains I've to dree. Nae laverock builds her nest Whaur meadows grew sae green, Nae lammie lays its breast Among the dews at e'en. Cauld Winter rules the plain, They're reft o' joys like me ; But the world maunna ken 0' the pains I've to dree. The spring will soon return To chase the wintry gloom ; By ilka wimplin* burn The fairest flowers will bloom. Yet thro' yon sunny glen There 's a flower I winna see ; But the warld maunna ken 0' the pains I've to dree. THE BONNIE BOWERS 0' TEALING. THEY tell me in yon sunny land The palm-tree shades the mountain, An' they tell me o* their myrtle groves, And the crystal-gushing fountain ; They tell me o' the clustering vine The flowery path concealing ; But they cudna' please this heart o' mine Like the bonnie bowers o' Tealing. They kenna' o' the scented thorn, The birk and broom sae yellow ; They kenna' o' the mavis' sang, Or the blackbird's note sae mellow ; They kenna' o' the zephyrs mild, Or the balmy breeze so healing, That softly shakes the dewy flowers 'Mang the bonnie bowers o' Tealing. I 've wander'd far, I've wander'd wide, On Scotia's rugged bosom ; I've pu'd the rose in a" its pride, An' the lily's gowden blossom ; But the fairest flower that e'er I saw Was by the burnie, stealing And murmuring through its gow'ny banks, 'Mang the bonnie bowers o' Tealing. AMANG THE BRAES 0' BLOOMING HEATHER. GAE hame, gae hame, auld Lewie Grahame, Nor long sae sair to be my lover ; Yon bonnie barque rocks 'mang the faem, That norlan' breeze will waft her over. Gang to your towers, your ha's, an' bowers, 'Mid scented groves that ne'er shall wither, But let me spend life's latest hours Amang the braes o' blooming heather. I winna cross the braid, braid sea, For gowden crown or gilded palace ; Tho' slaves around should bend the knee Nae slave e'er trod the land o' Wallace. 1 canna' leave auld Scotia's shore, Where Love and Freedom dwell thegether, Where Friendship keeks frae ilka door Amang the braes o' blooming heather. Your gaudy groves may well be green, Your towers may kiss the lift fu' eerie ; But ken they o' the birken screen Where ilka warbler sings sae cheerie? Your flaunting flowers may tak' the ee, But fairer far than ony ither The dark blue bells grow wild an' free Amang the braes o' blooming heather. The thistle waves aboon the cairns, To mark where lovely worth is sleepin" ; The dew-draps, frae the mossy ferns, Fa' down like tears o' Nature's weepin'. 'Mang Scotia's hills my hame shall be ; The tartan plaid that screen'd my mither Shall hap me, till the day I dee, Amang the braes o' blooming heather. THE GOWDEN-LOCK'D LASSIE. TUNE "John Anderson, my Jo." A YELLOW-HAIR'D lassie Cam' doun frae the dell An' nane o' our lasses Can match the young belle. Her face is the fairest 0' ony ye '11 see; But the charm o' the lass Is her bonnie blue ee. Like the leaf o' the lily That dips i' the brook, When the wind lifts it lichtly, As gif it mistook ; Sae licht is her footfa' Upon the green lea, An' fu' blythe is the blink 0' her bonnie blue ee. The chiels wha ha'e married Are maist in a swoon, An' wish they had tarried Till she cam' the rouu' : The lads wha are single Are a' like to dee, An' the cause o' their dool Is her bonnie blue ee. Gif fortune wad hover A wee by my side, This bonnie young lassie May yet be my bride ; An' then I '11 be happy As happy can be, Wi' the lass I lo'e best, An' the bonnie blue ee. MARIA DOROTHEA OGILVY. 463 YOUXG JESSIE 0' BOXXIE DUNDEE. AIR "Bonnie Dundee." AE mild summer's gloamin' when ower ilk dark Loinon' The mist hung in wreaths, like a mantle o' grey, Fu' blythesome and cheery, to meet with my dearie, I wander'd alang the sweet banks o' the Tay. The rose spread its blossom wi' dew-laden bosom, The lily hung down on the green gow'ny lea; Their balm an' their blooming with fragrance perfuming The path of young Jessie o' bonnie Dundee. How still was the hour we met in yon bower ! Xae warbler was heard 'mang the leaflets o' green ; Auld Nature seem'd sleepin', while starnies were keepin' Their watch frae the lift ower her slumber serene. Sae dear was our meeting, sae fain was our greeting, The warld seem'd lost in its sorrows awee, While warmly embracing, and fondly caressing Wi' lovely young Jessie o' bonnie Dundee. But fortune 's a fairy, and time winna tarry, And love's like the blink o' a soft sunny ray ; The first and the fairest, the fondest, the dearest, I'll meet her nae mair on the banks o' the Tay ! Yet never, oh, never! while flows the proud river, Tho' far frae the hame o' my lassie I be, Shall fate's cruel grasp from this fond bosom sever My love for young Jessie o' bonnie Dundee. THE BLUE BELL. WHEN Scotia's gaudy flowers are gone By mountain, vale, and shaw, One lovely gem still lingers on While fading blossom's fa' ; 'Tis Scotia's bell o' bonnie blue, That claims no sheltering bower Meet emblem of a heart that's true In danger's darkest hour. It waves beside the shaggy fern, Hangs o'er the heather bell, An' drops a tear aboon the cairn Whaur jScotia's heroes fell. In southern climes sweet flowers may smile Where balmy breezes sigh, But, like the slave who treads their soil, They shrink, they fade, and die. In fickle friendship's changeful hour, When love may prove untrue, Still may my heart, like thee, sweet flower, Eetain its native hue. In death I ask no stone to tell Who slumbers 'mong the dead, But gi'e me Scotia's bonnie bell To mark my narrow bed. MARIA DOROTHEA OGILVY. MARIA DOROTHEA OGILVT was born about the year 1823. Her father was the Hon Donald Ogilvy of Clova, Colonel of the Forfarshire Militia, and her mother, Maria, fourth daughter of James Morley, Esq. Her paternal grandfather was seventh. Earl of Airlie. Miss Ogilvy, along with her brother, Donald Ogilvy, published at Aber- deen, in 1865, a duodecimo volume of their joint compositions in verse, entitled " Doron. Poems by Dorothea and Donald Ogilvy." MARY. AIR" The Flower of Duntlane" How saft sink the shadows when day, dis- appearing Behind yon grey mountain, bids Tarland adieu! While clouds to the western horizon are steering, And sxinset's bright glories yet linger in view. Oh ! fair fa* the gloaming when Mary is roaming, The cantie bit lassie that dearly I lo'e ; Oh ! fair fa' the gloaming, where torrents are foaming Adown the steep rocks on the braes o' Ben Dhu! 464 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL, She treads the rich clover, where each painted rover Bright butterflies sported the lang simmer day; She plucks the red brier rose the woodbine its lover, And twines her dark locks wi' the white- blossom'd May. Oh ! fair fa* the gloaming when Mary is roaming 'Mid braw luckan gowans and harebells sae blue; Oh ! fair fa' the gloaming, where torrents are foaming * Adown the wild conies and craigs o' Ben Dhu ! Amang the rough copsewood, across the green paling, Through meadow-sweet, fair as the pearl- bosom'd spray, "Where birches in tears are their fragrance exhaling, As light as the roe-deer she bounds on her way. Oh ! fair fa' the gloaming when Mary is roam- ing, Sae winsome and bonnie, sae gentle and true ; My steps fly to meet her, and soon shall I greet her The joy of my fond heart ! the pride of Ben Dhu! LADY MAY. WELCOME and gay Comes my Lady May From her home, we wot not where, Blythesome as morn, While her newly-born Sweet violets scent the air. The jewels and pearls Entwined in her curls She strews on her pathway green ; 'Twixt playful wiles And witching smiles Bright tears in her eyes are seen. Each lily pale, In the lowly vale, Is kiss'd by her lips so red ; Blue hyacinths rest On her tender breast When the wintry storms have fled. She stays not long, For her gentle song Is hush'd by the voice of June ; Her cuckoo cries, Her swallow replies She is gone with her silver moon. She bears life's flowers To her unseen bowers ; New souls on each airy wing To a fairer earth, To a glorious birth, To the land of eternal spring. THE GLOAMING HOUR. OH ! saftly fa's the gloaming hour When fades the summer day ; When sinks to sleep each tender flower, Beneath its lessening ray. Now hush'd the air the winds are mute, The bees have sipp'd their fill ; I hear the sounds of harp and flute In every tinkling rilL The glimmering shadows on the banks Are like some fairy dream ; Adown the brae the burnie clanks To mingle with the stream. The cushie doo has gone to rest With every tuneful bird ; Alane the gushing rivulet At intervals is heard. The breath of God His balmy air Is fresher, cooler now ; It softly fans like angels' wings, And soothes each care-worn brow. The rushing torrent from the mill Has ceased its deafening sound, And evening, on her pensive brow, Her coronal has bound. There myriad stars as diamonds bright, Surround the lady moon ; She waits to greet approaching night ; For me he comes too soon. The heather clusters round my feet The bracken's waving plume Wi' mony a flower that springs fu' sweet Amang the gowden broom. The lintie's note to me is dear The blackbird's evening ca' But Mary's voice alone can cheer My heart at gloamin' fa". Oh, gloamin' hour! sweet gloamin' hour! Dear to my heart art thou ; Wi' thee I meet my bonnie flower Beneath the greenwood bough. COLIN RAE BROWN. 465 COLIN RAE BROWN, THE son of a respectable captain in the merchant service, Colin Rae Brown was born at Greenock on the 19th December 1821. Having completed his education in Glas- gow, whither the family removed in 1829, he entered a mercantile warehouse. In 1842, he formed a connection with the publishing house of Messrs Murray & Sons, Glasgow, and undertook the management of a branch of the business at Greenock. On the establishment in Glasgow of the North British Daily Mail, he accepted an offer by the proprietor to become the publisher of that newspaper. When the Mail passed into the hands of other proprietors, Mr Brown established, in conjunction with a partner, a Fine Art Gallery in Glasgow, with branches at London and Dublin. In 1848 he published a volume of lyrics, which was well received ; a second poetical work from his pen, which appeared in 1855, with the title, " Lays and Lyrics," met with similar success. On the abolition of the stamp-duty on newspapers in 1855, Mr Brown originated the Bulletin and PPorkman, a daily and a weekly newspaper. For several years he has resided in London. CHAELIE'S COMIN'. CHARLIE 's comin' o'er the sea, Soon he'll set the country free From those that bear the rule and gree In bonnie Caledonia! Gentle breezes, softly blow, "We burn until we meet the foe, And strike the bold decisive blow For king and Caledonia ! Noble hearts are beating high, All will fight, none basely fly, For if they conquer not, they'll die For ancient Caledonia 1 Oh, that Charlie were but here ! The base usurper then might fear As loud the din fell on his ear Of joy in Caledonia! Heard ye not that distant hum? And now the pipe, and now the drum, Proclaim the news that Charlie's come To gladden Caledonia ! Tyrants, tremble, Charlie's here! Now indeed, ye 've cause to fear ; Hielan' hearts be of good cheer, And on for Caledonia ! JAMES HENDERSON, JAMES HENDERSON was born on the 2d November 1824, on the banks of the river Carron, at the village of Denny, Stirlingshire. In his tenth year, he proceeded to Glasgow, where he was employed in mercantile concerns. Strongly influenced by sentiments of patriotism, and deeply imbued with the love of nature, he found relaxa- tion from business in the composition of verses. In 1848 he published a thin octavo volume, entitled " Glimpses of the Beautiful, and other Poems," which was much commended by the press. Having proceeded to India in 1849, he became a commis. sion-agent in Calcutta. He visited Britain in 1852, but returned to India during the same year. Having permanently returned from the East in 1855, he has since settled in Glasgow. 2. G 466 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. THE HIGHLAND HILLS. THE Highland hills ! there are songs of mirth, And joy, and love on the gladsome earth ; For Spring, in her queenly robes, hath smiled In the forest glade and the woodland wild. Then come with me from the haunts of men To the glassy lake in the mountain glen, Where sunshine sleeps on the dancing rills That chainless leap from the Highland hills. The Highland hills ! when the sparkling rays Of the silver dews greet the orient blaze, When noon comes forth with her gorgeous glow, While the fountains leap and the rivers flow, Thou wilt roam with me where the waterfalls Bid echoes wake in the rocky halls, Till the grandeur wild to thy heart instils A deep delight 'mid the Highland hills. The Highland hills ! when noonday smiles On the slumbering lakes and their fairy isles, We'll clamber high where the heather waves By the warrior's cairn and the foemen's graves ; And I'll sing to thee, in "the bright day's prime," Of the days of old and of ancient time, And thy heart, unknown to the care that chills, Shall gladly joy in the Highland hills. The Highland hills ! in the twilight dim To their heath-clad crests shall thy footsteps climb, And there shalt thou gaze o'er the ocean far, Till the beacon blaze of the evening star, And the lamp of night, with its virgin beams, Look down on the deep and the shining streams, Till beauty's spell on thy spirit thrills With joy and love in the Highland hills. MY NATIVE LAND. SUBLIME is Scotia's mountain land, And beautiful and wild ; By tyranny's unhallow'd hand Unsullied, undefiled. The free and fearless are her sons. The good and brave her sires ; And, oh ! her every spirit glows With freedom's festal fires ! "When dark oppression far and wide Its gory deluge spread, While nations, ere they pass'd away, For hope and vengeance bled, She from her rocky bulwarks high The banner 'd eagle hurl'd, And trampled on triumphant Rome, The empress of the world. She gave the Danish wolf a grave Deep in her darkest glens, And chased the vaunting Norman hound Back to his lowland dens ; And though the craven Saxon strove Her regal lord to be, Her hills were homes to nurse the brave, The fetterless, and free. Peace to the spirits of the dead, The noble, and the brave ; Peace to the mighty who have bled Our Fatherland to save ! We revel in the pure delight Of deeds achieved by them, To crown their worth and valour bright With glory's diadem. DAVID WINGATE, DAVID WINGATE was born at Cowglen, in the parish of Eastwood, ^Renfrewshire, on the 4th January 1828. His father was overseer of a colliery, hut his emoluments were insufficient for the proper education of his family. In his ninth year the sub- ject of this notice was removed from school and sent to the mine ; and, to use his own words, he has " wrought about pits in positions more or less honourable ever since." Under the auspices of the late Professor Aytoun, he -was, in 1861, in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine introduced to the world as an ingenious verse-writer. In the following year, he published " Poems and Songs," Edinburgh, 12mo. This volume was well received, and the profits enabled the author to acquire, in the Mining School of Glasgow, a scientific knowledge of his profession. He is now manager of a colliery at Craigneuk, Motherwell. "Wingate published, by subscription, in 1866, a second volume of poetical compositions, entitled, " Annie Weir, and other Poems." Many of the compositions in this work amply sustain the promise of poetical excel- lence afforded in the author's former volume. ANDRE W JAMES S YMING TON. 467 THE GLOAMIN' HOUR. I DEARLY lo'e the gloamin' hour E'en when in sorrow pinin', When dewdrops bathe the faulded flower, And ae fair star is shinin' ; When song frae every plantin' streams, A world o' joy revealin', And boyhood's joys and manhood's dreams Are owre niy memory stealin'. I dearly lo'e, at gloamin' hour, To watch the deepenin' shadow Owre mountain, moor, and woodland lower, While mist hangs owre the meadow ; When leanin' on some auld dyke-stile, Hope's lamp my heart illumiu', I croon some sang o' happy toil, At peace wi' a' things human. What heart but lo'es the gloamin' hour? Then rest comes to the weary ; Love lurks in glen and woodland bower, And Jeannie meets her dearie. Then sweetest seems the mutual tale 0' vows, and hopes, and wishes ; And 0, how sweet, through gloamin's veil, The glow o' Jeannie's blushes ! Thou art a priestess, gloamin' hour, And aye thou gi'es us warnin' That life, at best a fragile flower, May fade before the mornin'. Oh ! may we a' sae leeve that we, Arrived at ae life's gloamin', May upward gaze wi' hopefu' ee, And wait the life that's comin' ! THE COLLIER'S RAGGED WEAN. HE'S up at early morning, howe.'er the win' may blaw, Lang before the sun comes roun' to chase the stars awa' ; And 'mang a thoosand dangers, unkent in sweet day-light, He'll toil until the stars again keek through the chilly night. See the puir wee callan' 'ueath the cauld clear moon! His knees oot through his troosers, and his taes oot through his shoon ; Wading through the freezing snaw, thinking owre again How happy every wean maun be that 's no a collier's wean. His cheeks are blae wi' cauld, and the chiller- ing winna cease To gi'e the hungry callan' time to eat his mornin' piece ; His lamp is burning on his head wi' feeble, flickerin' ray, And in his heart the lamp o' Hope is burning feebly tae. Nae wonner that the callan 's sweert to face his daily toil ; Nae wonner he sae seldom greets the morning wi' a smile ; For weel he kens he's growing up to face the cauld disdain That lang the world has measured oot to every collier's wean. The puir wee hirpling laddie ! how mournfully he's gaun, Aye dichting aff the ither tear wi' s wee hard hackit haun' ! Sair, sair he 's temptit 'mang the snaw to toom his flask o' oil ; But, ah! ae flash o' faither's ire were waur than weeks o' toil. In vain the stars look on the youth wi' merry twinkling een Through clouds o' care sae dense as his their glory is nae seen : He thinks 'twad been a better plan if coal had boonmost lain, And wonners why his faither made a collier o' his wean. Oh! ye that row in fortune's lap, his waefu' story hear ; Aft sorrows no sae deep as his ha'e won a pitying tear ; And lichter wrangs than he endures your sympathy ha'e won Although he is a collier's, mind he's still a Briton's son. And ye wha mak' and mend oor laws, tak' pity on the bairn ; Oh ! bring him sooner frae the pit, and gi'e him time to learn : Sae shall ye lift him frae the mine, 'mang which he lang has lain, And win a blessing frae the heart o' every collier's wean. ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON, ANDREW JAMES SYMINGTON was born at Paisley on the 27th of July 1825. His father, Robert Brown Symington, was a merchant, and the son of a merchant. Three of his father's brothers were clergymen, and two of these eminent Professors of Theo- logy. His mother's maiden name was Margaret Macalaster, a woman of sterling worth and refined taste. The Symingtons are a branch of the Douglas family ; and the 468 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Macalasters are descended from the Macdonalds, Lords of the Isles, who are the lineal descendants of the Scandinavian Somerled, Thane of Argyll and Lord of the Isles. On leaving the grammar school, Mr Symington joined the firm of his late father, with which he is still connected as a partner. In 1848 he published a volume of poems, entitled " Harebell Chimes, or Summer Memories and Musings," 12mo. In 1851 he travelled in France, Germany, Switzerland, and the most of Italy. He printed, for private circulation, in 1855 a volume, entitled " Genevieve and other Poems." In 1857 appeared a work on which he was long engaged, "The Beautiful in Nature, Art, and Life," Lond., 2 vols., 8vo. In 1859, induced by an ardent love of Northern literature and antiquities, he visited Iceland ; and, in 1862, published the results of his travels in " Pen and Pencil Sketches of Faroe and Iceland," London, 8vo. In 1862 appeared a second edition of " Harebell Chimes," with additional poems. In 1863 he was elected a Fellow of the Koyal Society of Northern Antiquaries, at Copenhagen. Mr Symington married, in 1860, Mary Sanderson Edmonston, of Unst, who has contributed both in prose and verse to periodical publications. The Edmonston family is well known in scientific circles, from the many valuable contributions to Natural History made by several of its members. Mr and Mrs Symington reside at Nyeholm House, Bellahouston Hill, near Glasgow. In addition to the works already enumerated, Mr Symington has contributed articles to some of the leading periodicals ; and his leisure hours having been devoted to literary and artistic studies, he largely enjoys the privilege of intercourse with persons eminent in the different departments of science, literature, and art. NATURE MUSICAL. THERE is music in the storm, love, When the tempest rages high ; It whispers in the summer breeze A soft, sweet lullaby. There is music in the night, When the joyous nightingale, Clear warbling, filleth with his song The hillside and the vale. