LiyiN88T0H'8^a 
 
 POEMS, S0H6S,i 
 
 LECTUaES. 
 
 HBIO 
 
 If
 
 Ex Libras 
 C. K. OGDKN 
 
 POEMS AND SONGS; 
 
 WITH 
 
 LECTURES 
 
 OK THE GENIUS AND WOKKS OF EUENS, 
 
 AND 
 
 THE EEV. GEOEGE GILFILLAN ; 
 
 AND 
 
 LETTERS ON DR DICK, 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHET, 
 
 AND 
 
 ^iil lolm 4ii:inlilin ;ind the S^Yciic Sections. 
 
 PETER LIVINGSTON, 
 
 DUNDEE. 
 
 — " A wish — I mind its power, 
 A wish that to my latest hour, 
 
 Shall strongly heave my breast ; 
 That I for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
 Some useful pLan or book could make, 
 
 Or sing a sang at least." 
 
 Tentb Edition. 
 
 EDINBURGH : 
 
 PRINTED BY MOULD & TOD, ST JAMES' SQUARE. 
 
 1873.
 
 I 813 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Notice of tlie Author ... 
 
 Letter on Sir J. Franklin and the Arctic Eegions 
 
 Lecture on Burns 
 
 George Gilfillan and his Writings 
 
 Letter on Dr Dick the Christian Philosopher 
 
 Poems — 
 
 Sabbatli in a Scottish Cottage 
 
 The Auld Kirk- Yard 
 
 My Father's Ha' ... 
 
 A Hame beyond the Skies 
 
 Verses to my Aunt 
 
 The Trysting Tree 
 
 ]Man to Peace was Born 
 
 Martha Palmer 
 
 Welcome to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert 89 
 
 The Kirk ... 93 
 
 Stobb'sFair ... ... ... 98 
 
 The Miseries of War ... ... 10.3 
 
 Lines on Visiting the Graves of Alexander 
 
 and John Betliune ... ... 107 
 
 The Wind ... ... ... HI 
 
 Prologue ... ... . • • 113 
 
 Page 
 vii 
 
 13 
 
 24 
 
 37 
 
 46 
 
 .51 
 
 GO 
 G4 
 G7 
 70 
 74 
 80 
 85
 
 SOXGS — 
 
 Pack 
 
 Wliar are a' the Friends 1 ... ... 1 1 G 
 
 Oil ! Here lies low the Bonnie Lass ... 117 
 
 "VYlien thinking upon my Sad Fate ... 119 
 
 Hill and Dell are Decked in Green ... 120 
 
 I now maun Leave my lady Fair ... 122 
 
 Come to yonder Bower, my Lassie ... 123 
 
 Winter Is^ights are caidd, Lassie ... 124 
 
 A Guid New Year to ane and a' ... 12G 
 
 Bonnie, bonnie, was the Morn ... 127 
 
 The Blooming Heather ... ... 128 
 
 The Cares o' Life ... 129 
 
 Winter is Come ... ... ... 130 
 
 March of Mesmerism ... ... 131 
 
 Creep before You Gae ... ... 134 
 
 Juke, and let the Jaw gang by ... 136 
 
 Time and Tide will wait on nae man ... 138 
 
 Little Children ... ... ... 140
 
 TO 
 
 GEO. DUNCAN, ESQ., M.P. FOR DUNDEE. 
 
 Dundee, 20th Jamiary 1852. 
 
 Honoured Sir, 
 
 In dedicating to you the Eiglitli Edition 
 of the Poems and Songs of my Son, Peter Livingston, 
 and also his Lecture on the Genius and Works of Burns, 
 as well as his Oration on the Eev. George Gilfillan, 
 his genius and his criticism, I mentioned to you that 
 one of my reasons for the publication was, in consequence 
 of having to relinquish an extensive business in the 
 book trade, occasioned by severe personal affliction, 
 during a period of more than ten years ; and also to do 
 justice to my own feelings, as well as to fulfil a wisli of 
 the Author, your honour having formerly become liis 
 first subscriber for the original edition, tlie sale of wliich 
 was considerable ; the Seven Editions extending to 
 upwards of 6000 copies. 
 
 These are some of the reasons wliicli have iixluced 
 me to solicit your indulgence ; and I shall ]icver forget 
 the kind and generous manner in which you not only 
 permitted the dedication, but feelingly expressed, that 
 if your consent could be of any service in forwarding 
 my design, it would afford you the utmost pleasure.
 