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in everything. There is music by the shore, love, When foaming billows dash ; It echoes in the thunder peal, When vivid lightnings flash. There is music by the shore, In the stilly noon of night, When the murmurs of the ocean fade In the clear moonlight. There is music in the soul, love, When it hears the gushing swell, Which, like a dream intensely soft, Peals from the lily -bell. There is music, music deep In the soul that looks on high, When myriad sparkling stars sing out Their pure sphere harmony. There is music in the glance, love, Which speaketh from the heart, Of a sympathy in souls That never more would part. There is music in the note Of the cooing turtle-dove ; There is music in the voice Of dear ones whom we love. There is music everywhere, love, To the pure of spirit given ; And sweetest music heard on earth But whispers that of heaven. Oh, all is music there 'Tis the language of the sky Sweet hallelujahs there resound Eternal harmony. Then sing, sing, sing, For music breathes in every thing. FAIR AS A STAR OF LIGHT. FAIR as a star of light, Like diamond gleaming bright, Through darkness of the night, Is my love to me. As bell of lily white, In streamlet mirror 'd bright, All quiv'ring with delight, Is my love to me My love to me. A flowing magic thrill Which floodeth heart and will With gushes musical, Is my love to me. ANDRE W JAMES S YMING TON. 469 Bright as the tranced dream, Which flitteth in a gleam, Before morn's golden beam, Is my love to me My love to me. Like living crystal well, In cool and shady dell, Unto the parch'd gazelle, Is my love to me. And dearer than things fair, However rich and rare, In earth, or sea, or air, Is my love to me My love to me. SPRING SONG. OLD "Winter flieth to the north With his icy cold ; Crocuses are peeping forth Lilac, safiron, gold. The sap stirs 'neath the sun's warm ray, Quickening with the Spring ; Buds are bursting on each spray, Birds begin to sing. Fair blossoms crown the lichen'd rocks, Gleaming in the sun ; Fields are dotted white with flocks, Where clear waters run. The swallows twittering 'neath the height, Dart on rapid wing Through the belfry, 'gainst the light : Love wakes with the Spring ! And should not then man's heart rejoice In this flush of joy? Hearing Nature's happy voice, Why should care annoy ? Ah ! were the soul itself but free From the jars of sin ! All were sweetest harmony Joy is from within. SUMMER SONG. MY gipsy maid ! my gipsy maid ! Come with me ; 'Tis now the merry month of May. Let us haste away To the fields so fresh and green ; Where, again, the livelong day We '11 gather wild-flowers on the lea, And thou shalt be my queen! My queen ! The primrose clusters on the bank Are diamonded with dew ; 'Neath hedge-rows 'mong the lady-ferns, Spring violets blue. Larks in heaven's azure soaring, Greet the Lord of Day ; Birds from bush and tree are pouring Floods of melody : Their songs are happy songs of love, Sweet ! then come away ! Away! Dearest ! but for thee What were song of bird to me, Fairest flower or sunshine bright Flooding with its golden sheen Distant hill and valley ; Or now glancing through between Dark firs and beeches tender green, In the shady alley Touching sward, and flower, and tree With golden gleaming light? Sweet ! all were dark and cold as night, But for only thee ! For thee ! Now all is bright and gay, This lovely month of May And fairest lady ever seen By mortal eyes, Alone shall be my queen. Ah ! fairer 'neath the skies, Or truer there be none Than thou, my dearest own ! Nay, blush not 'tis my heart that sings, Nor can it soar without thy wings : Make then no delay ; Haste, sweet! and come away! Away! THE SNOW. I STOOD gazing from the window On the fleecy snow, Falling falling ever falling, Solemnly and slow ; And I felt the downy stillness To be more sublime Than the thunder flakes like ages In the lapse of time ! Bright sun ! blue skies ! Now the orchard Hath no air of gloom ; White-clothed, down-weigh'd branches seem- ing Laden with summer bloom. Not a shroud ! an eider mantle, Shielding earth from storm, Is the friendly snow ; it keepeth Fower and grass-blade warm ! So with chilly, biting trials Rightly understood, God, aye watching those that love Him, Worketh all for good. 470 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. REST. TOSSING through the starless night, Tempests wild the soul affright, Lord ! ! save us by Thy might ! Send Thy light. Here, what serveth human skill, Human foresight, strength, or will? Lord! Thy loving plan fulfil, Guide us still! Though huge-crested breakers rave, Crimson dawn lights every wave ; Lord ! we know that Thou wilt save ; Make us brave ! Soon, all weary tossings o'er, We shall rest on Canaan's shore ; Best, rejoicing ever more, And adore ! JAMES SMITH. ONE of the most ingenious of living Scottish song- writers, James Smith was born in St Mary's Wynd, Edinburgh, on. the 2d March 1824. His father, who had formerly been in the army, was a coach-lace weaver ; he apprenticed his son to a printer, so early as his eleventh year. At the close of his apprenticeship, the subject of this notice proceeded to London, in quest of employment ; he remained only a short period in the metropolis, and subsequently travelled in Ireland. Returning to Edinburgh, he married and settled as a journeyman printer. After some years, he became manager of a law-printing establishment in the city. On his employer retiring from business he became reader, first in the printing office of the Scotsman, and after- wards in the office of the Daily Review. Finding this employment injurious to his eyesight, he had to relinquish his place at the desk, and resume work as a compositor. After some other changes, Mr Smith was, in 1869, appointed librarian of the Edinburgh Mechanics' Library, a post in every respect congenial to his tastes and habits. Early in 1869 Messrs Blackwood of Edinburgh republished his " Poems, Songs, and Ballads," a volume which was received with universal favour by the press, and which has since reached a third edition. Mr Smith's poetry is pervaded by a lively fancy, broad and glowing humour, and a deep pathos. Many of his songs are charming portraitures of Scottish rural life. His pathetic compositions are most touching, he excels in drollery, and in satire he wields a vigorous pen. His songs for the nursery are among the best in the language. The "Humorous Scotch Stories," and "Jenny Blair's Maunder- ings " of Mr Smith, contained in tw r o small duodecimos, cannot be read without pro- voking roars of laughter from al] acquainted with the customs and conversations of the Scottish peasantry. WEE JOUKYDAIDLES. WEE Joukydaidles, Toddlin' oot an' in : Oh, hut she 'a a cuttie, Makiii' sic a din ! Aye sae fou' o' mischief, An* minds na what I say : My very heart gangs loup, loup, Fifty times a day ! Wee Joukydaidles Where's the stum pie noo ? She's tumblin' i' the cruivie, An' lauchin' to the soo ! Noo she sees my angry ee, An' aff she 's like a hare ! Lassie, when I get ye, I '11 scud ye till I 'm sair ! Wee Joukydaidles Noo she's breakin' dishes Noo she 's soakit i' the burn, Catchin' little fishes ; Noo she 's i' the barn-yard, Playin' wi' the fouls Feeding them wi' butter-bakes, Snaps, an' sugar-bools. JAMES SMITH. 471 Wee Joukydaidles Oh my heart it 's broke ! She's torn my braw new wincey, To mak' a dolly's frock. There's the goblet owre the fire ! The jaud ! she weel may rin ! No a tattie ready yet, An' faither comin' in ! "Wee Joukydaidles Wha's sae tired as me ! See! the kettle's doun at last ! Waes me for my tea ! Oh, it's angersome, atweel, An' sune '11 mak' me grey : My very heart gangs loup, loup, Fifty times a-day ! "Wee Joukydaidles Where's the smoukie noo ? She 's hidin' i' the coal-hole, Cryin' ' ' Keekybo ! " Noo she's at the fireside, Pu'in' pussy's tail Noo she 's at the broun bowl, Suppin' a' the kail ! "Wee Joukydaidles Paidlin' i' the shower There she 's at the wundy ! Haud her, or she's owre ! Noo she 's slippit frae my sicht : Where's the wean at last ? In the byre amang the kye, Sleepin' soun' an' fast ! Wee Joukydaidles For a' ye gi'e me pain, Ye 're aye my darlin' tottie yet My ain wee wean ! An' gin I'm spared to ither days Oh may they come to pass ! I'll see my bonnie bairnie A braw, braw lass ! CLAP, CLAP HAXDIE3. CLAP, clap handies ! Clap hands again ; Mammy's sonsy tot-tot, Mammy's bonnie wean ! I'll buy ye a fishie, In a little dishie : Clap, clap handiesj My wee wean ! Clap, clap handies ! Deddy's comin' ben' Wi' siller bells, an' coral shells, Three score an' ten ; A' to gi'e his laddie His bonnie wee bit laddie : Clap, clap handies, Deddy 's comin' ben Clap, clap handies ! Craw, cocky, craw, Blythely to my wee bird, Cockyleerielaw ! Craw awa' sae cheery To mammy's bonnie dearie : Clap, clap handies ! Cockyleerielaw ! Clap, clap handies, My muckle man : I '11 buy ye a coachy To ride thro' a' the kn'! . Wi' a mappie, an' a puggie, An' a bonnie barkin' duggie : Clap, clap handies, My muckle man ! Clap, clap handles ! Kissy mammy noo ! Eh ! where 's my sugar-ploom t Eh ! where 's my doo ! Cuddle in, my trootie Mammy's tootie-lootie ! Clap, clap handies ! Kissy mammy noo ! Clap, clap handies ! Lammie dear to me ! May ye never grieve my hearty Or dim yer deddy's ee ! Lauch awa', my petty Mammy's pretty, pretty : Clap, clap handles ! Lainruie dear to me ! BUBD AILIE. BTTRD AILIE sat doun by the wimplin* burn, Wi' the red, red rose in her hair ; An' bricht was the glance o' her bonnie bl \ck ee, As her heart throbb'd fast an' sair. An' aye as she look'd on ilk clear wee wave, She murmur'd her true luve's name, An' sigh'd when she thocht on the distant sea, An' the ship sae far frae hame ! The robin flew hie owre the gowden broom, An' he warbled fa' cheerilie. ' ' Oh tell me oh tell me, thou bonnie wee bird, Will I ever my true luve see ? " Then saftly an' sweetly the robin sang : ' ' Puir Ailie ! I 'm laith to tell ; For the ship 's i' the howe o' a roarin' wave, An' thy luve's i' the merlin's cell ! " " Oh tell me oh, tell me, thou bonnie wee bird, Did he mind on the nicht langsyne, When we plichted our troth by the trystin'tree? Was his heart aye true to mine ?" " Oh, fond an' true," the sweet robin sang, " But the merlin he noo maun wed ; For the sea- weed's twin'd in his yellow hair, An' the coral's his bridal bed ! " 472 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Burd Ailie lay low by the wimplin' burn, Wi' the red, red rose in her hair ; But gane was the glance o' her bonnie black ee, An' the robin sang nae mair. For an angel cam" doun at the fa' o' the nicht, As she murmur'd her true luve's name, An' took her awa' frae a broken heart, And the ship that wad ne'er come hame ! BALOO, MY BAIRNIE, FA' ASLEEP ! MY bonnie wean ! my darlin' bairn ! My sweet wee smilin' lammie ! Sae cosy in yer beddy-ba ! Crawin' to yer mammy ! Blessin's on yer cheekies red, An : wee bit lauchin' ee, Sparklin', like the gowden lift, Wi' gladsome, sunny glee ! Baloo, my bairnie, fa' asleep ! hushy, hushy ba' I My ain pet ! my honey doo ! My troutie o' the burn ! Sair, sair ye keep yer mammy back Frae daein' mony a turn ! fond's the look yer deddy tak's, As guileless ye lie there, Chasin' frae his honest broo Mony a dome care ! Baloo, my bairnie, fa' asleep ! hushy, hushy ba' ! Yer eenie saftly close at last, For oh ! ye 're tired an' weary : fa' asleep, my bonnie lamb ! fa' asleep, my dearie ! An' as yer wee thocht tak's its nicht "Where joys immortal blossom, May angels sing yer lullaby, An' fauld ye in their bosom ! Baloo, my bairnie, fa' asleep ! hushy, Imshy ba' 1 MASONIC ANTHEM. AIR "Star of Love, for ever shine." AWAKE the echoes of the night, With joyous, heart inspiring strain All hail, thou radiant mystic Light, That dawn'd in royal Wisdom's reign. Hail, fraternal power divine! Star of love, for ever shine ! O'er all this boundless, rolling sphere, The symbols of thy might are found ; And brothers cherish brothers dear, In friendship's rosy fetters bound ; Hail, fraternal power divine ! Star of love, for ever shine 1 Beneath thy beaming silver skies, No tear of sorrow pleads in vain ; But faithful, gen'rous sons arise, And fondly soothe affliction's pain. Hail, fraternal power divine ! Star of love, for ever shine ! All hail, the splendour of thy rays! Oh may their beauty never die ! But brightly shine through endless days- In mystic glory throned on high. Hail, fraternal power divine ! Star of love, for ever shine ! ACHORA MACHREE. ERIN, fair emerald gem of the ocean ! I leave ye with sorrow, my country asthore. Fill'd is this breast with an honest emotion, For the land that I love I will never see more. Slowly the vessel goes down the sweet river : The sails are unfurl'd, and the wind's blowing free: Core of my weeping heart ! bless thee for ever ! Dear home of my fathers, Achora Machree ! Oh for the voice that I ever hear sighing ! Oh for the grave where the willows entwine! Lonely the snowy white bosom that's lying, And cold the dear heart that throbb'd fondly to mine ! Wherever I wander, her golden hair's stream- ing! And she smiles with the old sunny smile upon me ! Oh harp of my country! strike soft while she's dreaming ! And sing to her kindly, Achora Machree ! Erin, alanna! the dark mists are falling: Loudly the foaming wave bids me depart : Yet ever fondly thy beauty recalling, Wildly the billows roll over my heart ! Farewell to the trusty boys, fearless of danger Farewell to the cabin I '11 never more see ! Cold is the far-distant land of the stranger ! Erin mavourneen ! Achora Machree ! THE BONNIE MORNIN' AFTER THE RAIN. THE nicht had been rainy, but fair was the mornin' ; Bricht shone the sun, comely nature adornin' ; Sweet bloom'd the daisy, yon bonnie simmer mornin' ; An' fragrant the green dewy plain. Saft to their minnies the young lambs were moan in' ; Fond 'mid the flow'rets the wild-beewasdronin' ; As Katie sat milkin" her kye i' the Ibanin' : Yon bonnie mornin' after the rain ! JAMES SMITH. 473 High frae the clover the laverock was springin' ; Loudly the lilt wi' his warble was ringin' ; Sweetly the lintie an' mavis were singin ; Adoun by the auld Lover's Lane. I lookit in her face, an' I ca'ed her my dearie, Her smiles were sae blythesome, my heart felt sae cheery ; Oh I lookit in her face, an' I ca'ed her my dearie, Yon bonnie mornin' after the rain ! Dark waved her locks owre her fair neck sae slender ; Bricht beam'd her ee, like the sun in its splendour ; Snawy her bosom, sae comely an' tender, An" pure as the lily o' the plain. Saftly my arms were my sweet jo entwinin', Ilk thocht o' that bosom my fancy divinin' ; Saftly my arms were my ain jo entwinin', Yon bonnie mornin' after the rain ! Oh fair are yon meadows, where aft I 've gaen roaruin' For mony a blest hour wi' my lass at the gloamin' ; But fairer oh fairer, the bonnie green loanin' ; Where she whisper'd, her heart was my ain, Sweetly she blush'd like the rose wi' emotion Fondly I seal'd wi' a kiss my devotion ; Sweetly she blushed like the rose wi' emotion. Yon bonnie mornin' after the rain ! Tho' Fortune to me has been scant wi' her measure, Yet ne'er will I envy her care-laden treasure ; Sae lang as the queen o' my hame gies me pleasure, 0' nocht will I ever complain ; For aye when I'm dowie, dounheartit, an" weary, Her sweet sunny smile mak's me lichtsome an' cheery Sae weel I '11 remember the tryst wi' my dearie, Yon bonnie mornin' after the rain ! DOUN FAIR DALMENY'S ROSY DELLS. DOTTN fair Dalmeny's rosy dells, Sweet Mary wander'd, sad an wae ; The sunlicht faded owre the lea, An' cheerless fell the simmer day. The warblin' mavis sang nae maif," As aft she sigh'd, in heavy sorrow : " lanely, lanely lies my luve; An' cauld 's the nicht that brings nae morrow ! " " By yonder hoary castle wa', "\Vhere murmurs deep the dark blue sea, I wearied sair the langsome nicht, Till tears bedimm'd my sleepless ee. The boat gaed down by Cramond's isle weary fa' that nicht o' sorrow ! For lanely, lanely lies my luve ; An' cauld 's the nicht that brings nae morrow !" " O foaming waves, that took my luve My ain true luve, beyond compare ! will I see his winsome form, An' hear his dear lo'ed voice nae mair ?" Fu' deep the snaw-white surges moan'd : " sair's the burden o' thy sorrow; For lanely, lanely lies thy love ; An' cauld 's the nicht that brings nae morrow !" She wander'd weary by the shore, An' murmur'd aft his name sae dear ; Till owre Dalmeny's dewy dells, The silver moon shone sweet an' clear. An' saft the tremblin' breezes sigh'd, As far she stray 'd, in hopeless sorrow : ' ' lanely, lanely lies thy luve ; An' cauld 's the nicht that brings nae morrow ! " THE LILY 0' CLERWOODLEE. A BONNIE May lay in her birken bower Fair blooms the rose by yon hawthorn tree An' aye as she slumber'd saft an' lang, Wi' a guileless heart that kent nae wrang, The merle an' the mavis fu' sweetly sang, " Oh bonnie 's the Lily o' Clerwoodlee ! " The breezes o' simmer gaed gently by Fair blooms the rose by yon hawthorn tree The cushat croon'd low, as it liuger'd near, " Oh sweet be thy rosy dreams, my dear ! " While the streamlet gaed murniurin', saft an' clear, " Oh bonnie 's the Lily o' Clerwoodlee ! " She waukent, an' bricht were her dark-blue een Fair blooms the rose by yon hawthorn tree She shone like a starlet o' beauty rare, Wi' a violet wreath roun' her ringlets fair ; While the bee gently humm'd on the fragrant air, " Oh bonnie 's the Lily o' Clerwoodlee !" Sae lichtly she roam'd owre the dewy green hill Fair blooms the rose by yon hawthorn tree Sae saft was the throb o' her snaw-white breast, As a voice fondly sigh'd frae the crimson west, "0* a' the dear maidens, I lo'e thee best, Thou bonnie sweet Lily o' Clerwoodlee ! " CAULD 'S THE BLAST ON THORXIE LEE. THE weirdly rider's on the plain Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee An' my lady sits in her lanely bower, Sighin' sair at midnight's hour Oh, my lady weeps in her lanely bower, Down by the willow-tree. 474 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. " Oh, when will my dear lord come hame?" Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee. A wailin' voice cried, " Never mair ! Pale are the roses in thy hair !" A mournfu' voice cried, " Never mair !" Doun by the willow-tree. The weirdly rider socht her bower Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee He murmur'd, i' the pale mune-licht, " Fu' lowly lies thy winsome knicht ! " Syne faded frae her weary sicht, Doun by the willow-tree. Faintly howl'd the trusty hound Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee A snaw-white steed cam' owre the plain Nae mortal grasp'd the bridle-rein, But a weirdly rider brocht him hame, Doun by the willow-tree. " Oh, welcome, welcome to this heart !" Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee "Nae mair thou'lt leave thy love!" she' cried. " Nae mair !" the dreary glen replied. " Nae mair !" the weirdly rider sigh'd Doun by the willow-tree. She left her bower wi* wailin' cry Cauld's the blast on Thornie Lee She wander'd till the break o' day, When a lifeless form before her lay ; Then moan'd her gentle heart away Doun by the willow-tree. THE WEE PAIR 0' SHOON.* OH, lay them canny doon, Jamie, An' tak' them frae my sicht ! They mind me o' her sweet wee face, An' sparklin" ee sae bricht. Oh, lay them saftly doon beside The lock o' silken hair; For the darlin' o' thy heart an' mine Will never wear them mair ! But oh ! the silvery voice, Jamie, That fondly lisped yer name, An' the wee hit hands sae aft held oot Wi' joy when you cam' hame ! * Music by Crashaw Johnson. An' oh, the smile the angel smile, That shone like simmer morn ; An' the rosy mou' that socht a kiss When ye were weary worn ! The eastlin' wind blaws cauld, Jamie The snaw's on hill an' plain The flowers that deck'd my lammie's grave Are faded noo, an' gane ! Oh, dinna speak ! I ken she dwells In yon fair land aboon ; But sair's the sicht that blin's my ee That wee, wee pair o' shoon 1 THE LIXTWHITE. A IINTWHITE sat in her mossy nest, Ae eerie morn in spring, An' lang she look'd at the cauld grey lift, Wi' the wee birds under her wing. An' aye as she lookit, wi' shiverin' breist Sae waesomely she sang : " tell me true, ye winds that blaw, Why tarries my luve sae laug? " I've socht him down i' the fairy glen, An' far owre the lanely lea I 've socht him douii i' yon saft green yird, An' high on the birken tree ; I've socht till the wee things cried me hame, Wi' mony a heavy pang ; tell me true, ye winds that blaw, Why tarries my luve sae lang?" 1 ' waly ! " the norland breezes moan'd "Sae weel may thy heart be sair ; For the hawk 's awa wi' thy ain true luve, An' he '11 sing thee a sang nae mair ! Fu' wae was his fate on yon auld aik tree, That aft wi' his warblin' rang ! Noo speir nae mair, wee shiverin' bird, Why tarries thy luve sae lang! " The lintwhite flew frae her mossy nest, For she couldna thole the sting ; An' she flichter'd east, an' she flichter'd west, Till she droukit her downy wing; An' aye as she flutter' d the lee-lang day, Sae wild an' sae shrill she sang : "O tell me tell me true, ye winds, Why tarries my luve sae lang?" ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON, ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON was born on the 4th April 1826, in the parish of Rayne, Aberdeenshire. His father, who rented a farm, having been killed by a fall from his horse, the subject of this sketch was brought up from infancy unde^ the care of bis maternal grandfather. In his boyhood he attended school during -winter, and in summer was employed as a cow-herd. At the age of fifteen he was apprenticed to ALEXANDER STEPHEN WILSON. 