 Allow me, clear Sir, simply to saj', that I sincerely 
 thank you for the expression of your kindness. And I 
 beg leave to add, that so long as Dundee is screened from 
 the northern hlast by the beautiful hill behind it — so 
 long as the gTass grows on the Magdalen Green — so long- 
 as the border of that Green is adorned by the Vine* — so 
 long as your school shall exist for the instruction of 
 poor cliildren — so long shall the name of George Duncan 
 be held in grateful remembrance, — and that you may 
 live long to enjoy tliat popularity and esteem which you 
 have so honourably earned, is 
 
 Honoured Sir, 
 The earnest Avish of your faithful and obedient Servant, 
 WILLIA]\r LIVINGSTONS". 
 
 The beautiful Villa of the Honourable Member for Dundee.
 
 NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 npHE Author of tlie following Poems, Songs, Lectures, 
 -*- &c., was born in Dundee, on 20th January, 1823. 
 His father, after residing twenty years in Perth, had 
 removed at the previous Martinmas, and was for many 
 years a bookseller and stationer in Dundee. His grand- 
 father was James Livingston — who, at the end of the 
 last and beginning of the present century, possessed a 
 farm on the Laigh Fields of Hayston, in the parish of 
 Glammis, on the princely estate of the noble family of 
 Strathmore — who expired three hours after the death 
 of his second wife in 1826, and both were buried in one 
 grave in Glammis Churchyard. His maternal grand- 
 father was Charles Laing, a wright in Perth — a man emi- 
 nent for Christian piety. He died in 1805 ; the poet's 
 mother is his eldest daughter.* 
 
 * Mr (afterwards Sir Walter) Scott, when about to publish one 
 of his earliest works, was anxious to obtain some information 
 about the classic grounds of Lyndoch, its mansion liouse, the 
 grave of Bessy Bell and ]\Iary Gray, all of which are so roman- 
 tically situated on the banks of the Almond— and for that pur- 
 pose waited on the amiable and aged Major Barry, then residing 
 at Perth, but formerly proprietor, and (with his equally amial)lo 
 lady) improver of that beautiful estate. Having obtained from 
 the Major ample information— particularly about the means hi- 
 used to ascertain the exact spot whore the bones of the beauties 
 lay— the Major's servant (afterwards the poet's mother) w;ir
 
 VUl 
 
 During his infancy and cbildhoocl lie exhibited an 
 affectionate and kindly disi)Osition, and a contemplative 
 turn of mind manifested itself as his years increased. 
 When a mere boy he greatly admired the preaching 
 of the Eeverend Mr Roxburgh of the Cross Church, 
 and always spoke of him with the greatest enthusiasm. 
 By a spark kindled at this flame, or some other cause, 
 he, about this tune, exjiressed an earnest desire to be- 
 come a preacher ; and in proof thereof, early in the 
 mornings, would rise from his bed, place himself with 
 a table and a Bible before him, inducing a younger 
 brother to rise and sit in front of the table to act as 
 precentor. Service was begun in right earnest; but 
 sometimes the singing, and often the sermon, would be 
 interrupted by the visit of a pillow coming in contact 
 with the person of the orator, and make him bow to 
 his audience, to the no small astonishment of the baby 
 precentor, — this addition to the congregation being 
 ejected from the bed of an elder brother ; the preacher 
 having disturbed the carpenter's repose. 
 
 Afterwards, the far-famed sermon, by the Eeverend 
 George Gilfillan, entitled " Hades, or the Unseen,'' 
 made its appearance, and the Poet took fire at what 
 he considered severe criticism upon that production, 
 and published a pamphlet in reply, entitled " Hades, 
 
 desired to place some refreshments on the table, when Mr Scott 
 made some remarks on her beautifully fair hair; and he after- 
 wards mentioned to one in the establishment of his publishers, 
 that that, and her otherwise prepossessing and unassuming ap- 
 pearance suggested to him the title of his novel, "The Fair 
 Maid of Perth," — and added, tradition has it, that Catherine 
 Glover, though well favoured and of ruddy countenance, was not 
 fair, but possessed of coal black hair.
 
 or what has its Opponents proved?" in which, young 
 as he was, lie defended some of the sentiments con- 
 tained in the sermon, and opposed the ideas expressed 
 by the critics, with considerable ability, ingenuity, and 
 skill. Ere this, some of his earliest verses appeared 
 in a few of the periodicals with Avhicli the locality was 
 then teeming ; and they were generally well received, 
 which no doubt induced him to collect and publish 
 them in a small volume, consisting of eight hundred 
 copies, which were all subscribed for in a very short 
 time. Thus encouraged, he composed some additional 
 pieces, which appeared in subsequent additions, — and in 
 visiting the neighbouring towns, he was well patronised, 
 and the press reviewed the work very favourably. At 
 Brechin, Lord Panmure patronised it very handsomely ; 
 on going further north, several hundred copies Avere sold 
 — and the Earls of Airlie and Kintore became subscrib- 
 ers. Afterwards his progress in Perth and Fife was 
 very successful, and the Professors of St Andrews Col- 
 lege nearly all subscribed ; on visiting Edinburgh, Lords 
 Jeffrey and Eobertson, with several of the other Lords 
 of Session, and a number of the Professors were among 
 his patrons ; on going to Glasgow, two editions of the 
 work were called for, and the Earl of Eglinton became 
 its efficient patron. It may be here remarked, that dur- 
 ing the author's progress, as above stated, the ministers 
 of the Gospel of aU denominations subscribed for the 
 work in great numbers, and their kindly sentiments 
 often expressed towards him, appeared to have left a 
 deep feeling of gratitude on his inind. He now went to 
 a celebrated college in England where he studied with 
 success ; afterwards preached with acceptance ; delivered
 
 many orations on theology and other popular subjects, 
 among which was his lecture on Burns, and his feeling 
 letter on Dr Dick, the Christian Philosopher. He is 
 now in London, on the wide field of literature. His 
 oration on the Rev. George GilfiUan, his genius and 
 criticism ; likewise his letter on Sir John Franklin and 
 the Arctic Regions, with lectures and addresses to vari- 
 ous literary societies in and about the metropolis, form 
 part of his present efforts.
 
 THE FOLLOWING LETTER WAS 
 
 ADDEESSED TO THE AUTHOE BY THE 
 
 fate forb Icffrcjj. 
 
 24 Moray Place, 30th December 184G. 
 
 Dear Sir, — T have now read through your little vtil- 
 iime, and with very considerable satisfaction ; but have 
 scarcely anything to add to what I said to you personally 
 after I had perused but a part of it. The marked su- 
 periority of what I understand to be your later com- 
 positions, gives good reason to look for still greater 
 improvement in those you may produce in future ; you 
 are still young enough to contemplate great advances, 
 and become a pleasing versifioi', and express amiable 
 sentiments and domestic ailections in a natural and 
 touching way. 
 
 The thoughtful and tender parts arc decidedly tlie 
 best, and some of the songs are not without merit. 
 
 You ask my sincere opinion of your work, Tlie 
 expression of it is, the talent you possess, if rightly 
 estimated,may always afl'ord you an innocent and elegant 
 amusement, and obtain for you the notice and regard ot
 
 many who may he of use to you, and with these advan- 
 ta^es I trust you have sense enough to be satisfied . 
 In the meantime, believe me, with all good wishes, 
 Your faitliful and obedient servant, 
 
 F. JEFFEEY. 
 
 To Mr Peter Livingstone, Dundee. 
 
 The above letter was highly appreciated by the 
 author, as a valuable gift from that prince of critics 
 and highly gifted and great man.
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 OF 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE QUEEN 
 
 ON 
 
 SIR JOHI ERAIKLII 
 
 AXD THE 
 
 AECTIC EEGIONS. 
 
 May it please Your Majesty, 
 
 The theme upon which I take the liberty 
 to address you is invested with a deep and distressing 
 interest. Tliere are concerned in it the lives and deatli.s 
 of many individuals, the hopes and fears of many hearts. 
 Your Majesty will pardon me being somewhat miiuite — 
 I shall not be lengthy — as on this subject I address not 
 your Majesty alone, but also the public, in whom there- 
 exists an ardent desire to know all that can be known 
 on this important subject. It may be of importance 
 briefly to enquire into the causes that have led lo our 
 earnest exertions on the subject. Wherefore is it tluit 
 man has sacrificed life — left friends home and country? 
 Why has Government spent so much money ami been 
 so unwearied in its exertions to explore the uuknnwii
 