475 a land-surveyor, with, -whom he served five years. With a native turn for versifying, he early invoked the muse, and contributed poetry to the public journals. At the close of his apprenticeship, he established a debating club among the young men in the district of Rayne, and subsequently adventured on the publication of a monthly periodical. The latter, entitled The, Rural Echo, was almost wholly occupied with the ingenious projector's own compositions, both in prose and poetry. Devoted to metaphysical inquiries, Mr Wilson has latterly turned his attention to that depart- ment of study ; he has likewise been ardent in the pursuit of physical science. THINGS MUST MEND. THE gloom of dark despondency At times will cloud the breast ; Hope's eagle eye may shaded be 'Mid fortune's fears oppress'd ; But while we nurse an honest aim, "We shall not break nor bend, For when things are at the worst They must mend. The gentle heart by hardship crush' d Will sing amid its tears, And though its voice awhile be hush'd, 'Tis tuned for coming years ; A light from out the future shines With hope's tear-drops to blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend. Amid life's danger and despair, Still let our deeds be true, For nought but what is right and fair Can heal our hopeless view. The beautiful will soothe us, like The sunshine of a friend, And when things are at the worst They must mend. Oh, never leave life's morning dream, 'Tis whisper'd down from heaven, But trace its maze, though sorrow seem The sole reward that's given ; The joy is there, or not on earth, Which with our souls may blend, And when things are at the worst They must mend. THE WEE BLINK THAT SHINES IN A TEAR. LIFE'S pleasure seems sadness and care When dark is the bosom that feels, Yet mingled wi' shades o' despair Is the ray which our sorrow reveals ; Though darkly at times flows the stream, It rows till its waters are clear And Hope shields a bud in our life's darkest dream, Like the wee blink that shines in a tear. Afar in the wilderness blooms The flower that spreads beauty around, And Nature smiles sweet on our tombs, And softens with balm every wound. Oh, call not our life sad nor vain, Wi' its joys that can ever endear ; There's a sweet ray of pleasure star deep in each pain, Like the wee blink that shines in a tear. Sweet smiles the last hope in our woe, And fair is the lone desert isle ; Young Flora peeps gay from the snow ; And dearest in grief is a smile. The dew-drop is bright with a star Aye glows when young memories appear ; But a symbol to Hope that is sweeter by far Is the wee blink that shines in a tear. ISABELLA CRAIG KNOX, ISABELLA. CKAIG is a native of Edinburgh. Her father, Mr John Craig, conducted business as a merchant in South Bridge Street ; he was connected with a respectable family at Aberdeen. His wife, whose maiden name was Anne Braick, and who was' a native of the parish of Insch, Aberdeenshire, was possessed of poetic tastes, which she transmitted to her daughter, the subject of this notice. Miss Craig first appeared as a writer of verses in the columns of the Scotsman newspaper ; she pub- lished in 1856 a volume entitled " Poems by Isa." This was well received, and soon after its appearance the authoress became assistant Secretary to the Association for the Promotion of Social Science. In January 1859 she gained, against some 600 com- 476 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. petitors, the .50 prize offered by the Directors of the Crystal Palace Company for the best ode on the Centenary celebration of the birth of Burns. In 1866 Miss Craig married her cousin, Mr John Knox, merchant, London ; and she resides with her husband at New Cross, Kent. In 1865 she published " Duchess Agnes and other Poems." She is a contributor to Good JVords and Fraser's and Macmillan's Magazines. ODE ON THE CENTENARY OF BUENS. WE hail this morn, A century's noblest birth ; A Poet peasant-bom, Who more of Fame's immortal dower Unto his country brings Than all her kings ! As lamps high set Upon some earthly eminence ; And to the gazer brighter thence Than the sphere lights they flout Dwindle in distance and die out, While no star waneth yet ; So through the past's far-reaching night Only the star-souls keep their light A gentle boy, With moods of sadness and of mirth, Quick tears and sudden joy, Grew up beside the peasant's hearth. His father's toil he shares ; But half his mother's cares From his dark, searching eyes, Too swift to sympathise, Hid in her heart she bears. At early morn His father calls him to the field ; Through the stiff soil that clogs his feet, Chill rain, and harvest heat He plods all day ; returns at eve outworn, To the rude fare a peasant's lot doth yield To what else was he born ? The God-made king Of every living thing; (For his great heart in love could hold them all) ; The dumbeyesmeetingbis by hearth and stall Gifted to understand ! Knew it and sought his hand ; And the most timorous creature had not fled Could she his heart have read, Which fain all feeble things had blessed and sheltered. To Nature's feast, Who knew her noblest guest And entertained him best, Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east She draped with crimson and with gold, And poured her pure joy wines For him the poet-souled ; For him her anthem rolled From the storm- wind among the winter pines, Down to the slenderest note Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat. But when begins The array for battle, and the trumpet blows, A king must leave the feast and lead the fight ; And with its mortal foes, Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins, Each human soul must close ; And Fame her trumpet blew Before him, wrapped him in her purple state, And made him mark for all the shafts of Fate That henceforth round him flew. Though he may yield, Hard-pressed, and wounded fall Forsaken on the field ; His regal vestments soiled ; His crown of half its jewels spoiled ; He is a king for all. Had he but stood aloof ! Had he arrayed himself in armour proof Against temptation's darts ! So yearn the good so those the world calls wise, With vain, presumptuous hearts, Triumphant moralise. Of martyr- woe A sacred shadow on his memory rests Tears have not ceased to flow Indignant grief yet stirs impetuous breasts, To think above that noble soul brought low, That wise and soaring spirit fooled, enslaved Thus, thus he had been saved ! It might not be ! That heart of harmony Had been too rudely rent ; Its silver chords, which any hand could wound, By no hand could be tuned, Save by the Maker of the instrument, Its every string who knew, And from profaning touch His heavenly gift withdrew. Regretful love His country fain would prove, By grateful honours lavished on his grave ; Would fain redeem her blame That he so little at her hands can claim, Who unrewarded gave To her his life-bought gift of song and fame. The land he trod Hath now become a place of pilgrimage ; Where dearer are the daisies of the sod That could his song engage. ISABELLA CRAIG KNOX. 477 The hoary hawthorn, wreathed Above the bank on which his limbs he flung While some sweet plaint he breathed ; The streams he wandered near ; The maidens whom he loved; the songs he sung- All, all are dear ! The arch blue eyes Arch but for love's disguise Of Scotland's daughters, soften at his strain ; Her hardy sons, sent forth across the main To drive the ploughshare through earth's virgin soils, Lighten with it their toils ; And sister-lands have learn'dto love the tongue In which such songs are sung. For doth not song To the whole world belong ? Is it not given wherever tears can fall, Wherever hearts can melt, or blushes glow, Or mirth and sadness mingle as they flow, A heritage to all ? THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. A STILLNESS crept about the house At evenfall, in noontide glare ; Upon the silent hills looked forth The many -windowed house of Quair. The peacock on the terrace screamed ; Browsed on the lawn the timid hare ; The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered house of Quair. The pool was still ; around its brim The alders sicken'd all the air ; There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leithen, Tweed, and Quair. The days hold on their wonted pace, And men to court and camp repair, Their part to fill of good or ill, While women keep the house of Quair. And one is clad in widow's weeds, And one is maiden-like and fair, And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair. To see the trout leap in the streams, The summer clouds reflected there, The maiden loves in maiden dreams To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. Within, in pall black velvet clad, Sits stately in her oaken chair A stately dame of ancient name The mother of the house of Quair. Her daughter 'broiders by her side, With heavy, drooping golden hair, And listens to her frequent plaint " 111 fare the brides that come to Quair. " For more than one hath lived in pine, And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the house of Quair." " Alas! and ere thy father died I had not in his heart a share ; And now may God forfend her ill Thy brother brings his bride to Quair ! " She came : they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair ; They led her to her chamber high The fairest in the house of Quair. " 'Tis fair," she said, on looking forth ; ' ' But what although 'twere bleak and bare ? ' She looked the love she did not speak, And broke the ancient curse of Quair ' ' Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes, His dangers and his toils I share." What need be said, she was not one Of the ill-fated brides of Quair ! A REMEMBRANCE. IN a garden we were sitting, Three, whose hearts were one, And before us leaves were flitting, Golden in the sun. And around us birds were singing All things smiled and glowed ; Music in our hearts was ringing, Speech like music flowed. But as we were converse holding Of all happy things, All the birds their wings were folding, And the time had wings. Rosy clouds in swift transition Faded into grey, Then we wished some old magician Would bid Time to stay. Or that such had come and found us But an hour agone, And in fabled spell had bound us, To be loosed by none ! Thus for ever, all unwitting How the ages flew, Golden leaves before us flitting, Sunshine streaming through ! Thus for ever ! Thus for ever ! Ah ! the thought how vain ! Mournful, too, for we shall never Be the same again. All our brows have gathered sadness, Travelling sore of foot ; On our lips the songs of gladness Now are almost mute. THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Could some great magician aid us By once famous magic might, "Would we give what time has made us For that old and dear delight? "Would we three again were sitting As when life was new, Golden leaves before us flitting, Sunshine streaming through ! AFTER WAR. HE came when the war was ended, From camp and battle-field, Home, to be gently tended, His heavy wound half-heal'd. After the joy of meeting With its mingled pain had pass'd, Peace, with a holy greeting, Kissed all our lips at last. But when on her stay we reckon'd, A sad farewell she breathed, And rose and softly beckon'd To him whose sword was sheathed. He laid him down meek-hearted, We filled his breast with flowers ; Our hero had departed, To a surer peace than ours. THAMES. A GLIMPSE of the river ! it glimmers Through the stems of the beeches ; Through the screen of the willows it shimmers In long winding reaches ; Flowing so softly that scarcely It seems to be flowing, But the reeds of the low, little islands Are bent to its going ; And soft as the breath of a sleeper Its heaving and sighing, In the coves where the fleets of the lilies At anchor are lying : It looks as if fallen asleep In the lap of the meadows, and smiling Like a child in the grass, dreaming deep Of the flowers and their golden beguiling. A glimpse of the river ! it glooms Underneath the dark arches, Across it the broad shadow looms, And the eager crowd marches ; Where washing the feet of the city, Strong and swift it is flowing ; On its bosom the ships of the nations Are coming and going ; Heavy laden, it labours and spends, In a great strain of duty, The power that was gather'd and nursed In the calm and the beauty. Like thee, noble river, like thee ! Let our lives in beginning and ending, Fair in their gathering be, And great in the time of their spending. MY MARY AN' ME. WE were baith neebor bairns, thegether we play'd; We loved our first love, an' our hearts never stray'd ; When I got my young lassie her first vow to gi'e, We promised to wait for each ither a wee. My mother was widow 'd when we should hae wed, An' the nicht when we stood roun' my faither's death-bed, He charged me a husband and father to be, While my young orphan sisters clung weepin' to me. I kent nae, my Mary, what high heart was thine, Xor how brightly thy love in a dark hour wad shine, Till in doubt and in sorrow, ye whisper'd to me, "Win the blessing o' Heaven for thy Mary and thee. " An' years ha'e flown by deeply laden wi' care, But Mary has help'd me their burden to bear, She gave me my shield in misfortune and wrong, Twas she that aye bade me be steadfast and strong. Her meek an' quiet spirit is aye smooth as now, Her saft shinin' hair meekly shades her white brow, A few silver threads 'mang its dark faulds I see, They tell me how lang she has waited on me. Her cheek has grown paler, for she too maun toil, Her sma' hands are thinner, less mirthfu' her smile ; She at't speaks o' heaven, and if she should dee, j She tells me that there she'll be waitin* on me. MARGARET CRA WFORD ROSEBURGH. 47b MARGARET CRAWFORD ROSEBURGH, THE authoress of "Rustic Lays," an interesting little volume of lyric poetry, Margaret Crawford was born on the 4th February 1833, at Gilmerton, in the parish of Liberton, Mid-Lothian. With limited opportunities of attending school, she was chiefly indebted for her elementary training to occasional instructions communicated by her mother. Her father, an operative gardener, removed in 1842 to Torwoodlee, Roxburghshire. It was while living there, under her parents' roof, that, so early as her thirteenth year, she first essayed to write verses. Through the beneficence of Mrs Meiklam of Tor- woodlee, whose husband her father served, she was taught dressmaking. She sub- sequently accepted the situation of nurse-maid at Craignish Castle, Argyllshire. In 1852, her parents removed to the village of Stow, in the upper district of Mid-Lothian. It was when an inmate of their humble cottage that her volume of " Rustic Lays" appeared in 1855. Of its contents she thus writes in the preface: " Many of these pieces were composed by the authoress on the banks of the Gala, whose sweet, soft music, mingling with the melodies of the woodland, has often charmed her into for- getfulness of the rough realities of life. Others were composed at the fireside, in her father's cottage, at the hours of the gloamin', when, after the bustle of the day had ceased, the clouds and cares of the present were chased away by the bright dreams of the past, and the happy hopes of the future, till she found that her musings had twined themselves into numbers, and assumed the form in which they now appear." Margaret Crawford married, about 1858, a person named Roseburgh. She has not been fortunate in her wedded life ; she resides with her parents at Galashiels, Selkirk- shire. DAY-DEEAM3 OF OTHER YEARS. THERE are moments when my spirit wanders back to other years, And time long, long departed, like the present still appears ; And I revel in the sunshine of those happy, happy hours, When the sky of youth was cloudless, and its path was strewn with flowers. those days of dreamy sweetness! those visions of delight ! Weaving garlands for the future, making all of earth too bright ; They come creeping through my memory like messengers of peace, Tellingtales of bygone blessings, biddingpresent sorrows cease. Long-lost friends are gathering round me, smiling faces, gentle forms, All unconscious of earth's struggles, all un- mindful of its storms Beaming radiantly and beautiful, as in the days of youth, \Vhen friendship was no mockery, when every thought was truth. Joy, illuming every bosom, made fair nature fairer still llirth sported on each summer breeze, and sung in every rill ; Beauty gleaming all around us, bright as dreams of fairy land Oh, faded now that lustre, scatter'd far that happy band ! Xow deeply traced with sorrow is the onee unclouded brow, And eyes that sparkled joyously are dim with weeping now ; We are tasting life ha earnest all its vain illusions gone And the stars that glisten'd o'er our path are falling one by one. Some are sleeping with their kindred summer blossoms o'er them wave ; Some, lonely and unfriended, with the stranger found a grave ; While others now are wand'ring on a far and foreign shore, And that happy, loving company shall meet ah ! never more. But afar in mem'ry's garden, like a consecrated spot, The heart's first hopes are hidden, and can never be forgot ; And the light that cheer'd us onward, in our airy early days Oft we linger in the distance to look back upon its rays. 480 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Old Time, with hand relentless, may shed ruins o'er the earth, May strew our path with sorrow, make a desert of our hearth Change may blight our fairest blossoms, shroud our clearest light in gloom ; But the flow'ry fields of early years shall never lose their bloom ! MY NATIVE LAND. MY native land ! my native land ! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand, In ancient Caledonia! How dear to me those gurgling rills That wander free amang the hills ! How sweet to me the sang that fills The groves o' Caledonia ! They tell me o' a distant isle Where summer suns for ever smile ; But frae my heart they'll never wile My love for Caledonia ! And what are a' their flowery plains, If filled with weeping slav'ry's chains ? Nae foot o' slavery ever stains My native Caledonia ! Though cauld's the sun that sheds his rays O'er Scotland's bonnie woods and braes, Oh, let me spend my latest days In ancient Cladedonia ! My native land ! my native land ! Where liberty shall firmly stand, Where men are brave in heart and hand True sons of Caledonia ! THE STREAM OF LIFE DOWN by a crystal stream Musing I stray'd, As 'neath the summer beam Lightly it play'd, Winding by field and fen, Mountain and meadow, then Stealing through wood and glen, Soft'ning the shade. Thus, then, methought, is life ; Onward it flows Now mingling peace with strife, Toil with repose Now sparkling joyously Under the glare of day, Drinking each sunny ray, Purely it flows. Now gliding peacefully, Calm and serene, Smoothly it takes its way, Softly I ween Murmur its waters past Oh, will that stillness last? See, rocks are nearing fast, Changing the scene. Wildly it dashes now, Loudly it roars, Over the craggy brow Fiercely it pours. All in commotion lost, Wave over wave is toss'd ; Spray, white as winter's frost, Up from it soars. Yet where the conflict's worst Brightest it gleams ; Rays long in silence nursed Shoot forth in streams : Beauties before unknown Out from its breast are thrown ; Light, like a golden zone, Brilliantly beams. Thus in the Christian's breast Pure faith may lie, Hid in the day of rest Deep from the eye ; But when life's shadows lower Faith lights the darkest hour, Driving, by heavenly power, Gloom from the sky. JOHN BATHURST DICKSON, LLD, JOHN BATHURST DICKSON was born on the 25th December 1823, in the town of Kelso, Roxburghshire. His father was a respectable solicitor in that place. Having studied at the University of Edinburgh, and passed through a theological curriculum at the New College of that city, he became, in 1851, a licentiate of the Free Church. In June 1852, he was ordained to the ministerial charge of the Free High Cliurch, Pais- ley. He has since retired from the active discharge of ministerial duty. During the period of his attendance at college, Mr Dickson contributed to Tail's Magazine, and. other periodicals. In 1855, he published "Theodoxia; or, Glory to EVAN M' COLL. 481 God an Evidence for the Truth of Christianity;" and in 1857 "The Temple Lamp," a periodical publication. He has composed verses on a variety of topics. His song, " The American Flag," has been widely published in" the United States. He lately received the degree of Doctor of Laws from an American University. THE AMERICAN FLAG. FLOAT forth, thou flag of the free ; Flash far over land and sea, Proud ensign of Liberty Hail, hail to thee ! The blue of the heavens is thine, The stars on thy canvas shine ! Thy heraldry tells thee divine Hail, hail to thee ! Thy white proclaims thee nnstain'd, Thy crimson thy love unfeign'd To man, by despots enchain'd Hail, hail to thee ! Tinder thy God-given light Our fathers went forth to fight 'Gainst sceptred wrong for the right Hail, hail to thee! The Lion of England no more 'Gainst thy proud Eagle shall roar : Peace strideth from shore to shore Hail, hail to thee ! Float forth, thou flag of the free- Flash far over land and sea, Till the world shout Liberty Hail, hail to thee 1 EVAN M'COLL. A WRITER both of English and Gaelic songs, Evan M'Coll was born in 1808, at Ken- more, Lochfmeside, Argyllshire. His father, Dugald M'Coll, followed an industrial occupation, but contrived to afford his son a somewhat liberal education. The leisure hours of the youthful poet were ardently devoted to literary culture. In 1837, he became a contributor of Gaelic poetry to a Glasgow periodical, and his compositions began to excite an interest in the Highlands. Two influential Highland gentlemen secured him an appointment in the Customs at Liverpool. He subsequently emi- grated to America, and is now resident at Kingston. Besides many fugitive pieces, Mr M'Coll has published a volume of lyrics, entitled " The Mountain Minstrel," and a volume of Gaelic poetry. THE HILLS OF THE HEATHER, GIVE the swains of Italia 'ilong myrtles to rove, Give the proud, sullen Spaniard His bright orange grove ; Give gold-sanded streams To the sons of Chili, But, oh ! give the hills Of the heather to me. The hills where the hunter Oft soundeth his horn, Where sweetest the skylark Awakens the morn ; The grey cliff, the blue lake, The stream's dashing glee, Endear the red hills Of the heather to me. There Health, rosy virgin, For ever doth dwell ; There Love fondly whispers To Beauty his tale ; There Freedom's own darling ! The Gael, lives free, Then, oh ! give the hills Of the heather to me. 2 H 482 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. ANDREW YOUNG. ANDREW YOUNG is a native of Edinburgh. His father, David Young, was upwards of fifty years one of the most successful teachers in that city. The subject of this notice passed through a literary and theological course of study at the University of Edinburgh. In 1830, he was elected by the Edinburgh Town Council to the Head- Mastership of the Niddry Street School. In this situation he remained eleven years. In 1840, he was preferred to the English Mastership in Madras College, St Andrews, an appointment which he held for thirteen years. Since his retirement from public duty, Mr Young has resided in Edinburgh. The following sacred song, which he composed many years ago, appears anonymously in many of the collections: THE HAPPY LAND. THERE is a happy land, Far, far away, Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day. Oh, how they sweetly sing, Worthy is our Saviour King ; Loud let his praises ring Praise, praise for aye. Come to this happy land Come, come away ; Why will ye doubting stand Why still delay? Oh, we shall happy be, When, from sin and sorrow free, Lord, we shall live with Thee Blest, blest for aye. Bright in that happy land Beams every eye : Kept by a Father's hand, Love cannot die. On then to glory run ; Be a crown and kingdom won ; And bright above the sun, Keign, reign for aye. HORATIUS BONAR, D.D, THE most popular of living evangelical hymn writers, and an eminent and voluminous theological scholar, Horatius Bonar was born at Edinburgh, on the 19th of Decem- ber 1808. His father, Mr James Bonar, a man of eminent piety and accomplished scholarship, was solicitor of excise, an office now abolished. His ancestors for several successive generations were ministers of the Church of Scotland. He was educated at the High School and the University of his native city. After engaging for some time in missionary labour at Leith, he was ordained to the ministry at Kelso in November 1837. His first literary efforts appeared in the shape of religious tracts, since published in a volume under the title of " The Kelso Tracts." He next pub- lished a work by which he became widely known, " The Night of Weeping," which was followed by other two works of the same series, " The Morning of Joy," and " The Eternal Day." Of his subsequent publications, the more conspicuous are, " Prophetical Landmarks," " The Coming and the Kingdom of the Lord Jesus." " A Stranger Here," " Man ; his Religion and his World," " The Story of Grace," " The Blood of the Cross," " Days and Nights in the East, or, Illustrations of Bible Scenes;" " Catechisms of the Scottish Reformation ;" " Fifty-two Short Sermons for Family Readings ;" " God's Way of Peace : a Book for the Anxious ;" " God's Way of Holi- ness :" " The Land of Promise : Notes of a Spring Journey from Beersheba to Sidon ;" "The Desert of Sinai: Notes of a Journey from Cairo to Beersheba;" and, "Light HORATIUS SONAR, D.D. 483 and Truth : or, Bible Thoughts and Themes," To these must be added his poetical works, consisting of his " Lyra Consolationis," and " Hymns of Faith and Hope," of which a third series has been published. Dr Bonar now ministers to the congregation of the Chalmers' Memorial Free Church, Grange, Edinburgh. THE MEETING PLACE. WHERE the faded flower shall freshen, Freshen never more to fade ; Where the shaded sky shall brighten Brighten never more to shade : Where the sun-blaze never scorches, Where the star-beams cease to chill ; Where no tempest stirs the echoes Of the wood, or wave, or hill : Where the morn shall wake in gladness, And the noon the joy prolong, Where the daylight dies in fragrance, 'Mid the burst of holy song: Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest ! Where no shadow shall bewilder, Where life's vain parade is o'er, Where the sleep of sin is broken, And the dreamer dreams no more ; Where the bond is never sever'd, Partings, claspings, sob and moan, Midnight waking, twilight weeping, Heavy noontide, all are done : Where the child has found its mother, Where the mother finds the child, Where dear families are gather'd That were scatter'd on the wild : Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest ! Where the hidden wound is healed, Where the blighted life re-blooms, Where the smitten heart the freshness Of its buoyant youth resumes ; Where the love that here we lavish On the withering leaves of time, Shall have fadeless flowers to fix on In an ever spring-bright clime : Where we find the joy of loving, As we never loved before, Loving on, unchill'd, unhinder'd Loving once and evermore : Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest ! Where a blasted world shall brighten Underneath a bluer sphere, And a softer, gentler sunshine, Shed its healing splendour here ; Where earth's barren vales shall blossom, Putting on their robe of green, And a purer, fairer Eden Be where only wastes have been : Where a king in kingly glory, Such as earth has never known, Shall assume the righteous sceptre, Claim and wear the holy crown : Brother, we shall meet and rest 'Mid the holy and the blest! PRAISE. PRAISES to Him who built the hills ; Praises to Him the streams who fills ; Praises to Him who lights each star That sparkles in the blue afar. Praises to Him who makes the morn, And bids it glow with beams new-born ; Who draws the shadows of the night, Like curtains o'er our wearied sight. Praises to Him whose love has given In Christ His Son, the Life of heaven ; Who for our darkness gives us light, And turns to day our deepest night. Praises to Him, in grace who came To bear our woe, and sin, and shame ; Who lived to die, who died to rise The God-accepted sacrifice. Praises to Him, the chain who broke, Opened the prison, burst the yoke ; Sent forth its captives glad and free, Heirs of an endless liberty. Praises to Him who sheds abroad Within our heart the love of God ; The Spirit of all truth and peace, Fountain of joy and holiness. To Father, Son, and Spirit now The hands we lift, the knees we bow ; To Jah-Jehovah thus we raise The sinner's endless song of praise. BRIGHT FEET OF MAY. TRIP along, bright feet of May, Trip along from day to day, Trip along in sun and showers, Trip along and wake the flowers, Trip along the breezy hills, Trip beside the gathering rills ; Trip along, in light and song, Trip away, all bright and gay, Trip away, bright feet of May. Trip along when morning shines, Trip along when day declines, Trip along when in the night Moon and stars are sparkling bright ; Trip across the sunny sea, Over cloudland high and free ; Trip along, in light and song, Trip away, all fresh and gay, Trip away, bright feet of May. 484 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Trip along the budding wood, O'er the moorland solitude ; Trip through garden, field, and brake, Trip beside the gleaming lake ; Kevel in the star-loved dew, Drink the clear sky's summer blue ; Trip along, in light and song, Trip away, all fresh and gay, Trip away, bright feet of May. Trip along, and as you move, Fill the springing earth of love ; Fill of love the sunlight free, Fill of love the bounding sea ; The love of Him who gave to May The sweetness of its smiling day. Trip along, in light and song, Trip away, all fresh and gay, Trip away, bright feet of May. GEORGE MAC DONALD, LLD. ONE of the most popular novelists of the present time, and an elegant poet, George Mac Donald was born at Huntly, Aberdeenshire, in 1824. His father bore the same Christian name j his mother, Helen Mackay, was descended from an old Highland family. He studied at King's College, Aberdeen, where he took the degree of A.M. From an early period devoted to the concerns of literature, he has for many years resided at Hammersmith, London. He first became known to the literary world by publishing in 1855 a poetical volume entitled, "Within and "Without," which obtained a wide acceptance. This was followed in 1856 by a second volume of " Poems." "Phantasies, a Faerie Romance," appeared in 1858. In 1863 he published "David Elginbrod," a novel in three volumes. His other publications are " The Portent, a Story of the Inner Vision of the Highlanders," Lond., 1864, 8vo; "Alec Forbes of Howglen," Lond., 1865, 3 vols., 8vo ; "Adela Cathcart," Lond., 1866, 3 vols., Svo; "Dealings with the Fairies," Lond., 1867, 16mo ; "Unspoken Sermons," Lond., 1867, 8vo.; "Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood," 3 vols., Svo; "The Seaboard Parish," Lond., 1868, 3 vols., Svo ; " Eobert Falconer," Lond., 1868, 3 vols. Svo ; " Guild Court," Lond., 1868, 3 vols., Svo. Mr Mac Donald lately received the honorary degree of LL.D. from the University of Aberdeen. His latest publication "The Disciple and other Poems," Lond., 1869., 12mo, fully sustains his reputation as a poet. He is well known as a powerful lecturer on literary subjects. He edits Good Words for the Young, one of the serials published by Strahan & Co. LASSIE AYONT THE HILL. LASSIE ayont the hill ! Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht, 1 'm needin' ye sair the nicht, For I 'm tired and sick o' mysel', A body's sel' 'a the sairest weicht lassie come owre the hill ! Gin a body could be a thocht o' grace, And no a sel' ava! I'm sick o' my heid, and my han's, and my face, An' my thochts and mysel' and a' ; I 'm sick o' the warl' and a' ; The licht gangs by wi' a hiss ; For thro' my een the sunbeams fa', But my weary heart they miss. O lassie ayont the hill ! Come owre the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill ; Bidena ayont the hill. For gin ance I saw yer bonnie heid, And the sunlicht o' yer hair, The ghaist o' mysel' wad fa' doun deid ; I wad be mysel' nae mair, .1 wad be mysel' nae mair. Filled o' the sole remeid ; Slain by the arrows o' licht frae yer hair, Killed by yer body and heid. lassie ayont the hill, etc. But gin ye lo'ed me ever sae sma', For the sake o' my bonnie dame, Whan I cam' to life, as she gaed awa,' I could bide my body and name, I micht bide by mysel' the weary same ; Aye setting up its heid Till I turn frae the claes that cover my frame, As gin they war roun' the deid. lassie ayont the hill, etc. GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. 485 But gin ye lo'ed me as I lo'e you, I wad ring my ain deid knell ; My sel' wad vanish, shot through and through Wi' the shine o' yer sunny sel', By the licht aneath yer broo, I wad dee to mysel', and ring my bell, And only live in you. lassie ayont the hill ! Come ower the tap o' the hill, Or roun' the neuk o' the hill, For I want ye sair the nicht, I 'm needin' ye sair the nicht, For I'm tired and sick o' mysel', A body's sel' 's the sairest weieht lassie, come ower the hilL GAEIN' AND COMIX'. WHAN Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed, The lift was lowerin' dreary, The sun he wadna raise his heid, The wind was laigh and eerie. In 's pooch he had a plack or twa, I vow he hadna mony ; Yet Andrew likes a hearty sang, For Lizzy was sae bonnie ! O Lizzie, Lizzie, bonnie lassie ! Bonnie gaucy hizzie ! What richt had ye to luik at me, And drive me daft and dizzy ? When Andrew to Strathbogie cam', The sun was shinin' rarely ; He rode a horse that pranced and sprang I vow he sat him fairly. And he had gowd to spend and spare, And a heart as true as ony ; But's luik was doon, and his sigh was sair, For Lizzie was sae bonny ! Lizzie, Lizzie, bonny hizzie, You've turned the daylicht dreary, Ye 're straughtand rare, ye're fause and fair, Hech ! auld John Armstrong's deary. AN AUTUMN WIND. THE autumn winds are sighing Over land and sea ; The autumn woods are dying Over hill and lee ; And my heart is sighing, dying, Maiden, for thee. The autumn clouds are flying Harmless over me ; The homeless birds are crying In the naked tree ; And my heart is flying, crying, Maiden, to thee. My cries may turn to gladness, And my flying flee ; My sighs may lose the sadness, Yet sigh on in me ; All my sadness, all my gladness, Maiden, rest in thee. CHILD'S SONG. LITTLE white Lily Sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting Till the sun shone. Little white Lily Sunshine has fed, Little white Lily Is liftiug her head. Little white Lily Said, "It is good ; Little white Lily's Clothing and food : Little white Lily Drest like a bride ! Shining witii whiteness, And crowned beside ! " Little white Lily Droopeth in pain, Waiting and waiting For the wet rain : Little white Lily Holdeth her cup ; Rain is fast falling And filleth it up. Little white Lily Said, "Good again, When I am thirsty To have nice rain ! Now I am stronger, Now I am cool ; Heat cannot burn me, My veins are so full ! " Little white Lily Smells very sweet ; On her head sunsliine, Bain at her feet. "Thanks to the sunshine! Thanks to the rain ! Little white Lily Is happy again!" 486 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. MATTHIAS BARR, MATTHIAS BARK was born on the 6th December 1831 at Edinburgh, where his father, a native of Germany, carried on business as a watchmaker. Through his mother, he is of Scottish descent. Educated at the High School and Academy of Edinburgh, he proceeded to London, where he now holds a respectable appointment in the city. Mr Barr first appeared as an author in 1865, by publishing a volume of " Poems." During the following year he issued the " Child's Garland," 12mo, which was well received. His subsequent works are " Little Willie," Lond., 1867, 12mo ; " Hours of Sunshine," Lond., 1869, 12mo ; together with several illustrated books for children, published anonymously. A revised and enlarged edition of his " Poems " appeared in the spring of 1870. Mr Barr has composed a number of exquisite lyrics ; his songs and rhymes for children have earned for him the title of "The Children's Poet Laureate ;" they are unquestionably the best in the language. JEANNIE GRAY. I WONDER aften, Jeannie, Gin ye 're thinki^o' me noo, An' gin the thochts o' ither years Creep ever back on you ; An' gin thy heart's the same leal heart I kenn'd when ye were wee, An' gin thy look 's the same saft look That spak' o' love to me. Though years on years ha'e sped awa' Sin' I ha'e seen thee last Sin' we were merry, thochtless things, An' love atween us pass'd ; Though I ha'e dreed the warld's look, An mony a change sin' syne, Oh ! ye were never frae my thochts, Nor frae this heart o' mine. An' need I say how sair I grat That morn ye gaed awa', An' thocht the warld a wilderness, Cauld looks in a' I saw ; How auld folks wonder'd in their love, What ailed the laddie sae, Or what could ding his merry heart, Or gar him dream o' wae I But, ah ! they little kenn'd that love Was twinin' roun' my heart Love that wad flourish fresh and green When simmer leaves depart. memory ! memory ! Thy page is ever green, Why haunt me to the weed-grown paths Where love and youth ha'e been ? Why mind me o' the dear lo'ed past, When steps were licht an' free ; When mirth was on our rosy lips, And kindness in our ee? Tears trickled then for joy, love, But tears ha'e flow'd sin' syne, An* tears shall flow ere I forget That wee sweet face o' thine. Ere I forget, dear Jeannie Gray, When simmer in her pride Glower'd sweetly on us baith, love, An' a' the warld beside Ere I forget the vows we made The livelang simmer day, That we wad never, never pairt, But live an' love for aye ! I canna think, dear Jeannie Gray, Thy vows sae sweet and fair Were but the breathin's o' a name, The emptiness o' air. I canna think thy head sae licht, Thy heart sae cauld to me, But yet a tear will afttimes dim The brichtness o' thine ee. A lang fareweel, dear Jeannie Gray ! This heart can only sigh ; Perchance we yet may meet again, When ages ha'e gane by : Sly blessin's on ye, Jeannie dear, My blessin' nicht an' day ; Oh, may ye be as fu' o' bliss As I am fu' o' wae ! SHE'S A' MY AIN. SHE'S a' my ain, she's a' my ain An' oh ! how sweet the thocht to me ! Mair precious than a gowden crown, Or a' the pleasures wealth can gi'e. An' dearer than the fauldin' rose, Or lauchin' daisy on the lea, Than simmer sun in birken bower, Is artless Jeannie's love to me. I lo'e to leave the busy thrang, An' wander by the green burn-side, An' fondly whisper a' I feel, E'en a' the love I canna hide. MATTHIAS BARR. 487 An' aye a wee han' clasps my ain, An' aye a blink fa's kind on me, An' cares an' strifes an' warldly thochts Awa' like mists o' mornin' flee. Ha'e I a grief, it 's no' for gear, It isna, Jeannie, that I 'm puir ; Braws couldna mak' thee blyther seem, They couldna mak' me lo'e thee mair. An' gin at times 'tis hard to bide The selfish gate o' warldly men, I sit me down beside thee, love, An' griefs are a' forgotten then. HER I LO'E. A DIMPLED face, a laughin' face, That's smilin' aye at me, Twa bonnie een o' blue that blink, An' winna let me be ; An' saft, saft words frae hinney lips, That haud my heart in thrall What can I do against them a', They bind my very saul ! I 'd gi'e a crown frae aff my head To ca' that lassie mine ; An' life itsel', and a' its joys, Right gladly I wad tine ; Right gladly wad I lay me down, Nae mair on earth to wake, Gin she wad kep my latest sigh, An' keep it for my sake. Oh ! bonnie is the sun that shines Upon a simmer's morn, An' dear, dear is the gloamin'-time Amang the dewy corn ; An' bonnie are the stars that peep Frae out the tender blue, But no' sae sweet nor half sae dear As the face o' her I lo'e. MEET ME IN THE GLEN, JESSIE DEAR. OH! meet me in the glen, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, Far frae the haunts o' men, Jessie dear, Jessie dear; When the bird is in its nest, An' the flowers ha'e gane to rest, When the sun is in the west, Jessie dear, Jessie dear. Oh! there's glory in the moon, Jessie dear, Jessie dear ; In ilk sternie peepin' down, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, An* there 's solace in the sigh 0' the burnie glidin' by, In the gems that round us lie, Jessie dear, Jessie dear. But doubly dear to me, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, Is the twinkle o' thine ee, Jessie dear, Jessie dear; And dearer far the flame That kindles at thy name, Than the rolling blast o' fame, Jessie dear, Jessie dear. How sweet to stray at e'en, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, By the selfish warld unseen, Jessie dear, Jessie dear, When the heavens aboon us smile, An' a' Nature laughs the while, When the bosom kens nae guile, Jessie dear, Jessie dear. AFAR ON THE ROLLING SEA. THE sailor sings in the shrouds aloft, Afar on the rolling sea ; Oh ! the day breaks not in a hundred years On a merrier wight than he. The waves may dash, and the lightning flash, And the thunder loud may roar ; But a sunshine the sailor hath of his own, As he thinks of his love ashore. He dreams of home in the black night-watch, Of a bright face far away ; And he breathes a prayer for the maiden fair He will clasp to his heart one day. Then Heav'n look down on the heaving deep, And rule in the stormy wind ; And true to the sailor while afloat Be the lass that he leaves behind. ONLY A BABY SMALL. ONLY a baby small, Dropt from the skies ; Only a laughing face, Two sunny eyes ; Only two cherry lips, One chubby nose ; Only two little hands, Ten little toes. Only a golden head, Curly and soft ; Only a tongue that wags Loudly and oft ; Only a little brain, Empty of thought ; Only a little heart, Troubled with nought. Only a tender flower Sent us to rear ; Only a life to love While we are here ; Only a baby small, Never at rest ; Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best. 488 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JOHN HALLIDAY, JOHN HALLIDAY was born on the ISth July 1821, at Hawickshielsgate, near Hawick, Roxburghshire. His father was an agricultural labourer ; and, with an ordinary edu- cation at school, he was, at an early age, engaged as an assistant shepherd to a tenant farmer in his native district. Inheriting from his mother a taste for the elder Scot- tish ballad, he devoted his leisure hours to reading such scraps of songs as he could manage to procure. In his thirteenth year he essayed to compose verses, and at the age of twenty became a contributor of poetical stanzas to the provincial journals. Encouraged by a numerous list of subscribers, he published, in 1847, " The Rustic Bard," a duodecimo volume of poems and songs. After being several years resident at Hopekirk, Roxburghshire, he removed in 1854 to Bridge of Allan, where he is employed as a landscape gardener. THE AULD AIK-TREE. OH, we ha'e been amang the bowers that winter didna bare, And we ha'e daunder'd in the howes where flowers were ever fair, And lain aneath as lofty trees as eye did ever see, Yet ne'er could lo'e them as we lo'e the auld aik-tree. It's no because its boughs are busk'd in any byous green, For simmer sairs it little now it's no what it has been, Sin' ilka wauf o' win' that blaws dings dauds o't on the lea, And bairnies bear their burdens frae the auld aik-tree. It's no because the gowans bright grow bonnie by its ruit, For we ha'e seen them bloom as braw in mony a ither bit ; Xor yet because the mavis sings his mellow morning glee Sae sweetly frae the branches o' the auld aik- tree. But there's a kindly feeling found and foster'd in the heart, Which bears the thought a backward stream to lifetime's early part, And ties us to ilk morning scene o' love and laughing glee We've seen, and kenn'd, and join'd aneath the auld aik-tree. For we ha'e play'd aneath its shade a chuffie- cheekit bairn, Unkennin' o', uncarin' for, cauld care or crosses stern, And ran around it at the ba' when we frae schule wan free ! Then wha daur say we sudna lo'e the auld aik- tree? We 've speel'd upon its foggie stem and dern'd amang its green, To catch the pyet in her nest amidst the greys o' e'en; And watch'd the gooldie bringin' doon to big her hame sae wee Atween the cosie forkings o' the auld aik-tree. And we ha'e tint and ta'en a heart when gloamin's shadows threw Out o'er the glen her misty grey in kindly drippin' dew, And felt the tear o' anguish fa' in torrents frae our ee, When pairting frae that loved ane 'neath the auld aik-tree. Our hame we left wi' hopefu' heart and mony a warm fareweel, And gowd and gear we gain'd awa; but oh, the freen's sae leal ! Where are they? where my childhood's hearth those hearts sae kind and free, When a' is unco grown save the auld aik-tree. ALEXANDER BUCHAN. ALEXANDER BUCHAN was born in Titchfield Street, Kilmarnock. He became, in his seventeenth year, teacher of an adventure school at Underbills, parish of Craigie ; he subsequently taught at Kilmarnock and Irvine, and afterwards was appointed to St James* parish school, Glasgow. He enjoyed no inconsiderable reputation as a pro- moter of education. Mr Buchan contributed articles in prose and verse to the Kil- ALEXANDER BUCHAN. 