 14 
 
 regions of the North, where is nothing but eternal ice 
 and snow 1 This question is answered to a certain ex- 
 tent by our knowledge of maa's nature ; — it is man's 
 nature to enquire, to know, and to understand all that 
 is round and about him. j\Ian has got the earth for an 
 inheritance, and he wishes to understand it. We do not 
 like to live in a house without knowing its apartments^ 
 8uch is the cause, found in man's nature, of all his intre- 
 liidity and daring. It is this that has led man forth witli 
 lirave heart, to encounter all the dangers and difficulties 
 which he is sure to meet with in his journeys over flood 
 and field. It was this that led forth the great Columbus 
 to find out the new world of the west, and has made 
 him immortal for his enterprise and daring. This letl 
 forth the fearless Cook over the wide waste of waters 
 which covered our earth like a shroud, in the midst of 
 which he lighted on the Owyhee, where he fell a victim 
 to the fury of the natives of a country into wliich he 
 went, intending to bequeath the blessings of civilization. 
 This led Bruce to the mysterious Nile, and Park to the 
 undiscovered Niger, where he too, fell in the midst of 
 those desert regions which have well been called the 
 white man's grave. It was this desire to know that has 
 made man to ascend the everlasting hills, penetrate the 
 unknown deserts, and plant his foot on spots of the earth 
 where the foot of man had never been before. And this 
 desire it is, coupled with a love of gold (perhaps a com- 
 mendable love of gold), which had led forth our daring 
 mariners to explore these unknown regions of the north 
 where is nothing but everlasting ice and snow holding 
 sv.'ay in the dismal wilderness. 
 
 It was doubtless a love of gold, in conjunction with
 
 15 
 
 our thirst for knowledge, that has led to all our exer- 
 tions to discover a ISTorth-West Passage. The British 
 Isles are situated on the glohe so as to he far from many 
 commercial ports of great importance in the world. On 
 the west, we have the continents of Xortli and Soutli 
 America between ourselves and the western shores of 
 these continents. On the east, we have the continents 
 of Europe and Africa between us and China and Hin- 
 dostan. These facts were seen and known by our com- 
 mercial men, and their desire to find a speedy passage 
 to the western shores of America, and the golden land 
 of the east, found a ready response in the minds of our 
 navigators, in whom there existed a desire to know if 
 there was a way in the north by which tliey could sail 
 round the world. The propriety, however, of any exer- 
 tions on our part, and, indeed,>t any time, may witli 
 some show of reason be questioned. In a commercial 
 point of view, the passage, although discovered, could 
 never be rendered available for any practical or useful 
 purpose. In theselregions the ice closes in upon us 
 ■and thus seems to present> lasting barrier to man's 
 progress in that direction. 
 
 Thus, although the passage were at once discovered, 
 those who come after tlie original explorers must have 
 the same difficulties to encounter, tlie same natural im- 
 pediments in their way that the original explorers had 
 to contend with. Till the sun himself shall melt the 
 everlasting hills of snow, man may never be permitted 
 to approach these regions. Be this as it may, the ne- 
 cessity for further exertions on our part to discover a 
 North-West Passage is now done away with, from the 
 fact that the railway by the Isthmus of Panama and
 
 16 
 
 tlie Canal by Lake Nicaragua, as also the proi^osed 
 railway across the continent of Europe and direct from 
 England to India, will give us the desired end without 
 having to encounter any of those physical difficulties 
 which impede our progress in the Northern Seas.* 
 This, however, is incidental ; we have to deal with 
 
 * The passages to which I have referred will entirely do away 
 with the necessity, in a commercial point of view, for our j^rose- 
 cuting the discovery of a North-West Passage further. Those 
 by the Isthmus of Panama and Lake Nicaragua will open up a 
 floodgate of commercial prosperity to the world which we have 
 never known before ; they will bring within a short distance to 
 our shores the western coasts of North and South America ; 
 they will also open up a direct passage to the vast Pacific Ocean, 
 and to the many islands which stud that ocean, which are too 
 numerous for me to name or to number. The railway across 
 the continent of Europe from England to India is one of the 
 most gigantic ideas ever conceived by the mind of man. When 
 this railway is completed — which in the course of time it doubt- 
 less ^vill be — the golden land of the east will be brought within 
 a distance of seven days' journey from England. Thus do we 
 stand in the prospect of seeing realized a fact so great and so 
 gigantic that had it been told to our forefathers they must have 
 deemed it little else than an Arabian tale. Many parties tell us 
 that such a project can never be carried out. Doubtless, to the 
 minds of many it may seem an impossibility ; but there is more 
 in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in their philosophy. In 
 the vocabulary of some men there is no such word as Fail ; and 
 such men necessity will find to carry out this great undertaking. 
 Not only will a railway be laid down from England to the East, 
 but we may not err in prognosticating that an electric telegraph 
 will soon be laid down also. Then the ^lilgrim by the banks of 
 the river Indus, and the hero of Hindostan may converse with his 
 friends in fatherland ; then will tlie daring fancy of our immortal 
 Shakspeare be reduced to a vulgar reality, that of putting a girdle 
 round the earth in forty minutes.
 