489 marnock Annual, a publication of some merit ; and lie has latterly contributed verses to the Glasgow newspapers. In 1866, he published a volume entitled " The Song of Rest, and Minor Poems," London 8vo. From that work we are privileged to extract the following songs. TRUE LOVE. AIR "Jessie tJie Flower o' Dutnblane." OH ! sweet are the wild flowers, and sweet are the green bowers, The Irvine flows past in the calm summer e'en, Ah, blest be that gloaming, when there, lonely roaming, I first saw the face o' my true hearted Jean. All dark and unmeaning my life's tide was streaming, Before me, behind, how cheerless the scene, When swift as the morning, the dark vale adorning, Came hope, peace, and joy wi' the smile o' my Jean. Oh ! pure as the moonbeam, and warm as the sun-gleam, I whisper'd the vow in her love-open'd ear ; And still she is nearest, and fairest, and dearest, Whilst I am to her of all others most dear. As in days that are now gone, in years that may yet come, On the staff of our loves all securely we '11 lean ; And each other's hearts cheering, our bright home still nearing, Death's hand shall not sever my soul and my Jean. MY HEART'S XO MY AIX. Aw A' wi' thae offers o' gowd and o' gear, And awa' wi' the love that sic offers can gain ; My heart is a jewel that canna be coft And, mither, dear mither, my heart's no my ain. The auld laird could mak' me a leddie, I ken But what were a carriage and silk gown to me, When wi' the young shepherd that wons in the glen Contented and happy I only could be. The burnie that wimples by yon castle wa' Sings saftly to me in my sweet gloamin' dream, But lang ere it reaches yon mist-cover'd hill, Its music is drown'd in the big, roaring stream ; And sae the young lassie that blooms in the cot, Transplanted, would wither and fade in the ha'; And her voice that sang blythe in her aiu bonnie glens, In the struggle o' fashion would soon die awa'. Ah, yes ! my poor bosom would weep were it ta'en Awa' frao these hills and these meadows sae green, It would lang for the time when sae merry I sped To weir in the sheep in the calm summer e'en ; It would sigh for the wild flowers sae modest and pure, The gowdspink and linnet that warble sae clear ; But, oh ! it would break when my memory brought back The young shepherd laddie that lo'ed me sae dear. But no ! I shall never prove fause to my love Do you see yon green shaw smiling gay in the sun ? My Sandy waits there in its close leafy shade We trysted to meet when the day's wark was done. Sae awa' wi' thae offers o' gowd and o' gear, And awa' wi' the love that sic offers can gain ; My heart is a jewel that canna be coft And mair, my dear mither, my heart's no my ain. HAME IX THE MORNIKG GREY. WHEN Jamie came to woo and win For win my heart did he Frae morn till e'en, at our house en', I wrought and sang wi' glee ; And now that we are man and wife, And the bairns are at my feet, My Jamie lo'es me mair and mair, And I sing the blyther yet. Oh ! he sails south, and he sails north In Irvine's boimie bay, And takes the luck God sends, and hame He comes in the morning grey. Oh ! there they go, the fisher lads, And there the dark-sail'd boats, But Jamie's is the brawest craft On the kindly wave that floats ; For I see it mair through a warm, true heart, Than through a cauldrife ee, And love in the thing that it lo'es weel Can naught but beauty see. Oh ! he sails south, and he sails north, In Irvine's bonnie bay, Or catch he many, or catch he few, He's dear in the morning grey. 490 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. The Arran hills in the gloaming fade, And the bonnie Heads o' Ayr, And Ailsa Craig in his hazy plaid Has wrapp'd his breast sae bare ; , "While a gentle breeze frae the south comes up, And curls the skinkling sea, My lad will ha'e good luck the nicht, Good luck for the bairns and me. Oh ! he sails south, and he sails north, In Irvine's bonnie bay, And harne wi' a thousand three times told He'll come in the morning grey. Oh ! lie ye still, my sweet wee bird, Your sister's sound asleep, And faither in his bonnie boat By the nets his watch doth keep ; He'll draw them syne, and the silver fish He'll bring to you and me ; For wi' the lave he'll get his share And there 's plenty in the sea. So he sails south, and he sails north In Irvine's bonnie bay, And oh ! that Heaven may bring him hame Aye safe in the morning grey. AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR TO MAGA, UNDER this designation, a learned and esteemed citizen of Edinburgh lately published a small duodecimo volume, entitled, " Songs and Verses Social and Scientific." The compositions originally appeared in Blackwood's Magazine, and have both in their original and present form attracted much public interest. "An old Contributor" is eminently genial and intensely amusing. The two following songs are transferred to these pages by the kind permission of the Messrs Blackwood. THE SHERIFF'S LIFE AT SEA: BEING PASSAGES IN THE LIFE OP A MARITIME SHERIFF. AIR" The Sailor's Life at Sea." How gay is the Sheriffs roving life, Who from east to west can roam, boys : How pleasant, with, or without, his wife, To sail for his island home, boys ! Roaming here Foaming there, Merrily, cheerily, Readily, steadily, Many an hour of mirth and glee Has the Sheriff's life at sea, my boys. When the steam is up and the goods are stored, And 'tis time to leave the Firth, boys, The Sheriff gaily steps on board, And steers away for the north, boys. Steering here, Veering there, Merrily, cheerily. Readily, steadily; Quite from care and business free, Is the Sheriff's life at sea, my boys. But the vessel breasts the eastern breeze, And St Andrews Bay is near, boys ; And the Sheriff tries to look at his ease, Though he feels a little queer boys, Pitching here, Twitching there, Cheerily, wearily, Ruefully, woefully; Much inclined to make Dundee Is the Sheriff now at sea, my boys. Then the vessel nears to Aberdeen, And the plot is growing thick, boys : On dinner bent the rest are seen, But the Sheriff's fairly sick, boys. Cooking here, Puking there, Drearily, wearily, Groaningly, moaningly : Plain it is it don't agree With a Sheriff life at sea, my boys. Yet afloat once more, when the waves are calm, He tempts the treacherous main, boys ; And the Sheriff cures the coming qualm With a glass of good champagne, boys. Quaffing here, Laughing there, Cheerily, merrily, Readily, steadily; Quite intent upon a spree Is the Sheriff now at sea, my boys. But the zephyr soon becomes a gale, And the straining vessel groans, boys ; And the Sheriff's face grows deadly pale, As he thinks of Davy Jones, boys. Thinking here, Sinking there, Wearily, drearily, Shakingly, quakingly; Not from fear or sickness free Is the Sheriff now at sea, my boys. "AN OLD CONTRIBUTOR TO MAG A." 491 So the Sheriff here must needs resign, For his inside 's fairly gone, boys ; And he calls for a glass of brandy-wine, And to bed with his gaiters on, boys. Lying here, Dying there, Drearily, wearily, Groaningly, meaningly; Prostrate laid by fate's decree Seems the Sheriff now at sea, my boys. But a joyful strain awakes the muse, Which will quite efface the past, boys ; For the mail-boat brings the joyful news That promotion's come at last, boys. Cheering here, Jeering there, Merrily, cheerily, Readily, steadily: Fear or sickness far may flee, For the Sheriff quits the sea, my boys. THE MEMORY OF MONBODDO. AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. AIR " The Looking-Glass." Tis strange how men and things revive, Though laid beneath the sod, ! I sometimes think I see alive Our good old friend Monboddo ! His views, when forth at first they came, Appeared a little odd, ! But now we've notions much the same We 're back to old Monboddo. * This song, describing the imaginary voyage of a Scotch Sheriff to his maritime dominions, was written as a parody on the song of "The Sailor's Life at Sea," which was one of the lyrics so delightfully sung by Professor Wilson. Another parody, in a different style, appeared in Blackiyood's Magazine under the title of "The Bagman's Life on Shore," May 1838. The rise of man he loved to trace Up to the very pod, ! And in baboons our parent race Was found by old Monboddo. Their A, B, C, he made them speak, And learn their qui, quce, quod, ! Till Hebrew, Latin, Welsh, and Greek They knew as well's Monboddo. The thought that men had once had tails, Caused many a grin full broad, ! And why in us that feature fails, Was ask'd of old Monboddo. He show'd that sitting on the rump, While at our work we plod, ! Would wear th' appendage to the stump, As close as in Monboddo. Alas ! the good lord little knew, As this strange ground he trod, ! That others would his path pursue, And never name Monboddo ! Such folks should have their tails restored, And thereon feel the rod, ! For having thus the fame ignored That's due to old Monboddo. Though Darwin now proclaims the law, And spreads it far abroad, ! The man that first the secret saw, Was honest old Monboddo. The architect precedence takes Of him that bears the hod, ! So up and at them, Land o' Cakes ! We'll vindicate Monboddo. The Scotchman who would grudge his praise Must be a senseless clod, ! A monument, then, let us raise To honour old Monboddo. Let some great artist sketch the plan, While Rogers* gives the nod, ! A monkey changing to a man ! In memory of Monboddo. * The Reverend promoter of the Wallace Monument. FIRST LINES OF TEE SONGS. A BONNIE May lay in her birken bower, 473. A bonnie rose bloom'd wild and fair, 270. A chieftain to the Highlands, 176. A dimpled face, a laughin' face, 487. A glimpse of the river, 478. A lintwhite sat in her mossy nest, 474. A lively young lass had a wee pickle tow, 44. A pretty young maiden sat on the grass, 254. A sprig of white heather, 453. A stillness crept about the house, 477. A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 85. A wee bird cam' to our ha' door, 228. A wee bird sits upon a spray, 289. A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 195. A wind-bound exile, 346. A yellow hair'd lassie, 462. A young gudewife is in my house, 43. Adieu a lang and last adieu, 245. Adieu, romantic banks of Clyde, 201. Adieu, ye streams, 13. Admiring nature's simple charms, 165. Adown the burnie's flowery bank, 162. Ae mild summer's gloamin', 463. Ae morn, last ouk, as I gaed out, 36. Ae morn of May, when fields were gay, 201. Afore the Lammas tide, 291. Afore the muircock begin to craw, 114. Again the laverock seeks the sky, 396. Ah ! faded is that lovely bloom, 179. Ah ! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell, 157. Ah, no ! I cannot say farewell, 215. Ah, Peggie ! since thoti'rt gane away, 115. Ah ! Sheelah, thou'rt my darling, 139. Alake for the lassie ! 190. Alas ! how true the boding voice, 397. All night, by the pathway, 276. Allen-a-dale has no faggot, 85. Alone to the banks, 174. Along by Levern stream so clear, 154. Amang the birks sae blythe an' gay, 162. And can thy bosom bear the thought, 267. And dost thou speak sincere, my love, 127. And why was you beguiling, 335. Argyle is my name, 159. As a father loves, 437. As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, 249. As o'er the Highland hills I hied, 11. As sunshine to the flowers in May, 398. At hame or afield, I'm cheerless and lone, 226. At Willie's weddin' on the green, 157. Auld Peter MacGowan, 416. Awake the echoes of the night, 472. Awake, awake, my own true love, 212. Awa' wi' thae offers o' gowd an' o' gear, 489. Away, away, my gallant bark, 443. Away on the wings of the wind, 280. Away to the Highlands, 332. BARE was our burn brae, 394. Be eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on, 413. Behave yoursel' before folk, 213. Ben Cruachan is king of the mountains, 451. Beneath the shining, 364. Bird of the wilderness, 109. Blaw saftly, ye breezes, 72. Blest be the hour of night, 439. Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, 146. Blink over the burn, sweet Betty, 230. Blue are the hills above the Spey, 421. Blythe was the time when he fee'd, 138. Blythe young Bess to Jean did say, 118. Bonnie Bessie Lee, 301. Bonnie Bonaly's wee fairy-led stream, 41 3. Bonnie Charlie's now awa, 64. Bonnie Cluden, as je wander, 163. Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, 150. Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet, 336. Bonnie Strathnaver, 451. Bring the rod, the line, the reel, 422. 494 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Brither Jamie cam' west wi' a braw burn trout, 125. Burd Ailie sat doun, 471. By Logan's streams that rin sae deep, 34. By the lone Mankayana's margin grey, 222. By yon hoarse murmurin' stream, 72. CA' the yowes to the knowes, 265. Caledonia ! thou land of the mountain, 109. Cam' ye by Athol, lad wi' the philabeg, 108. Can ought be constant as the sun, 168. Can ye lo'e, my dear lassie, 393. Cauld blaws the wind frae north to south, 37. Charlie 's comin* o'er the sea, 465. Chaunt me no more thy roundelay, 147. Cheer, boys, cheer! no more of idle sorrow, 435. Clap, clap handies, 471. Come all ye jolly shepherds, 110. Come awa', come awa', 223. Come awa', hie awa', 146. Come back, come back, thou youthful time, 434. Come, gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, 5. Come, listen to another, 349. Come o'er the stream, Charlie, 111. Come under my plaidie, 28. Come when the dawn of the morning, 41 7. Confide ye aye in Providence, 411. Could this ill warld, 110. Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang, 412. Culloden, on thy swarthy brow, 205. DARK lowers the night, 55. Dear aunty, what think ye, 400. Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, 13. Do you know what the birds, 458. Doun fair Dalmeny's rosy dells, 473. Down by a crystal stream, 480. Down in the valley lone, 328. Down the dark brow, 352. Down whar the burnie rins, 313. EACH whirl of the wheel, 393. Eliza fair, the mirth of May, 406. Eliza was a bonnie lass, 288. Ere eild wi' his blatters, 167. Erin, fair emerald gem of the ocean, 472. Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, 145. FAIR are the fleecy flocks, 131. Fair as a star of light, 468. Fair modest flower of matchless worth, 48. Fair Scotland, dear as life to me, 406. Fair was the morn, 260. Fare-thee-well, for I must leave thee, 258. Fare-thee-weel, my bonnie lassie, 249. Fare-thee-well, my boy, 456. Fareweel, Edinburgh, where happy we ha'e been, 69. Fareweel, ! fareweel, 71. Fareweel to ilk hill, 359. Fareweel, ye fields and meadows, 37. Farewell, and though my steps, 224. Farewell, our fathers' land, 255. Farewell, ye braes of broad Braemar, 452. Farewell, ye streams sae dear to me, 163. Far from the giddy court, 137. Far lone amang the Highland hills, 135. Far over you hills of the heather, 1 08. Fierce as its sunlight, 435. Fife, an* a the laud about it, 126. Float forth, thou flag of the free, 481. Flowers of summer, 332. Flow, my Ettrick ! it was thee, 104. Flow saftly thou stream, 167. For mony lang year I ha'e heard, 109. From the climes of the sun, 1 60. From the village of Leslie, 56. Full white the Bourbon, 196. Fy, let us a' to the wedding, 42. GAE bring my guid auld harp, 388. Gae hame, gae harne, 462. Gane were but the winter cauld, 194. Gay is thy glen, Corrie, 196. Give me the hour when bells, 460. Give the swains of Italia, 481. Gloomy winter's now awa', 137. Go call for the mourners, 335. Go seek in the wild glen, 197. Go to Berwick, Johnnie, 37. Go to him then if thou can'st go, 185. Good night, and joy be wi' ye a', 158. Grim winter was howlin' owre muir, 207. Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a', 270. HAD I the wings of a dove, 429. Ha'e ye been in the north, bonnie lassie ? 187. Hail, land of my fathers, 452. Hail to the chief who in triumph, 84. Hark the martial drums resound, 145. Hark, hark, the skylark singing, 154. He came when the war was ended, 478. He loved her for her merry eye, 427. He's a terrible man, John Tod, 65. FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS. 495 He's gone on the mountain, 85. He's no more on the green hill, 76. He's owre the hills, 63. He's up at early morning, 467. Heard ye the bagpipe, 263. Heart, take courage, 432. Hech, what a change, 158. Her hair was like the Cromla mist, 148. Her lip is o' the rose's hue, 402. Here we go upon the tide, 114. Here's a health to the land, 351. Here's to them, to them that are gane, 71. Here 's to the year that 's awa', 323. Hersell pe auchty years and twa, 115. Hey for the Hielan' heather, 269. Hey, my bonnie wee lassie, 417. Home of my fathers, 332. Hope cannot cheat us, 433. How blythely the pipe, 313. How brightly beams the bonnie moon, 214. How gay is the Sheriffs roving life, 490. How happy a life, 9. How happy lives the peasant, 214. How light is my heart, 1 40. How saft sink the shadows, 463. How sweet are Leven's silver streams, 202. How sweet are the blushes, 316. How sweet is the scene, 167. Hurra ! for the land, 444. Hurrah for Scotland's worth, 424. Hurrah for the Highlands, 331. Hurrah for the Thistle, 425. Hurrah, hurrah for the boundless sea, 361. I ASK no lordling's titled name, 145. I can like a hundred women, 452. I canna sleep a wink, lassie, 328. I cannot give thee all my heart, 433. I dearly lo'e the gloamiu', 467. I dream'd thou wert a fairy harp, 436. I form'd a green bower, 389. I gaed to spend a week in Fife, 337. I ha'e naebody noo, 116. I have wander'd far, 353. I heard the evening linnet's voice, 209. I lately lived in quiet ease, 112. I lo'ed ne'er a laddie but ane, 28. T love a sweet lassie, mair gentle and true, 460. I love the merry moonlight, 274. I love the sea, I love the sea, 280. I mark'd her look of agony, 236. I met four chaps yon birks amang, 157. I neither got promise of siller nor land, 232. I never thocht to thole the waes, 297. I sat in the vale 'neath the hawthorns, 388. I sing of a land that was famous, 111. I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, 359. I stood gazing from the window, 469. I wadna gi'e my ain wife, 305. I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes, 218. I wander over hill and dale, 395. I wander'd alane at the brake, 354. I warn you, fair maidens, 153. 1 will think of my love, 212. 1 wiU think of thee yet, 282. I winna gang back to my minny again, 168. I winna love the laddie, 389. I wish I were where Helen lies, 35. I wonder aften, Jeanie, 486. If Fortune with a smiling face, 433. If there's a word, 430. If wealth thou art wooing, 415. I '11 no walk by the kirk, mother, 437. I '11 sing of yon glen of red heather, 116. I '11 tend thy bower, my bonnie May, 325. I'll think on thee, love, 439. I'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel, 309. I'll twine a gowany garland, 445. I 'm afloat, I 'm afloat, 361. I 'm away, 1 'm away, 333. 1 'm naebody noo, 328. I 'm now a guid farmer, 74. I 'm wand'rin' wide this wintry night, 326. I 'm wearin' awa', John, 60. In a dream of the night, 257. In a garden we were sitting, 577. In a saft simmer gloamin', 251. In life's gay morn, when hopes beat high, 203. In lonely hut, 343. In the morning of life, 243. Is your war-pipe asleep, 282. It fell on a morning when we were thrang, 45. It was an English ladye bright, 82. It's dowie in the hint o' hairst, 393. It's hame, and it's hame, 194. I 've a guinea I can spend, 435. I've been upon the moonlit deep, 441. I've listen'd to the midnight wind, 244. I Ve loved thee, old Scotia, 183. I've met wi' mony maidens fair, 354. I've no sheep on the mountain, 41. I Ve seen the lily of the wold, 205. I've seen the smiling summer flower, 305. I Ve vowed to forget him, 356. I've wander'd east and west, 454. I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, 252. 496 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. JENNY'S heart was frank and free, 35. John Anderson, my jo, John, 48. Joy of my earliest days, 66. KEEN blaws the wind o'er the braes, 185. LASS, gin ye wad lo'e me, 304. Lassie, dear lassie, the dew's on the gowan, 282. Lassie wi' the gowden hair, 27. Last midsummer's morning, 38. Lat me look into thy face, Jeanie, 459. Leafless and bare, 262. Leave the city's busy throng, 460. Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids, 262. Let ither anglers choose their ain, 422. Let the proud Indian boast, 284. Let the table be spread, 197. Let us go, lassie, go, 136. Let us haste to Kelvin Grove, 308. Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre, 232. Life's pleasure seems sadness and care, 475. Liking is a little boy, 455. Little Andrew, lively Andrew, 454. Little white Lily, 485. Lock the door, Lariston, 116. Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, 149. London's bonnie woods, 134. Loved land of my kindred, 269. Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping? 214. Lowland lassie, wilt thou go, 140. 'MANG a' the lasses young, 246. Mary, why thus waste, 141. Meet me on the gowan lea, 409. Men of England, who inherit, 175. Mild as the morning, 317. More dark is my soul, 387. Musing, we sat in our garden bower, 399. My Bessie, oh, but look upon, 288. My bonnie wean ! 472. My bonnie wee Bell, 394. My bonnie wee wifie, 416. My couthie auld wife, 444. My dear little lassie, 72. My friend is a Mole, 420. My gipsy maid, 469. My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 85. My lassie is lovely, 205. My lassie wi' the sunny locks, 198. My luve's in Germanic, 29. My mother bids me bind my hair, 13. My name it is Donald M 'Donald, 107. My native land ! my native land ! 480. My wee wife dwells in yonder cot, 288. My wife's a winsome wee thing, 184. My young heart's luve ! twal' years ha'e been, 363. NAE mair we'll meet again, 249. Name the leaves, 455. No more by thy margin, dark Carron, 362. No sky shines so bright, 388. No sound was heard, 264. Now bank and brae, 167. Now, Jenny, lass, my bonnie bird, 121. Now rests the red sun, 170. Now simmer decks the field, 186. Now simmer walks, 260. Now smiling summer's balmy breeze, 163 Now the beams of May morn, 232. Now there's peace on the shore, 239. Now winter wi' his cloudy brow, 137. Now winter's wind sweeps, 51. COME! for the lily, 197. come with me, for the queen of night, 209. could I fly like, 141. do not ask a wreath, 335. gentle sleep wilt thou lay thy head, 219. June, ye spring the loveliest flowers, 318. lassie ayont the hill, 484. lassie ! wilt thou gang wi' me, 210. leeze me on the bonnie lass, 148. our childhood's once delightful hours, 243. sarely may I rue the day, 110. sweet is the blossom o' the hawthorn, 329. sweet is the calm, 315. take me to yon sunny, 261. tell me, bonnie young lassie, 27. the bonnie braes, 260. wat ye wha's in yon house, 454. weel befa' the maiden gay, 113. what will a' the lads do, 115. what will we do, 420. ! why should old age, 7. will ye go to yon burn side, 211. ye tears ! ye tears ! 434. October winds, wi' biting breath, 155. O'er mountain and valley, 236. O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs, 319. Of Nelson and the north, 174. Of streams that down the valley run, 131. Of wealth in profusion, 407. Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins, 339. Oh! are ye sleeping, Maggie, 137. Oh! away to the Tweed, 360. Oh, beautiful and bright thou art, 344. Oh, blessing on her star-like een, 399. FIXST LINES OF THE SONGS. 497 Oh ! blessing on thee, land, 400. Oh, bonnie are the howes, 292. Oh, bonnie buds yon birchen-tree, 166. Oh, bounie Nelly Brown, 334. Oh, brave Caledonians, 224. Oh, bright the beaming queen o' night, 409. Oh, brightly glides, 339. Oh, Castell Gloom ! thy strength is gone, 68. Oh, Charlie is my darling, 207. Oh, come, my bonnie bark, 195. Oh ! dear to me 's the dusky, 352. Oh! dear were the joys, 208. Oh, dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee, 323. Oh, dinna be sae sair cast down, 318. Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon, 412. Oh, dinna think, bonnie lassie, 30. Oh ! distant but dear, 269. Oh ! gin I were where Gadie rins, 271. Oh, grand bounds the deer, 16. Oh, guess ye wha I met yestreen, 457. Oh, hame is aye hamely still, 296. Oh, hast thou forgotten, 309. Oh, haud na' yer noddle sae hie, 400. Oh ! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad, 174 Oh ! how can I be cheerie, 227. Oh ! I lo'ed my lassie weel, 255. Oh, lady, twine no wreath for me, 86. Oh, lassie! I lo'e dearest, 319. Oh, lassie ! if thou It gang, 390. Oh, lassie ! wilt thou go ? 180. Oh, lay them canny doon, Jamie, 474. Oh, leave me not ! the evening hour, 322. Oh Mary, look how sweetly, 408. Oh ! Mary, while thy gentle cheek, 325. Oh ! meet me in the glen, Jessie dear, 487. Oh, merrily and gallantly, 402. Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, my Marion, 16. Oh, mony a year has come and gane, 418. Oh, murmuring waters, 447. Oh, my lassie, our joy to complete again, 109. Oh ! my love is very lovely, 432. Oh, my love was fair as the siller clud, 358. Oh, neighbours ! what had I to do ? 43. Oh! never, no, never, 346. Oh, saft is the blink o' thine ee lassie, 413. Oh saftly fa's the gloaming, 464. Oh ! saw ye my wee thing, 26. Oh, saw ye this sweet, bonnie lassie o' mine, 309. Oh ! say na you maun gang awa', 292. Oh ! say not life is ever drear, 397. Oh ! say not, my love, 87. Oh ! say not o' war the young soldier, 295. Oh ! scenes of my childhood, 177. Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains, 70. Oh ! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain, 229. Oh, sweet are the wild flowers, 489. Oh, sweet were the hours, 220. Oh, swiftly bounds our gallant bark, 355. Oh! tell me what sound, 391. Oh, the auld house, the auld house ! 69. Oh ! the bonnie Hieland hills, 300. Oh, the breeze of the mountain, 153. Oh the cauld breath, 351. Oh ! the happy days o' youth, 259. Oh ! the happy time departed, 434. Oh ! the sunny peaches glow, 233. Oh! the land of hills, 310. Oh ! the winning charm of gentleness, 427. Oh, there's naebody hears, 426. Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore, 13. Oh, wae be to the orders, 253. Oh ! wae's me on gowd, 459. Oh ! waft me to the fairy clime, 266. Oh, we aft ha'e met at e'en, 250. Oh, we ha'e been amang the bowers, 488. Oh, weel I lo'e our auld Scots sangs, 397. Oh, weel's me on my ain man, 66. Oh, wha's at the window, wha? 306. Oh, what are the chains of love made of, 274. Oh, what care I where love was born, 416. Oh, where are the pretty men of yore, 405. Oh! where has the exile his home? 305. Oh, where, tell me where, 32. Oh ! why left I my hame, 259. Oh wild and stormy, 447. Oh ! will ye walk the wood wi' me? 310. Oh ! would that the wind, 285. Oh ! years ha'e come an' years ha'e gane, 289. Oh yes, there's a valley, 306. Oh, young Lochinvar, 82. Old Scotland I love thee, 331. Old winter flieth to the north, 469. On a green mossy bank, 350. On fair Clydeside, 324. On Linden, when the sun, 176. On ! on to the fields where of old, 387. On the banks o' the burn, 189. On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, 147. On this unfrequented plain, 183. Once more on the broad-bosom' d ocean, 291. One kiss, my love, 153. Only a baby small, 487. Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie, 330. Our ain native land, our ain native land, 386. Our bonny Scots lads, 136. Our Mary liket weel to stray, 391. Our native land, our native vale, 222. Ours is no venal pomp, 344. 498 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. Ours is the land of gallant hearts, 385. PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, 84. Praises to Him who built the hills, 483. Preserve us a' what shall we do, 122. Put off, put off, and row with speed, 148. QUOTH Rab to Kate, my sonsy dear, 121. RAISE high the battle-song, 229. Red gleams the sun on you hill tap, 16. Returning Spring, with gladsome ray, 52. Rise, little star, 312. Rise, my love ! the moon unclouded, 278. Rise, rise, Lowland and Highlandmen, 271. Rising o'er the heaving billow, 314. Robin is my ain gudeman, 66. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, 15. SAE lightly fa's, 401. Saw ye Johnnie comin', quo' she, 45. Saw ye nae my Peggie, 67. Saw ye ne'er a lanely lassie, 68. Say wilt thou, Leila, when alone, 437. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 169. Scotia's thistle guards the grave, 385. Scotland, thy mountains, 337. See the moon o'er cloudless Jura, 243. Send a horse to the water, 64. She died in beauty ! like a rose, 284. She was naebody's bairn, 411. She was wearin' awa', 364. She's aff and awa', 272. She's a' my ain, 486. She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, 193. Sing a' ye bards wi' loud acclaim, 230. Sing not to me of sunny shores, 355. Sing on fairy Devon, 444. Sing on, thou little bird, 180. Soldier, rest! thy varfare's o'er, 83. Songs of my native land, 67. Stay, proud bird of the shore, 276. Still must my pipe, 117. Sublime is Scotia's mountain land, 466. Summer ocean, 347. Surrounded wi' bent and wi' heather, 74. Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen, 262. Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June, 267. Sweet summer now is by, 311. Sweetly shines the sun on auld Edinbro' toun, 303. TASTE life's glad moments, 158. Tell me, dear ! in mercy speak, 458. Tell me, Jessie, tell me why? 37. The autumn winds are sighing, 485. The balmy west is flowing, 415. The bard strikes his harp, 168. The bard strikes his harp, 320. The beacons blazed, the banners flew, 317. The best o' joys maun ha'e an end, 70. The blackbird's hymn is sweet, 277. The bonnie, bonnie bairn, 411. The bonnie rowan bush, 301. The breath o' spring is gratefu', 408. The bride she is winsome and bonnie, 45. The bucket, the bucket, the bucket for me, 298. The can tie spring scarce reared her head, 207. The clouds are scowling, 453. The cranreuch's on my head, 445. The dark grey o' gloamin', 304. The daisy is fair, 114. The ee o' the dawn, Eliza, 277. The fields, the streams, the skies, are fair, 430. The gathering clans 'mong Scotia's glens, 386. The gloamin' star was showerin', 445. The glory of England, 261. The gloom of dark despondency, 475. The gowan glitters on the sward, 44. The harvest is o'er, 141. The hawk whoops on high, 51. The heath this night must be my bed, 84. The Highland hills, 466. The Laird o' Cockpen, 61. The lake is at rest, love, 264. The lark has left the evening cloud, 194. The last gleam o' sunset, 248. The lily of the vale is sweet, 316. The little comer's coming, 405. The loved of early days, 285. The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid, 266. The maid is at the altar kneeling, 280. The midges dance, 138. The mitherless lammie, 67. The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood, 276. The moon in virgin blushes, 315. The moon is in the lift, 351. The moon shone in fits, 160. The moon was a waning, 117. The mother with her blooming child, 327. The muirs and the waters, 448. The music of the night, 247. The music o' the year is hush'd, 144. The neighbours a' they wonder how, 183. The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen, 62. The nicht had been rainy, 472. The oak is Britain's pride, 423. The primrose is bonnie in spring, 147. FIRST LINES OF THE SONGS. 499 The rosebud blushing to the morn, 124. The Kover o* Lochryan he's gane, 393. The rustling of the -western, 407. The sailor sings in the shrouds aloft, 487. The Scotch blue-bell, 425. The sea the deep, deep sea, 247. The season comes when first we met, 13. The sky in beauty arch'd, 279. The skylark sings his matin lay, 348 The snows are departed, 415. The spirit of Britannia, 176. The spring comes back, 326. The storm grew faint, 295. The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, 147. The sun hadna peep'd, 228. The sun has gane down, 134. The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, 147. The sun is sunk, the day is done, 41. The sun sets in night, 12. The sweets o' the simmer, 186. The tears I shed must ever fall, 51. The tempest is raging, 233. The troops were all embarked, 36. The weary draw to rest, 461. The weary sun's gane down, 142. The weary sun to rest has gane, 352. The weirdly rider's on the plain, 473. The wild rose blooms in Drumrnond woods, 302. The winter sat lang on the spring, 35. The year is wearing to the wane, 117. There are moments when my spirit, 479. There came to the beach, 175. There grew in bonnie Scotland, 149. There grows a bonnie brier-bush, 64. There is a bonfte blushing flower, 333. There is a concert in the trees, 294. There is a happy land, 482. There is a pang for every heart, 232. There is hope, 212. There is music in the storm, love, 468. There lived a lass in Inverness, 195. There lives a lassie i' the braes, 8. There lives a young lassie, 271. There was a musician, 75. There were twa doos sat in a dookit, 67. There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 14. There's cauld kail in Aberdeen, 68. There's meikle bliss in ae fond kiss, 457. There's mony a flower beside the rose, 288. There's music in a mother's voice, 439. There's music in the flowing tide, 179. There's nae covenant noo, lassie, 150. There's nae grain, 345. There's nae hame like the haine o' youth, 300. There's nae love like early love, 242. There's nane may ever guess, 413. There's many a man, 419. There's some can be happy, 356. They come, they come, 345. They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles, 226. They tell me in yon sunny land, 462. They're stepping off, 438. Thou bonnie wood o' Craigie Lee, 140. Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar, 236. Thou dark stream slow wending, 401 Thou dark winding Carron, 138. Thou gentle and kind one, 404. Thou hast left me, dear Dermot, 268. Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 196. Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I lo'e thee weel, 145. Thou morn full of beauty, 407. Though all fair was that bosom, 390. Though fair blooms the rose, 296. Though long the wanderer may depart, 312 Though richer swains thy love pursue, 42. Though siller Tweed rin o'er the lea, 124. Though the winter of age, 127. Though this wild brain is aching, 279. Through clouds of gold, 446. Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's, 136. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, 167. Thy queenly hand, Victoria, 429. 'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean, 139. 'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, 259. 'Tis strange how men and things revive, 491. Tis sweet wi' blythesome heart to stray, 329. 'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, 428. 'Tis the first rose o' summer, 258. To campes and courts, 315. To Scotland's ancient realm, 430. To whom belongs this valley, 219. Tossing through the starless night, 470. Touch once more a sober measure, 240. Trip along, bright feet of May, 483. . Tuck, tuck, feer, 441. 'Twas on a bonnie, 352. 'Twas on a Monday morning, 63. 'Twas on a Monday morning, 112. 'Twas on a simmer afternoon, 62. 'Twas summer and softly the breezes, 22. 'Twas when the wan leaf, 189. UP among yon cliffy rocks, 46. Upbraid me not, 438. Upon the banks o' flowing Clyde, 49. 500 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, 86. Walkin' out ae mornin' early, 199. Warlike chieftains now assembled, 317. We hail this morn, 476. "We were baith neebor bairns, 478. Wee Joukydaidles, 470. We'll meet beside the dusky glen, 135. We'll meet nae mair at sunset, 448. We'll meet yet again, my loved fair one, 386. Weep away, heart, weep away, 440. Weep not over poet's wrong, 441. Welcome and gay, 464. Were I a doughty cavalier, 404. Were I but able to rehearse. 6. Wha'll buy my caller herrin', 61. Whan Andrew frae Strathbogie gaed, 485. Whan Jamie first woo'd me, 199. Whare ha'e ye been a' day, 26. What ails my heart what dims my e'e? 332. What ails ye, my lassie, mydawtie, my ain ? 442. What are the flowers of Scotland, 113. What fond, delicious ecstasy, 443. What though ye ha'e nor kith nor kin, 426. What wakes the poet's lyre, 265. What's this vain world to me, 70. When a' ither bairnies, 226. When autumn comes and heather bells, 274. When Charlie to the Highlands came, 148. When first I cam* to be a man, 5. When fops and fools together prate, 9. When hope lies dead within the heart, 13. When I began the world first, 10. When I think on the sweet smiles, 186. When I was a miller in Fife, 220. When Jamie came to woo and win, 489. When John and me were married, 137. When Katie was scarce out nineteen, 48. When merry hearts were gay, 29. When my flocks upon the heathy hill, 385. When rosy day far in the west, 409. When Scotia's gaudy flowers, 463. When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height, 149. When the bee has left the blossom, 322. When the fair one and the dear one, 150. When the glen all is still, 387. When the lark is in the air, 234. When the maid of my heart, 309. When the sheep are in the fauld, 1 9. When the star of the morning is set, 390. When the sun gaes down, 401. When the sun sets, 447. When white was my owrelay, 42. When winter winds forget to blaw, 75. When ye gang awa', Jamie, 62. Where Manor's stream rins blythe an' clear, 258. Where shall the lover rest, 83. Where the faded flowers shall freshen, 483. Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes, 211. While beaux and belles parade the street, 295. While the dawn on the mountain, 86. Why tarries my love, 21. Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 82. Wi' a hundred pipers an' a', an a', 63. Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell, 206. Wifie, come hame, 412. Wild was the e'enin', 357. Will ye gang o'er the lea rig, 66. Will ye gang ower the lea rig, 47. Will ye go to the Highlands, 210. With lofty song we love to cheer, 418. Withdraw not yet those lips, 177. Within the towers of ancient Glammis, 120. Would that I were where wild woods, 391. Would you be young again ? 70. Wouldst thou reap, 455. YE briery bields, where roses blaw, 163. Ye dark, rugged rocks that recline, 55. Ye fair lands of Angus, 212. Ye glasse was at, 356. Ye loyal Macdonalds, 419. Ye mariners of England, 173. Ye maunna be proud, although ye be great, 412. Ye needna be courtin' at me, auld man, 298. Ye shouldna' ca' the Laird daft, 65. Ye'll a' ha'e hard tell, 139. Yestreen, on Cample's bonnie flood, 418. Ye've seen the blooming rosy brier, 305. Ye winds that wander idly by, 461. Young Donald, dearer loved than life, 270. Young Randal was a bonnie lad, 403. Your foes are at hand, 396. Your voices are not hush'd, 448. You've surely heard of famous Neil, 120. INDEX OF AUTHORS. AINSLIE, Hugh, 392. Aird, Marion Paul, 428. Aird, Thomas, 405. Aitchison, Elliot, 314. Allan, George, 281. Allan, Robert, 146. Anderson, Rev. T. G. Tony, 279. Anderson, William, 327. Atkinson, Thomas, 272. Aytoun, Win. Edmonstone, D.C.L. , 348. BAILIJE, Joanna, 38. Bald, Alexander, 316. Balfour, Alexander, 122. Ballantine, James, 410. Barnard, Lady Anne, 17. Barr, Matthias, 486. Beattie, William, M.D., 414. Bell, Henry Glassford, 436. Bennet, William, 439. Bennoch, Francis, 415. Bethune, John, 292. Blackie, John Stuart, 448. Blair, William, 395. Bonar, Horatius, D.D., 482. Boswell, Sir Alex., Bart., 155. Brockie William, 442. Brown, Colin Kae, 465. Buchan, Alexander, 488. Buchan, Peter, 235. Buchanan, Alexander, 354. Burns, James D., 311. Burtt, John, 319. CADEXHEAD, William, 458. Cameron, William, 11. Cameron, William, 408. Campbell, Alexander, 49. Campbell, Mary Maxwell, 419. Campbell, Thomas, 170. Carlile, Alexander, 306. Chalmers, William, 180. Chambers, Eobert, LL.D., 402. Conolly, Erskine, 247. Couper, Robert, M.D., 15. Crawford, Archibald, 336. Crawford, John, 443. Cunningham, Allan, 190. Cunningham, Thomas Mounsey, 160. DAVIDSON, Robert, 244. Denovan, J. C., 268. Dickson, John Bathurst, 480. Donald, George, W. 461. Douglas, Alexander, 125. Drummond, David, 201. Dudgeon, William, 46. Duncan, Henry, D.D., 142. Dunbar, William, D.D., 313. Dunlop, John, 323. Duthie, Robert, 360. ELLIOTT, Thomas, 459. FERGUSON, William, 325. Finlay, John, 208. Finlay, William, 236. Finlayson, Charles James, 320. Foster, William Air, 359. Fraser, Robert, 255. GALL, Richard, 166. Gilfillan, Robert, 258. Gillespie, William, 159. Glassford, James, 334. Glen, William, 227. Goldie, John, 266. Gordon, Alexander, Duke of, 14. Graham, Clementina Stirling, 211. Grant, Joseph, 276. Grant, Mrs, of Carron, 15. Grant, Mrs, of Laggan, 31. Gray, Charles, 206. GrieVe, John, 203. HALLIDAY, John, 488. Hamilton, Mrs Janet, 363. Hamilton, John, 36. Hedderwick, James, 440. Henderson, James, 465. Hetherington, William, D. D. , LL. D. , 329. Hislop, James, 256. Hogg, James, 87. Hogg, Robert, 273. Home, James, 308. Hume, Alexander, sen. 286. Hume, Alexander, jun., 333. Hunter, Mrs John, 12. Hunter, John, LL.D., 323. 