 17 
 
 what has been done. The conclusions to which I have 
 referred being come to, expeditions have from time to 
 time been fitted out, only a passing allusion to several 
 of which I can give before coming to that of Sir John 
 Franklin; the voyages of Mackenzie, Davy, Beechy, 
 the Eosses, Back, Dease, Simpson, and others, may be 
 named as connected -with our present subject. Captain 
 Parry discovered many lands, bays, and large islands, 
 the principal of which he named. Captain Eoss dis- 
 covered the large island of Boothia, which is thinly 
 inhabited by Esquimaux. These various expeditions 
 and their successes led to the expedition under the 
 command of Sir John Franklin. That expedition left 
 this country in the month of May 1845 ; there were 
 composing it in all, two ships, the Erebus and Terror, 
 and 138 men ; they took with them provisions calcu- 
 lated, with economy, to last four years and a-half. Sir 
 John Franklin's instructions were to proceed up by 
 Davis' Straits to Baffin's Bay, so on the Lancaster 
 Sound, Barrow Straits, and thus by Cape Walker, then 
 to use his OAvn discretion. The expedition was last seen 
 in Baffiix's Bay bound on to an iceberg, waiting for a 
 passage through the ice. Traces of Sir John Frank- 
 lin's expedition have, however, since been found on 
 Beechy Island, which is situated at the entrance to 
 Wellington Channel. Here were found three graves 
 of men who had been buried, — there where the Avhite 
 sea foam shall lash them daily ; here also were found a 
 carpenter's shop, a forge, a post, and several other 
 sad memorials of the missing men. 
 
 This fact has led many to conclude — we think justly 
 — that Franklin must have penetrated in by Welling-
 
 18 
 
 ton Channel and Victoria Channel, which is a continua- 
 tion of the former, and so on to the north pole on the 
 earth. It seems very reasonable to come to this con- 
 clusion from the fact that it was Franklin's own impres- 
 sion that the most likely way to discover a North-west 
 Passage, if defeated in his course by Cape Walker, was 
 to proceed up Wellington Channel, and so on through 
 the Arctic Ocean if possible to Behring's Straits. 
 
 Such arc the simple facts connected with Franklin's 
 expedition into the Polar Seas, and the conclusions to 
 which we come regarding these facts lead us to believe 
 that he yet may be found in these regions, and may yet 
 return from them. 
 
 We find that it is now upwards of six years since lie 
 left this country, and he took with him provisions, cal- 
 culated with economy to last four years and a-half. 
 The question then presents itself to tlie mind, how can 
 Franklin and his companions have existed during the 
 year and a-half beyond which his provisions were cal- 
 culated to last 1 Tliis question is answered to a certain 
 extent, by our knowledge of the fact that in these regions 
 he may have been able to procure reindeer, white foxes, 
 seals, birds, arid indeed various other animals which 
 abound in these northern regions. This supposition is 
 strongly confirmed, if not reduced to a certainty, by 
 our knowledge, that in the regions to which we suppose 
 Sir John Franklin must have gone, namely, Wellington 
 Channel and Victoria Channel, have been seen many spe- 
 cimens of animal life, all of which could support Sir John 
 Franklin and liis brave companions. That which makes 
 us urge this view of the question with the more earnest- 
 ness is, if Sir John Franklin has penetrated through Vic-
 
 19 
 
 toria Channel, it is possible that he may now be in the 
 Polar Sea, where he knew full well it is not so cold, and 
 wliere animal life is mucli more plentiful than it is at 
 what is called the magnetic pole of the earth. That 
 Franklin did penetrate into Wellington. Channel and 
 Victoria Channel, we think there can be now no reason- 
 able doubt. 
 
 We have before remarked that it was Sir John 
 Franklin's intention to proceed by Wellington Channel 
 if defeated on his way by Cape^ Walker. This, coupled 
 with the fact that remains of the expedition have been 
 Ibund on and beyond to the north of Beechy Island, 
 seems to leave no reasonable doubt on the mind that he 
 must have penetrated up that Channel. Upon Beecliy 
 Island were found several sad and melancholy remains 
 of the missing men. Here Franklin wintered in 1845-46, 
 there also were found three graves — sublime in theh lone- 
 liness — of men belonging to the expedition who had died. 
 Here also were discovered a garden, a carpenter's simp, 
 a forge, a post, and several other sad remains of tin; 
 Northern Voyagers. Beechy Island is situated a little 
 to the north of Cape Hotham, and therefore seems to be 
 <i favourable starting point for Wellington Channel and 
 the Polar Sea. The facts then, coupled with Franklin's 
 wish before he left this country to proceed in that dhec- 
 tion, seem to warrant us in coming to the conclusion that 
 he did penetrate into the Polar Sea, and having done so, 
 we have more than one reason for believing that he may 
 be there stdl. 
 
 The objections brought against this conclusion do 
 not seem to carry with them much weight. Your ]\Ju- 
 jesty is aware that there has been going the round oi
 
 20 
 
 the press a story to tlie effect that Sir John Franklin 
 and his companions have long since been murdered by a 
 hostile tribe of Esquimaux. This melancholy tale is 
 given to the world upon the autliority of the veritable 
 Adam Beck, an Esquimaux, who, by virtue of the fact 
 that he can road and Avrite well, was at once initiated 
 into the solemnity of an oath and all the paraphernalia 
 of English justice. This absurd report has been charac- 
 terised by an able writer on the subject as a crude and 
 heartless tale. We can scarce doubt the propriety of 
 this conclusion. If such a report be true, did no one 
 see the murder but Adam Beck 1 If so, who were they 
 that saw it — are they living or are they dead ? Where 
 did it take place, and Avhcn did it take i)lace 1 Did Sir 
 John Franklin leave no vestige behind ? By whom was 
 he killed, and where was he buried 1 Let those questions 
 and questions like them, be answered, tiU we see if this 
 tale be true. But I shall no longer weary the patience 
 of your Majesty with further allusion to this idle story. 
 I look upon it as a mockery and an insult to the judg- 
 ment of the British people. We are also told that his 
 ammunition may not have lasted ; that tlie intense and 
 biting cold of these northern regions, so long continued, 
 may ere this time have destroyed him, or that he may 
 have sunlc a total Avreek within the raging sea. All 
 these conclusions to this whole matter are doubtless pos- 
 sible, and cause conflicting feelings to cross the mind 
 when Ave contemplate the flxte of these brave mariners. 
 Speculation regarding them seems to a certain extent 
 out on a shoreless sea. But so long as there remains 
 the bare jiossibility of their existence, to that possi- 
 bility it is right for us to cling in hope, even though
 
 21 
 
 that hope be so long deferred that it make the heart sick. 
 Tliis conclusion come to, then our duty in the matter 
 seems palpable and plain. That duty seems to me to be 
 to send out another expedition in search of the missing 
 men. Let that expedition be well fitted out ; let it also 
 be done speedily, so that in the spring time of the year 
 it may reach the Xorthern Seas. We have had several 
 reasons for coming to the conclusion that it is our duty 
 to send out further expeditions iii search of the missing 
 men. In the first place, Sir John Franklin and his brave 
 associates left their country, their friends and their home 
 in the service of the government of the country to vhicli , 
 they belong ; Sir John Franklin and his companions have 
 Ijeen tried and trusty friends of the state ; they had done 
 the State some service, and we know it, such being the 
 case, we conceive them to be fit and becoming objects of 
 the State's care and protection. As a matter of justice 
 alone it is our duty to do what we can for the safety of 
 the missing men. This is our duty on the ground of 
 justice alone, what shall we say when we come to tliose 
 of charity and mercy ? Shall we stand idly looking on % 
 Shall we live at home at ease % Shall we sit under our 
 own vine and fig tree while our brethren, brave in heart 
 ;ind strong in arm, may still be living in the dark aixl 
 dismal regions of the North, bound l)y internal \cv. and 
 snow. 
 
 Your Majesty, let it not be said that England can be 
 guilty of this crime ; let not the sin of ingratitude be laid 
 to our charge. I have before given proofs of the means 
 by which it is possible our countrymen may still be in 
 existence. I spoke of the provisions, of the means of liv- 
 ing they might get in the Korth, reindeer, foxes, seals,
 
 22 
 
 birds, or indeed many other animals. I also referred to- 
 the fact that the climate towards the pole of the earth is 
 more congenial than it is towards the magnetic. All 
 these things, I repeat, taken into consideration, give iis 
 proof that hope should not yet be dead within us ; so long 
 as there exists a single chance of their safety we are 
 bound to try to save them ; thus our duty seems palpabh' 
 and plain. "We may rest upon our oars perhaps in sad- 
 ness and in sorrow, till the dark days of winter have 
 passed away, then when the spring time shall have come 
 upon us, when the sun shall gild again the hills of 
 everlasting snow, then let us heart and hand send out 
 further help and aid to our countrymen, so that if still 
 in existence, they may be saved from a watery grave. 
 