502 THE MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL. IMLAH, John, 268. Inglis, Henry, 440. Inglis, Mrs Margaret M., 261. Irving, Archibald Stirling, 302. JAMIESON, Robert, 184. KING, James, 263. Knox, Isabella Craig, 475. Knox, William, 223. LAIDLAW, William, 187. Laing, Alexander, 304. Latto, Thomas C., 457. Leighton, Robert, 355. Lewis, Stuart, 200. Leyden, John, M.D., 151. Little, James, 355. Lochore, Robert, 120. Lockhart, John Gibson, 237. Lyle, Thomas, 307. Lyon, Mrs Agnes, 119. MACANSH, Alexander, 326. M'Diarmid, John, 233. Mac Donald, George, LL.D., 484. Macdonald, Hugh, 350. Macdonald, James, 330. Macfarlan, James, 340. Macgregor, Joseph, 313. Macindoe, George, 124. Mackay, Archibald, 396. Mackay, Charles, LL.D., 431. Madagan, Alexander, 423. Maclardy, James, 357. M'Laren, William, 126. Macneill, Hector, 22. M'Coll, Evan, 481. Maga, an Old Contributor to, 490. Malcolm, John, 246. Malone, Robert, L., 296. Manson, James, 347. Marshall, Charles, 398. Mathers, Thomas, 241. Mayne, John, 33. Menzies, George, 248. Mercer, Andrew, 150. Miller, Robert, 285. Mitchell, John, 265. Moir, David Macbeth, 253. Moore, Dugald, 278. Motherwell, William, 250. Muirhead, James, D.D., 118. NAIRNE, Carolina, Baroness, 57. Nevay, John, 362. Kicol, James, 71. Nicoll, Robert, 299. Nicholson, William, 209. OOILVY, Maria, D., 463. Ogilvy, Mrs Eliza, 421. Oliphant, Caroline, 346. Outram, George, 337. PAGAN, Isobel, 264. Park, Andrew, 331. Park, John, D.D., 338. Parker James, 402. Paul, Hamilton, 128. Picken, Ebenezer, 198. Polin, Edward, 353. Pringle, Thomas, 220. RAESIDE, David, 345. Ramsay, John, 401. Reid, William, 47. Richardson, Mrs, G. G., 177. Riddell, Henry Scott, 366. Riddell, William B.C., 361. Ritchie, Alexander A., 302. Robertson, John, 122. Rodger, Alexander, 213. Roger, Peter, 245. Roseburgh, Margaret Crawford, 479. SCADLOCK, James, 154. Scott, Andrew, 73. Scott, George, 169. Scott, Lady John, 447. Scott, Sir Walter, 76. Sillery, Charles Doyne, 283. Sim, John, 249. Simpson, Mrs Jane C. , 426. Sinclair, William, 429. Skinner, John, 1. Smart, Alexander, 321. Smibert, Thomas, 290. Smith, James, 470. Stewart, AUan, 294. Stewart, Mrs Dugald, 51. Still, Peter, 297. Stirrat, James, 203. Stoddart, Thomas Tod, 422. Struthers, John, 164. Symington, Andrew James, 467. TAIT, Alexander, 409. Tait, John, 21. Tannahill, Robert, 132. Telfer, James, 310. Thorn, William, 225. Thomson, William, 394. Train, Joseph, 180. VEDDER, David, 231. WAKE, Lady, 446. Watson, Walter, 185. Webster, David, 219. Weir, Daniel, 242. White, Robert, 406. Wilson, Alexander, 52. Wilson, Alexander Stephen, 474. Wilson, George, 316. Wilson, John, 215. Wilson, Robert, 443. Wilson, William, 399. Wingate, David, 466. Wright, John, 275. YOUNG, Andrew, 482. Younger, John, 318. GLOSSAEY. Aboon, above. A-low, on fire. Auld-j arrant, sagacious. Aumry, a store-place. Ava, at all. Ayont, beyond. San, to swear. Sang, to change place hastily. Sangster, a violent person. Baudrons, a cat. Sauld, bold. Saum, balm. Bawbee, halfpenny. Bawks, the cross-beams of a roof. Bawsint, a white spot on the forehead of cow or horse. Bawtie, name for a dog. Beild, shelter. Sein, good, suitable. Beltane, the first of May, old style. Sen, the spence or parlour. BeuJc, book. Bicker, a drinking vessel. Bink, a bank of earth. Birk, birch. Slae, blue. Blethers, nonsensical talk. Blewart, a flower, the blue bottle, witch bells. Blinket, looked kindly. Bob, nosegay, bunch, or tuft ; also to courtesy. Bobbin, a weaver's quill or pirn. Saddle, an old Scottish coin value the third of a halfpenny. Boggie, a marsh. Bonspiel, a match at curling, golf, or foot- ball. Bonnie, beautiful. Bourtree, the elder tree or shrub. Brag, vaunt. Braggin, boasting. Broken, the fern. Braw, gaily dressed. Bree, the eyebrow. Srochin, oatmeal boiled in water till some- what thicker than gruel. Brogues, shoes made of sheepskin. Bught, a pen for sheep. Burn, a stream. Burnie, a small rivulet. Busk, to attire one-self. Buskit, dressed tidily. Buss, bush. Byke, a bee-hive. Cairny, heap of stones. Caller, cool. Camstrarie, cross and unmanageable. Cantie, cheerful. Cantrips, spells, charms, incantations. Cannily, gently. Carline, an old woman. Castocks, the pith of stalks of cabbages. Cauldrife, chilling. Caw, to drive. Chanter, the drone of a bagpipe. Chap, a blow ; also a young fellow. Chat, talk. Chuckies, chickens. Clavering, talking idly. deck, to hatch, to breed. Clcd, clad. Cleugh, a cliff. deeding, clothing. Clishmadavers, idle talk. Clocksie, vivacious. Clout, to strike with the hand, also to mend a hole in clothes or shoes. Clud, cloud. Clutch, seize. 504 GLOSSARY. Coble, a fishing-boat. Cock-up, a hat or cap turned up before. Coft, purchased. Cogie, a hollow wooden vessel. Goof, a fool. Coost, cast. Carrie, a hollow in a hill. Cosie, snug, comfortable. Couthilie, kindly. Couthy, frank. Cower, to crouch, to stoop. Cowt, a strong stick. Crack, to converse. Oranreuch, the hoarfrost. Creel, a basket. Croft, a tenement of land. Croodle, to sing with a low voice. Croon, to make a plaintive sound. Grouse, brisk. Crowdy, meal and cold water, stirred together. Crusie, a small iron lamp. Cuddle, embrace. Cuiff, a blockhead. Cutiie, a short pipe. Dab, to peck as birds do. Daddy, father. Daff, to make sport. Daffin', diversion, merry-making. Dantit, subdued, tamed down. Daud, blow. Daundcr, to walk thoughtlessly. Daut, caress. Dautit, fondled. Dawtie, a pet, a darling. Dighted, wiped. Dirdum, tumult. Disjaskit, having appearance of decay. Doit, a small coin. Doited, stupid. Donnart, stupefied. Doo, dove. Dool, grief. Doops, dives down. Dorty, a foolish urchin. Douf, dull, sad. Dow, wither. Dowie, sad, worn with grief. Downa, expressive of inability. Draigle, draggle. Dree, suffer, endure. Dreeping, dripping, wet. Dreich, tedious. Dringing, delaying. Drone, sound of bagpipes. Drucket, drenched. Drumly, muddy. Dub, a mire. Dumpish, short and thick. Dung, defeated. Dunt, a knock. Dwine, dwindle. Eerie, timorous ; dreading things super- natural. Eident, wary. EM, old. Eithly, easily. Elf, a puny creature. EMed, aimed. Fardin, farthing. Fashious, troublesome. Fauld, a fold. Fause, false. Feckly, mostly. Fend, defend. Ferlies, remarkable things. Flate, scolded. Fleyt, frightened. Fleeched, flattered, deceived. Fleechit, cajoled. Flow, a fragment. Fogie, a stupid old person. Forby, besides. Foumart, a pole-cat, Fraise, flattery. Freenge, fringe. Fremmit, strange, foreign. Frumpish, crumpled. Fykes, troubles, anxieties. Gabbin, jeering. Gabbit, a person prone to idle talk. Gaed, went. Ganger, a pedestrian. Gar, compel. Gate, way. Gaucie, plump, jolly. Gauds, trinkets. Gawkie, a foolish female. Gi'e, give. Gif, if. Giggle, unmeaning laughter. Gilphie, a half-grown person, a romping lad. Gin, against. Girse, grass. GLOSSARY. 505 Glaikit, stupid. Glaiks, foolish talk. Glamour, the influence of a charm. Glamrie, the power of enchantment. Glint, a glance. Gloaming, the evening twilight. Glower, stare. Glum, gloomy. Gowd, gold. Graffs, graves. Graith, gear. Grant,, groan. Grannie, grandmother. Grat, wept. Grecie, a little pig. Gree, agree. Greet, weep. Grist, the fee paid at the mill for grinding. Grit, great. Grup, grasp. Grusome, frightful. Gutchir, grandfather. Gutters, mud, wet dust. Haddin, a farmer's stock. Haet, a whit. Haffit-links, a necklace. Haflins, nearly half. Haill, whole. Rain, save, preserve. Hap, cover. Haps, outer garments. Hauds, holds. Havens, endowments. Hecht, called, named, Heftit, familiarised to a place. Heuk, reaping-hook. Hie, high. Hinkum, that which is put up in hanks or balls, as thread. Hinnied, honied. Hinny, honey, a familiar term of affection among the peasantry. Hirple, to walk haltingly. Hizzie, Hussy, a thoughtless girl. Hodden, a coarse kind of cloth. Howe, a hollow. Howkit, dug. Howlet, an owl. Hummel, humble. Hurkle, to bow down to. Hyne, hence. Ilka, each. Jaupit, bespattered. Jeel, jelly. Jimp, neat, slender. Kail, cabbages, colewort. Kaim, comb. Kebbuck, a cheese. Keil, red clay, used for marking. Ken, know. Kenspeckle, having a singular appearance. Keust, threw off. Kilt, to truss up the clothes. Kipper, salmon salted, hung and dried. Kith, acquaintance. Kittle, difficult, uncertain. Knowe, a hillock. Kye, cows. Laigh, low. Laith, loth. Leal, faithful, loyaL Lear, learning. Leeve, live. Leeze me, a term of congratulatory endear- ment. Lick, wipe, beat. Lift, the sky. Litheless, listless. Zoo/, the palm of the hand. Losh, an exclamation of surprise. Loupin', leaping. Lowe, flame. Lowin', burning, warm. Lucken, a bog. Lucky A, an old woman. Lugs, ears. Lum, a chimney. Luntin, smoking. Lure, allure. Lyart, grey-haired. Mailin, arent ; arentedfarm, ormarketgarden. Mane, moan, complain. Maukin, a hare. Maw, to mow, the stomach, Mawn, mown ; a basket. May, maiden. Mense, honour, discretion. Mickle, much. Mim, prim, prudish. Minnie, mother. Mirk, dark. Mishanter, a sorry scrape. Miitens, gloves without fingers. 506 GLOSSARY. Mools, the earth of the grave. Mullin, crumb. Mutch, a woman's cap. Muter, multure, ground corn. Naig, a riding horse. Neip, a turnip. Neive, the fist. Neivefu', a handful. Newfangled, new fashioned. Niddered, depressed, stunted. Niffer, to exchange. Nip, to pinch. Nippen, carried off surreptitiously. Oons, wounds. Opt, opened. Ouk, a week. Outower, moreover, out of. Owre, over. Owerlay, a cravat. Paitrick, partridge. Parochin', parish. Pawkie, cunning. Perk, pole, perch. Perlins, women's ornaments. Pleugh, plough. Pliskie, a trick. Poortith, poverty. Pow, the head. Pree, to taste, to kiss. Freed, tasted. Pu', pull. Racket, stretched. Handy, a scold, a shrew. Sate, beat. Rax, reach. Rede, to counsel advice, wisdom. Reefer, river. Reft, deprived. Rink, a race, a line. Rocklay, a short cloak or surplice. Roke, a distaff ; also to swing. Roose, extol. Routh, abundance. Rowes, rolls. Rummulgumshin, common sense. Runts, the trunks of trees, the stem of colewort. Sabbit, sobbed. Saughs, willow-trees. Scant, scarce. Scartle, a grape or fork. Scaur, to scare, a wound. Scour, search. Scoured, burnished, ran. Scowl, to frown. Scrimpit, contracted. Scrimply, barely. Scroggie, abounding with stunted bushes. Scug, shelter. Scunner'd, disgusted. Seer, sure. Shanks-naigie, to travel on foot. Shaw, a plantation. Sheiling, a temporary cottage or hut. Shiel, a sheep-shed. Siccan, such. Sidling, Sinsyne, after that period. Skailt, emptied, scattered. Skeigh, timorous. Skiffin, moving lightly. Skipt, went lightly and swiftly along. Slee, sly. Sleekit, cunning. Slockin, to allay thirst. Smeddum, sagacity. Smoored, smothered. Snooded, the hair bound up. Sough, the breathing a tune, also the sighing of the wind. Spaewife, a female fortune-teller. Speer, ask. Speerin', inquiring. Spence, a larder. Squinting, looking obliquely. Staigie, a young horse. Starn, star. Steer, stir. Sud, should. Sumph, a soft person. Swankie, a clever young fellow. Sweir, indolent. Swiygit, swallowed. Swither, to hesitate. Syne, then. Tane, the one of two. Tapsle-teerie, topsy-turvy. Tauld, told. Ted, toad. Tent, care. Tentie, heedful, cautious. Tentin', leading. Tether, halter. GLOSSARY. 507 Thairms, strings. Theek, thatch. Teuch, tough. Thole, to endure. Thowless, inactive. Thraw, twist. Thrawart, froward, perverse. Timmer, timber. Titie, lose. Tint, lost. Tirl, to uncover. Tocher, dowry. Toom, empty. Toss, toast. Tout, shout. Toivmond, a year. Tramps, vagrants. Trantlooms, odds and ends. Trig, neat, trim. Troth, truth, vow. Trow, to make believe. Tryst, appointment. Unco, uncommon. Vauntit, boasted. Wae, sad, sorrowful. Wabster, weaver. Wag, shake. Warsled, wrestled. Wat, wet, also to know. Wauken, awaken. Waukrife, watchful, sleepless. Waunert, wandered. Waur, worse. Wean, a child. Wee, little. Weel, well. Weel-faur'd, well-favoured. Ween, guess. Weir, war, also to herd. Whigmigmorum, political ranting. 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First Impressions of England and its PEOPLE. 'This is precisely the kind of book we should have looked for from the author of the "Old Red Sandstone." Straightforward and earnest in style, rich and varied in matter, these " First Impressions" will add another laurel to the wreath which Mr. Miller has already won for him- self.' Westminster Review. Tenth Edition, 6. Scenes and Legends of the North of SCOTLAND; or, The Traditional History of Cromarty. ' A very pleasing and interesting book. The style has a purity and elegance which remind one of Irving, or of Irving' s master, Goldsmith.' Spectator. Sixteenth Edition, 7. The Old Red Sandstone ; or, New Walks in an Old Field. Profusely Illustrated. ' In Mr. Miller's charming little work will be found a very graphic description of the Old Red Fishes. I know not a more fascinating volume on any branch of British Geology.' MantelCs Aledals of Creation. Fifth Edition, 8. The Headship of Christ and the Rights of the Christian People. With Preface by PETER BAYNE, A.M. Fourteenth Edition, 9. Footprints of the Creator; or, The Aste- rolepis of Stromness. With Preface and Notes by Mrs. MILLER, and a Biographical Sketch by Professor AGASSIZ. Profusely Illustrated. Sixth Edition, 10. Tales and Sketches. Edited, with a Preface, by Mrs. MILLER. Fourth Edition, 11. Essays: Historical and Biographical, Political and Social, Literary and Scientific. Fourth Edition, 12. Edinburgh and its Neighbourhood, Geological and Historical. With the GEOLOGY OF THE BASS ROCK. Fourtl^ Edition, 13. Leading Articles on Various Subjects. Edited by his Son-in-law, the Rev. JOHN DAVIHSON. With a Charac- teristic Portrait of the Author, fac-simile from a Photograph, by D. O. HII.L, R.S.A. %* Hugh Miller's Works may also be had in complete sets of 13 Volumes, bound in half -calf with extra bands D. J., S. ., price 4, T7-S-. dd., or elegantly bound in roxburgh style, gilt fop, price 3, iSs., or in cloth extra, gold and black printing, tieicr style, gilt top, BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. HUGH MILLER'S WORKS NEW CHEAP RE-ISSUE. r announcing a NEW CHEAP EDITION of the WORKS OF HUGH MILLER, the Publisher does not consider it necessary to add anything by way of com- mendation.- The fame of Hugh Miller is securely established throughout the world, and his works, by universal consent, take rank among the highest in English Literature. To the higher and more cultivated classes of society, he appeals by the purity and elegance of his style, as well as by his remarkable powers of description, and his profound knowledge of the marvels of nature. To the humbler classes and the working man, the story of his life himself originally a working man in the strictest sense of the word, pushing his way upward to the distinguished position which he attained must possess a peculiar charm, and to them his writings cannot fail to prove of special value. At the present time, the works of Hugh Miller, one of the most gifted of our self-taught and self-made men, are peculiarly suited to exercise a most powerful influence in promoting the great cause of the progress of Education ; and this new Edition, while elegant enough to command a place in the libraries of the rich, is cheap enough to be within the reach of the student and the working man. Although many df his books have already attained an immense sale notwith- standing their high price, the Publisher feels assured that they only require to be offered to the general public at a moderate rate to ensure for them a very widely increased circulation. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 'This effort to bring the works of so distinguished an author within the reach of all classes cannot fail to be universally appreciated." Morning Star. ' Hugh Miller's writings have long passed the period of criticism, and taken rank among standard works. From the times of the British Essayists and Oliver Goldsmith, no literary man has shown a greater mastery of the English language than the author of Tlie Old Red Sand- stone. The size of 'the page and the letterpress are suitable for the library, while the price is a third less than the original edition.' Daily Review. ' The moderate price at which the series is now offered, however, will enable thousands of readers to acquire for themselves those volumes which they have hitherto only found Accessible by means of the circulating library. From the pure, manly, and instructive character of his writings whether social, moral, or scientific and from the fascinating attractions of his style, we do not know any works better deserving of a vast circulation than those of Hugh Miller. The edition is clearly printed, and altogether well got up.' Gtasg-tnv Herald. ' This cheap re-issue by Mr. N immo will enable tens of thousands who have yet only heard of Hugh Miller soon to learn to appreciate and admire him.' Bell's Messenger. ' This cheap edition of Hugh Miller's works deserves, and will doubtless secure, a very ex- tended public support. No one knew better than Hugh Miller how to combine amusement with instruction ; and all his works exhibit this most important combination.' Public Opinion. ' The works of Hugh Miller cannot be too widely known or studied ; and the publisher deserves our thanks (or his cheap re-issue of them.' The Standard. 'A new*cheap issue of Hugh Miller's admirable works will be hailed with pleasure by all who desire to possess a really valuable collection of books.' The Observer. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. POPULAR WORKS BY ASCOTT R. HOPE. Third Edition, just published, post %vo, doth extra, profusely illustrated, gilt edges, price- $s. , MY SCHOOLBOY FRIENDS: A STOHY OF WHITMINSTER GRAMMAR SCHOOL BY THE AUTHOR OF ' A Book about Dominies,' ' Stories of School Life,' etc. ' Its fidelity to truth is the charm of the book ; but the individuals introduced are so admirably described, that an excellent moral may be deduced from the attributes of the well-disposed and the vicious. The volume will be read with interest by those who have arrived at full age, and with much mental profit by those who are in their nonage.' The Lincoln Mercury. ' Mr. Hope has already written several excellent stories of schoolboy life ; but this story of " Whitminster Grammar School " excels anything he has yet done.' The North British Mail. ' We are glad to welcome Mr. Hope's return to a province of literature where he reigns alone, and where almost none dare or do tread but he. . . . The present tale has many merits, and it has nothing else that we can see. It is very commonplace, and therefore very natural ; it places no single aspect of schoolboy life in undue relief, it does not glorify unmanliness or vice, and it is thoroughly healthy. We should imagine that it will be profoundly interesting to the readers for whom it is meant.' The Edinburgh Courant. Just ready, cro-^'it S:r>, elegantly bound and profusely illustrated, price $s. f)d., GEORGE'S ENEMIES: A SEQUEL TO 'MY SCHOOLBOY FRIENDS.' BY ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ' A Book about Boys,' etc. etc. THIRD EDITION, Crcnvn 8z>0, elegantly bound, and 'profusely Illustrated by CHAS. GREEN, price^s. 6d., STORIES ABOUT BOYS. BY ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ' Stories of School Life,' 'My Schoolboy Friends,' etc. etc. 'A book for boys by Mr. Hope stands in no need of recommendation. His previous tales have proved such favourites, that the simple announcement of his name is sufficient to ensure for his new volume a wide circulation among the host of youths who are let loose from school about Christmas-time. These stories are admirably suited, in their subject and style, to excite and attract all juvenile re idors. They have the rare advantage of really good illustrations, and the style of binding is the prettiest and most artistic we have yet come across.' V'/u- Njrth British Mail. 'Boys will find he has prepared a tempting dish, into which they may dip again and again with interest and with profit. The volume is handsomely got up.' T/ie Scotsman. Fourth Edition, just published, in cro^vn Sro, elegantly bound and illustrated, gilt edges, 5-r., STORIES OF SCHOOL LIFE. BY ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ' A Book about Boys,' ' A Book about Dominies,' etc. etc. ' Every one who had the good fortune to read those delightful books of Mr. Hope's, " A Book about Dominies" and " A Book about Boys," must have registered a hope that he would some day give us a collection of stories about school life ; and here is the identical book. The stories are genial and refreshing, rich with the highest moral sentiments, never maudlin, and t! natural. We trust to meet .Mr. Hope a^.iin and again in similar works, for we can assure him that no sensational story that has ever been written ever possessed half the interest or enjoyment which these stories possess.' 1'nblic Opinion. 'A book more thoroughly adapted to boys cannot be found.' The Globe. [Continued on next page. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. POPULAR WOEKS BY ASCOTT E. HOPE continued. Just published, crown 8z>0, cloth gilt, with numerous Illustrations, price 5-T., STORIES OF FRENCH SCHOOL LIFE. BY ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ' A Book about Dominies,' ' Stories about Boys,' ' My Schoolboy Friends,' etc. ' It is refreshing to meet with the productions of men whose sole aim is to supply interesting books characterized by extreme healthiness of tone, and tending to raise, rather than depress, the natural spirit of emulation. Such are the books of our author ; and we are glad to be able to recommend this new work to all who feel an interest in what their children should read. . . . We cannot leave this work without expressing an earnest wish that the efforts of the author to raise the tone of boyish literature may not be without fruit, and that his efforts will be seconded by the eftorts of all right-minded men who have the welfare of their own and others' children at heart.' Quarterly Journal of Education. Fourth Edition, crown 8vo, cloth extra, y. &/., A BOOK ABOUT DOMINIES: BEING THE REFLECTIONS AND RECOLLECTIONS OF A MEMBER OF THE PROFESSION. ' This is a manly, earnest book. The author describes in a series of essays the life and work of a schoolmaster : and as he has lived that life and done that work from deliberate choice, his story is worth hearing.' The Spectator. Fourth Edition, crown Svo, cloth extra, price 3^. 60, cloth extra, price y. 6i/. , TEXTS FROM THE TIMES. BY ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of 'A Book about Dominies,' 'A Book about Boys,' etc. etc. ' Mr. Hope is a very sensible man, and speaks what is well worth listening to for its good, practical common-sense. We wish that some of our novelists would especially-study his essay upon the " Novels of the Period,." His criticism on the literature of the subject is full of home truths. . . . Let us give, too, a word of praise to his essay " On going to the Theatre." In the main, we thoroughly agree with him. We, at all events, shall not be suspected of any design of forbidding cakes and ale : but we fully go with him in his criticism upon the utter stupidity and folly of our modern plays, and the wretched bad acting and the vulgarity of most of our actors and actresses. Mr. Hope's book deserves a place in every lending library both in town and country. It is especially distinguished by its healthy tone, and should be put into the hands of all young people.' Westminster Review. Second and Cheaper Edition, just ready, crown Sftv, cloth extra, price y. f)d. , MASTER JOHN BULL: A HOLIDAY BOOK FOR PARENTS AND SCHOOLMASTERS, BY ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of ' A Book about Dominies,' etc. etc. ' It is a book well worth reading by all who have the care and control of boys ; for though they may not, perhaps, correct their mistakes, still some gleam of light and feeling of sympathy must follow from reading it. Mr Hope knows boy-nature, and he also knows and sees the errors and mismanagement which lie at rhe root of the scholastic training which boys of the middle- class for the most part receive. Amongst rmny serious and valuable suggestions there are some capital caricature sketches, and specimens of boyish composition.' The Athen&um. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. ' A marvel of cheapness and excellence, even in this age of cheap literature: OBSERVER. N I M M O'S Library Edition of Standard Works. In large demy 8v0, with Steel Portrait and Vignette \ handsomely bound, roxburgh style, gilt top, price 5s. each. 1. Shakespeare's Complete Works. With a Biographical Sketch by MARY CowDEft CLARKE, a Copious Glossary, and numerous Illustrations. *** This Edition is based on the Text of Johnson, Steevens, and Reed, which is allowed to be one of the most accurate ; and, so far as regards mechanical cor- rectness, it will contrast favourably with many high-priced and ambitious editions. 2. Burns's Complete Works. Containing also his Remarks on Scottish Song, General Correspondence, Letters to Clarinda, and Correspondence with George Thomson. With Life and Variorum Notes, and full-page Illustrations by eminent Artists. 3. Goldsmith's Miscellaneous Works. In- eluding 'The Vicar of Wakefield,' 'Citizen of the World,' 'Polite Learning,' Poems, Plays, Essays, etc. etc. 4. Lord Byron's Poetical Works. With Life. Illustrated with full-page Engravings on Wood by eminent Artists. 5. Josephus : The Whole Works of Fla- VIUS JOSEPHUS, the Jewish Historian. Translated by WILLIAM WHISTON, A.M. With Life,- Portrait, Notes, and Index, etc. 6. The Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Translated from the Arabic. An entirely New and Complete Edition. With upwards of a Hundred Illustrations on Wood, drawn by S. J. GROVES. 7- The Works of Jonathan Swift, D.D. Carefully selected. Including 'A Tale of a Tub," 'Gulliver's Tra\ 'Journal to Stella,' '-Captain Creichton,' 'Directions to Servants,' ! Poems, etc. etc. With a Biography of the Author, and Original and Authentic N ( otes. [Continued on next page. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. We congratulate the lovers of good literature on having their tastes supplied at such a cheap rate' THE CITY PRESS. N I M M O ' S Library Edition of Standard Works, CONTINUED. In large demy 8vo, with Steel Portrait and Vignette, handsomely bound, roxburgh style, gilt top, price 5s. each. 8. The Works of Daniel Defoe. Carefully selected from the most authentic sources. Including ' Robinson Crusoe,' 'Colonel Jack,' 'Memoirs of a Cavalier,' 'Journal of the Plague in London,' 'Duncan Campbell,' 'Complete English Tradesman, ' etc. etc. With Life of the Author. 9. The Works of Tobias Smollett. Care- fully selected from the most authentic sources. Including ' Roderick Random,' ' Peregrine Pickle,' ' Humphry Clinker,' Plays, Poems. With Life, etc. 10. The Canterbury Tales and Faerie QUEEN : With other Poems of CHAUCER and SPENSER. Edited for Popular Perusal, with current Illustrative and Explanatory Notes. With Lives of the Authors. 11. The Works of the British Dramatists. Carefully selected from the Original Editions. Including the best Plays of BEN JONSON, CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, BEAUMONT and FLETCHER, PHILIP MASSINGER, etc. etc. With copious^ Notes, Bio- graphies, and a Historical Introduction. 12. The Scottish Minstrel : The Songs and Song Writers of Scotland subsequent to Burns. With Biographies, etc. etc. By the Rev. CHARLES ROGERS, LL. D. 1 3. Moore : The Poetical Works of Thomas MOORE. New Edition, carefully Revised. With Life. Illustrated with full-page Engravings on Wood by eminent Artists^ 14. Fielding : The Writings of Henry FIELDING. Comprising his Celebrated Works of Fiction. With Life, etc. 15. Sterne: The Works of Laurence STERNE. New and Complete Edition. Including ' Tristram Shandy,' 'A Sentimental Journey,' Sermons, Letters, etc. etc. 16. Bos-well's Johnson: The Life of Samuel JOHNSON, LL.D. By JAMES BOSWELL. New and Complete Edition, carefully revised from the most authentic sources, with Notes, etc. etc. * \* This Series is also kept bound in cloth extra, full gilt side, back, and edges, price 6s. 6d. each ; and in half-calf extra, marbled sidus, edges, and end papers, price Ss. 6J. each. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. Just ready, IN ENTIRELY NEW CLOTH BINDING, EMBLEMATIC DESIGN 'WORKED IN GOLD AND BLACK. ENTIRELY NEW MOROCCO BINDINGS, IN ANTIQUE RAISED, AT 63. 6d. ( AND IN EXTRA RAISED, WITH HIGH-CLASS MEDALLION PORTRAITS ON SIDE, AT 7a. ,6d. N I M M O ' S POPULAR EDITION OF THE WORKS OF THE POETS. /;/ fcap. 8?'#, printed on toned paper, elegantly bound in doth extra, U'ith emblematic design forked in gold and black, price y. 6d. each ; or in morocco antique, price 6s. 6d. each ; or morocco extra, raised and with high-class medallion portraits on side, entirely new design, price "]s. 6d. each. Each Volume contains a Memoir, and is illustrated with a Portrait of the Author engraved- on Steel, and numerous full-page Illustrations on Wood, from designs by eminent Artists ; also beautiful Illuminated Title-page. 1. Longfellow's Poetical Works. 2. Scott's Poetical Works. 3. Byron's Poetical Works. 4. Moore's Poetical Works. 5. Wordsworth's Poetical Works. 6. Cowper's Poetical Works. 7. Milton's Poetical Works. 8. Thomson's Poetical Works. 9. Goldsmith's Choice Works. 10. Pope's Poetical Works. 11. Burns's Poetical Works. [Continued on next page. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. N I MMO'S POPULAR EDITION OF THE WORKS OF THE POETS, v CONTINUED. 12. The Casquet of Gems. Choice Seleo tions from the Poets. 13. The Book of Humorous Poetry. 14. Ballads: Scottish and English. 15. The Complete Works of Shakespeare. Two Vols. 1 6. The Arabian Nights' Entertainments. Two Vols. 17. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress and Holy War. 1 8. Lives of the British Poets. t 19- The Prose Works of Robert Burns. %* This Series of Books, from the very superior manner in which it is pro- duced, is at once the cheapest and handsomest edition of the Poets in the market. The volumes form elegant and appropriate Presents as School Prizes and Gift- Books, either in cloth or morocco. ' They are a marvel of cheapness, some of the volumes extending to as many as 700, and even 900, pages, printed on toned paper in a beautifully clear type. Add to this, that they are pro- fusely illustrated with wood engravings, are elegantly and tastefully bound, and that they are published at 35. 6d. each, and our recommendation of them is complete.' Scotfman. IO BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. NEW AND CHEAPER EDITIONS. NIMMO'S QUARTO GIFT BOOKS. Small 4/0, beautifully printed on superior paper, handsomely bound in cloth extta, bevelled boards, gilt edges, price 6s. each, ROSES AND HOLLY: a ift Book for all tfje gear. KSEitfj riginal Illustrations fag eminent "artists. 4 This is really a collection of art and literary gems the prettiest book, take it all in all, that we have seen this season.' Illustrated Times. PEN AND PENCIL PICTURES FROM THE POETS. (Cfjoicc Illustrations fag tfje most eminent Artists. in. GEMS OF LITERATURE: Elegant, &are, ano Suggcstibc. Illustrated fag fcistinguisfjeo Artists. ' For really luxurious books, Nimmo's " Pen and Pencil Pictures from the Poets " and " Gems of Literature " may be well recommended. They are luxurious in the binding, in the print, in the engravings, and in the paper.' Morning Post. THE BOOK OF ELEGANT EXTRACTS. $3rofusclg Illustrated fag tfje most eminent Artists. ' This is one of the most attractive and beautiful books which we have seen for some time, and is really worthy of a place on any drawing-room table.' Herald. V. THE GOLDEN GIFT: yrofuselg Illustrated foitfj riginal Engravings on JHHooU fag eminent Artists. ' It consists of a beautifully illustrated selection from a wide field of author- ship.' Daily Telegraph. \Continucd on next page. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. I I NIMMO'S QUARTO GIFT BOOKS, CONTINUED. THE POETICAL WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE. Wi'ify (ffoentg-lj-igbt Original Illustrations bg eminent Artists, anb a |UD |JTcmoir. THE LITERARY BOUQUET: GA THERED FROM FA VOURITE A UTHORS. |)rofuselg |llustratcb bg eminent Artists. ' Taking the book as a whole, it bears evidence of great good taste in the selections, and equally good taste in the arrangement. Several of the engravings rise to a high pitch of excellence, and altogether the volume is elegant in form. ' The Scotsman. VIII. THE TREASURY OF LITERATURE AND ART: A SELECTION FROM THE BEST WRITERS. ISitb numerous Illustrations bg eminent girlists. ' It contains much to gratify and delight ; in fact, a melange of pleasant things prettily arranged ; elegant in all that concerns its mechanical production, accept- able in respect to its literary value, and -equally adapted for the library or the drawing-room table, for presentation, and for preservation.' The Bookseller. f IX. THE GARLAND OF POETRY AND PROSE. B Y CELEBRA TED A UTHORS. (Stitb numerous ngrabings bg Eminent Artists. ' Compiled very wisely from our best known authors. Its contents are not only worth reading, but worth reading over and over gain.' The Publishers' Circular. ' Tried by every test, it is all that a table-b'ook should be. Judged from a higher standard even, it passes muster bravely, altogether a delightful volume.' 77ie Bookseller. I 2 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. NIMMO'S SELECT LIBRARY. .VtTi' Series of Choice Books, beautifully printed on superfine paper, profusely Illustrated with original Engravings by the first Artists, and elegantly bound in cloth and gold, large cro^vn &vo, price 5s. each. SECOND EDITION. 1. Almost Faultless : A Story of the Present Day. By the Author of ' A Book for Governesses.' i 'The author has written a capital story in a high moral tone.' The Court Journal. SECOND EDITION. 2. Lives of Old English Worthies before the Conquest. By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS. ' The author's aim is to illuminate, what may be regarded as obscure, certain periods of historic England, accompanied with biographical sketches. v The book is beautifully bound and printed, and cannot fail to comiriand popular sup- port. ' Courant. >ND EDITION. 3. Every~day Objects ; or, Picturesque Aspects of Natural History. By W. II. DAVENPORT ADAMS. ' As an introduction to heavier works, by awakening in the youthful under- standing a taste for knowledge in natural science, and giving them a brief but clear insight into the why and the wherefore of much they wonder at, this book will serve a very useful purpose.' The Examiner. THIRD EDITION. 4. My Schoolboy Friends : A Story of Whitminster Grammar School. By ASCOTT R. HOPE, Author of 'A Book about Dominies,' ' Stories of School Life,' etc. ' "My Schoolboy Friends" is a most interesting book. It has many attrac- tive qualities, which are sure to win for it a wide and lasting popularity among the best sort of readers. Boys, for whom it is especially written, will thoroughly enjoy 'A? Westminster Rei'ifw. EDITION. 5. Drifted and Sifted : A Domestic Chronicle ofthe Seventeenth Century. ' The author of this interesting, and we may add pathetic, story appears to the art of reproducing bygone times with much ability.' The Record. ' BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. N I M M O'S Jfifa* Shilling flhrstrutctr (Sift |J0johs. Crown &ro, beautifully printed on Superfine Paper, profusely illus- trated by Eminent Artists, and richly bound in doth and gold, and gilt edges, price 5 s. each. SECOND EDITION. 1. Sword and Pen; or, English Worthies in the Reign of Elizabeth. By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS. ' A more wholesome book for young readers we have seldom seen.' The Athautum. SECOND ED'ITION. 2. Norrie Seton ; or, Driven to Sea. By Mrs. GEORGE CUPPLES, Author of ' Unexpected Pleasures,' etc. ' Mrs. Cupples has given to the boys in this volume just the sort of sea-story with which they will be delighted.' The Scotsman. SECOND EDITION. 3. The Circle of the Year ; or, Studies of Nature and Pictures of the Seasons. By W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS. ' Its purpose is to tell both young and old, but especially the former, how much of interest there is in everything connected with nature. '^Bell's Messenger. SECOND EDITION. 4. The Wealth of Nature : Our Food Sup- plies from the Vegetable Kingdom. By the Rev. JOHN MONTGOMERY, A.M. ' It would be difficult to put into the hands of any boy or girl a volume which more equally combines the instructive and interesting in literature.' N. B. Mail. FOURTH EDITION. 5. Stories of School Life. By Ascott R. HOPE. 6. Stories of French School Life. By ASCOTT R. HOPE. '"We were among /the many who greatly admired Mr. Hope's "Stories of School Life" and " Stories about Boys," and when we found that he had under- taken to illustrate French school life, we gladly opened the volume. The stories are interesting in the highest degree ; they appeal to the best sympathies of the lads for whom they are wiiften. They set forth the right and the true against the false, and they are full of good, hearty humour.' Public Opinion. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. popular ftttlorhs bn % Author of ' Jimbcn: 0ur |Jomt/ Aggregate sale of the following popular works, 162,000 copies. Crown 8vo, cloth extra, gilt side and edges, One Hundred and Third Thousand, price 35. 6d., 1. HEAVEN OUE HOME. We have no Saviour but Jesus, and no Home but Heaven. ' The author of the volume before us endeavours to describe what heaven is, as shown by the light of reason and Scripture ; and we promise the reader many charming pictures of heavenly bliss, founded upon undeniable authority, and described with the pen of a dramatist, which can- not fail to elevate the soul as well as to delight the imagination. . . . Part Second proves, in a manner as beautiful as it is convincing, the DOCTRINE OF THE RECOGNITION OF FRIENDS IN HEAVEN, a subject of which the author makes much, introducing many touching scenes of Scripture celebrities meeting in heaven and discoursing of their experience on earth. Part Third DEMONSTRATES THE INTEREST WHICH THOSE IN HEAVEN FEEL IN EARTH, AND PROVES, WITH REMARKABLE CLEARNESS, THAT SUCH AN INTEREST EXISTS NOT ONLY WITH THE ALMIGHTY AND AMONG THE ANGELS, BUT ALSO AMONG THE SPIRITS OF DEPARTED FRIENDS. We Un- hesitatingly give our opinion that this volume is one of the most delightful productions of a religious character which has appeared for some time ; and we would desire to see it pass into extensive circulation.' Glasgow Herald. A CHEAP EDITION OF 'HEAVEN OUR HOME,' In crown 8vo, cloth limp, price is. 6d., is also published. Crown Syo, cloth extra, gilt side and edges, Thirty-first Thousand, price 35. 6d., 2. MEET FOE HEAVEN. A State of Grace upon Earth the only Preparation for a State of Glory in Heaven. 'The author, in his or her former work, " Heaven pur Home," portrayed a SOCIAL HEAVEN, WHERE SCATTERED FAMILIES MEET AT LAST IN LOVING INTERCOURSE AND IN POSSESSION OF PERFECT RECOGNITION, to spend a never-ending eternity of peace and love. In the present work the individual state of the children of God is attempted to be unfolded, and more especially the state of probation which is set apart for them on earth to fit and prepare erring mortals for the society of the saints. . . . The work, as a whole, displays an originality of conception, a flow of language, and a closeness of reasoning rarely found in religious publications. . . . The author combats the pleasing and generally accepted belief, that DEATH WILL EFFECT AN ENTIRE ci ON THE SPIRITUAL CONDITION OF OUK SOULS, and that all who enter into bliss will be placed on a common level.' Glasgow Herald. A CHEAP EDITION OF 'MEET FOR HEAVEN,' In crown Svo, cloth limp, price is. 6d., is also published. Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt side and edges, Twenty-first Thousand, price 35. 6d., 3. LITE IS HEAVEN. There, Faith is changed into Sight, and Hope is passed into blissful Fruition. i ' This is certainly one of the most remarkable works which have been issued from the press during the present generation ; and we have no doubt it will prove as acceptable to the pu! the two attractive volumes to which it forms an appropriate and beautiful sequel.' Cheltei. Journal. A CHEAP EDITION OF 'LIFE IN HEAVEN,' In crown Svo, cloth limp, price is. 6d., is also published. Crown Svo, cloth extra, gilt.side and edges, Seventh Thousand, price 35. 6d., 4. CHRIST'S TEANSFIGUEATION ; or, Tabor's Teachings. A Glimpse of Christ's Glory and Intercourse with his' People for Ever. ' The main subjects discussed in this new work are, Christ's glory and eternal intercourse with his people. These are developed with great power of ffiought and great beauty t ; The book is sure to meet with as flattering a reception as the author's former works.' The Nf.vstnan. A CHEAP EDITION OF 'CHRIST'S TRANSFIGURATION, 1 In crown Svo, cloth limp, price is. 6d., is also published. BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. Demy Svo, cloth, price ids. 6d., JAMIESON'S SCOTTISH D I C T I O N A R Y. Abridged from the Dictionary and Supplement (in 4 vols. 4to) by JOHN JOHNSTONE. An entirely New Edition, Revised and Enlarged, by JOHN LONGMUIR, A.M., LL.D., formerly Lecturer in King's College and Uni- versity, Aberdeen. ' No small difficulty must needs attend the production of such a work as the present, arising as much from similarities between the two languages as from any other source. However, we may safely congratulate the Editor upon the way in which such difficulties have been overcome. It is not too much to say that the present work is a monument of patient toil and laborious investigation. The authorities for each word are given, while, so far as it is possible to judge, there seem to be no omissions.' Educational Times. COMPLETION OF THE COPYRIGHT EDITION OF WI LSO N'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND: HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, AND IMAGINATIVE. EDITED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, One of the Original Editors and Contributor^. In announcing the completion of the Copyright Edition of the BORDER TALES, the Publisher does not consider it necessary to say anything in recommendation of a work which has stood the test of a general competition, and which has in- creased in public favour with its years. Equally suited to all classes of readers, it has been received with delight in the school-room, the drawing-room, the par- lour, and the village reading-room. Many of the Tales have been publicly read. The high tone of its morality renders it an admirable small library for young members of the family. The new Edition is comprised in Twenty-four Volumes, sewed in elegant wrapper, price is. each. Each volume is complete in N itself, forming an inde- pendent collection of stories. The work may also be had in Twelve Double Volumes, handsomely bound in cloth, price 35. each, or in roxburgh, gilt top, for libraries, etc. , 45. each. Those who already possess the first twenty Volumes are recommended to com- plete their sets by purchasing the four New Volumes, the last of which contains a Steel Portrait of the Editor and principal contributor, Alexander Leighton, with a copious Glossary. 1 6 BOOKS PUBLISHED BY WILLIAM P. NIMMO. Demy 8vo, bound, price 35. 6d., THE MECHANIC'S AND STUDENT'S GUIDE IN THE DESIGNING AND CONSTRUCTION OF GENERAL MACHINE GEARING. \ Jllustratcb fott numerous Original