 It is true that our eiforts may not be crowned with 
 success, we may search and seek for that which we 
 cannot find ; so let it be, if Providence will have it so 
 we cannot change it, but our duty done, we have gained 
 for ourselves that self-satisfaction and peace which pass- 
 eth all understanding. If our daring mariners are in 
 the deep, we can only say it was the will of God, and 
 may not be gi'ieved nor mourned over. 
 
 If they are dead, they have fallen blessed martyrs, 
 after life's fitful fever they sleep well, with the sea for 
 an everlasting mourner. But for the sake of the living 
 if not for the dead, by the blighted hopes and bleeding 
 hearts of the mournful survivors ; by the widow's tears 
 the orphan's cries, and the mother's crucified affections ; 
 by the honour of that great nation of which you are 
 the head, do I call upon your Majesty, respectfully but 
 earnestly, to use your royal j^rerogative and send out 
 another expedition in search of the IN'orthern explorers,
 
 23 
 
 so that our minds may be set at rest and kept no longer 
 on the rack, but that we may know the "best or worst 
 of this perplexing business. As we would, in conclusion, 
 humbly suggest to your Majesty the propriety that if it 
 is to be done, it were well that it were done quickly ; 
 there is no time to be lost, for every day may bring 
 with it death. So long as a lingering hope remains 
 behind — so long as there is a shadow of belief that our 
 countrymen may still be in life— it is our duty to try 
 to save them.* Our duty done, we may safely leave 
 the rest with that Providence, who, in His mercy ever 
 tempers the wiud to the shorn lamb. 
 
 I have the honour to be. 
 
 Your Majesty's 
 
 Most humble obedient Servant, 
 
 PETER LIVINGSTOX. 
 
 * Farther traces of the missing expedition have been found ; 
 ships are being again sent out by the Government, under the 
 command of Sir Edward Belcher, and Dr Kae, overland, in 
 search of Sir John Franklin and his companions.
 
 LECTURE Olf ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Robert Burns — Scotland's best and greatest poet — 
 was born on the 25tli of January 1759, in a small cot- 
 tage about two miles from the town of Ayr. He was 
 ushered into this world amid storm and darkness. Part 
 of the house in which he was born, just as he saw 
 the light, was blown in by the tempest ; the new made 
 mother, with her baby-boy, sought and received shelter 
 from a neighbour. His father, WiUiam Burns, had been 
 a farmer ; but worldly adversity compelled him to be- 
 take himself to the field as a labourer. Eobert at the 
 age of six Avas sent to school, where, under Mr John 
 Murdoch, a man of whom the poet makes honourable 
 mention, he remained two years. Here he acquired 
 reading, grammar, and some knowledge of the French 
 language. Beyond this, he had not much of what is 
 called school education ; but, as we shall hereafter see, 
 he was " quick to learn, and wise to know." 
 
 He was at an early age somewhat fortunate in the 
 books he read, having a few of Shakspeare's plays, 
 Locke on the Understanding, Eamsay's Poems, along 
 with other books of value. 
 
 It was between the fifteenth and sixteenth years of 
 his age that Burns first wrote poetry. Love was the 
 mother of his muse. He was early blest with what was 
 early blighted — his love for Highland Mary. This was a 
 sacred affection, almost too pure for earth. She died ; 
 alas, too early — died as all the good die, loving, hoping.
 
 Burns, when a young man, engaged in partnership 
 •with a flaxdresser ; but in a hapless hour, the premises 
 took fire, and left the poet pennyless. He now took the 
 form of Mossgiel, in conjunction with his brother Gil- 
 bert, a man of sound understanding. Here Burns fii'st 
 met Jean Armour, afterwards his wife, and their first 
 intimacy ended in misfortune. Our poet now looked to 
 a foreign land for that peace and prosperity which his 
 own denied him. He resolved to go to Jamaica — and 
 published his poems to provide him with the necessaries 
 for the voyage. These wild irregular utterings came upon 
 the world to make it wonder and admire. He was at 
 once exalted from the condition of a ploughmen to that 
 of the first poet of his country. He changed his plans ; 
 was advised to go to Edinburgh, — did so, as we shall 
 hereafter see, to his sorrow. He became a lion among 
 the literary men of the great city. The Ayrshire Plougli- 
 man sat at tlie tables of the nobility — draidi wine — they 
 taught him to drink deep ere he departed — he here car- 
 ried a Duchess off her feet with the brilliancy of his con- 
 versation — fell in love with the charming Clarinda — and 
 indidged too often in wild potations. This could not 
 last long ; he sought peace and something permanent. 
 He left the gay city and took the farm of Ellisland ; 
 spent too much time in preparing for his wife ; and the 
 habits he had contracted in Edinburgh someliiiios 
 assailed him. He was now appointed to tlie excise. A 
 ludicrous mistake. Burns was seen sounding the. depth 
 of whisky casks when he should have been holding the 
 plough. This man's days and pleasures on earth were 
 brief but not delightful. The earthly tabernacle gave way 
 under the fiery spirit. His body was racked with pain ; 
 there was malady in his soul. He tried all things ; all
 
 26 
 
 would not do. Death was upon him. The strong man 
 was bowed down — tlie daughters of music were brought 
 low — desire had failed, and all was darkness. In the 
 thu-ty-eighth year of his age this great man, after severe 
 bodily and mental suifering, yielded up his spirit into 
 the hands of him who gave it. 
 
 Such is a brief account of the career of Eobert Burns. 
 Gentlemen, this man's life was a tragedy in one act. 
 Like all other great tragedies there was much glory, 
 much sublimity, much beauty, and much truth in it. 
 There were besides, interspersed throughout, a few comic 
 scenes, and good. Burns when a young man, was a 
 liappy man ; and during the whole of his life he had 
 seasons of exalted, yea, delirious joy. This we are glad 
 to know and say ; but taking it all in all, it were diffi- 
 cult to point out a story of more woe than that of 
 Robert Burns. 
 
 Born amid poverty, this were nothing — bred to the 
 plough, Avould he had never left it — touched by the em- 
 pyrean fire of genius,honourable ambition seized his soul; 
 it was first fed, then foully abused ; he was exalted to a 
 giddy height of glory, placed at length upon a pinnacle 
 of fame, from which he did not fall, but which fell under 
 him ; and when he did come down he fell like Lucifer, 
 but so far as the world is concerned, never to rise again. 
 
 Gentlemen, I do not mourn over the life of Burns as 
 many do. I do not mourn over it for the world's sake ; 
 but I mourn over it for his own. Even then we need 
 not become very pathetic. What was the Avorld to him ? 
 He seems to have been born not so much to live as to 
 fly across life " like a tierce comet of tremendous size, 
 bidding the nations wonder as he passed." 
 
 Many poi^^t to him, and say, " you see what he was,
 
 Avhat might he have been T We venture into no such 
 dangerous speculations. We are thankful for him as he 
 was ; and as for the world, why he was more to the world 
 than the world was to him. 
 
 It is my impression that the most unfortunate, not to 
 say the most fatal step in the life of Burns, was his visit 
 to Edinburgh. 
 
 I know that at the time this step was necessary ; we 
 nevertheless regret the effects which flowed from it. 
 Burns went among the great follcs there as a world's 
 Avonder. They kept him such during his stay. He left 
 them and was forgotten by them. It was a natural re- 
 sult. He said he knew it would be so. He said he 
 would bear it like a man. Doubtless he thought In' 
 would and could do so. It turned out to be easier to 
 say this than to do it. He was forgotten but coidd not 
 ill his turn forget. When the trumpet of fiime ceased 
 to sound at his coming, the remembrance of what ho 
 once was rose up before him, to heat his very brains, to 
 crucify his soul, and to send him or to do much to send 
 him to an untimely grave. Edinburgh did more ill 
 to Burns than all this. It did not rob him of his inde- 
 pendence—this was past the power of man ; but it rob- 
 bed him to a great extent of his self-dependence, which 
 was a gigantic evil. He Avas a great ])oet, and as such 
 could little brook the idea of again becoming a plough- 
 man. I blame no one for this ; I pity all concerned, 
 and speak for the future. In this matter the world 
 has yet to learn a lesson. We must not neglect genius ; 
 but we must not abuse it ; we must not kill it with kind- 
 ness. We must not deprive it of purpose and aim in 
 life. We must teach it that it has to work and live in 
 tliis world, as well as to tell the world trutlis. Burns
 
 28 
 
 was treated in mucli the same way as a few well-meaning 
 ]nen lately treated "William Tliom. They took him to 
 London; gave him dinners; drove him abont in carriages; 
 took him through the great city to see and be seen — he 
 left them at last, and died a beggar — broken hearted. 
 
 Far better would we treat genius were we to put a 
 spade in its hand, and say " Go now and till the soil ; 
 bring forth good fruit — feel great truths and tell them — 
 be a blessing to thyself and mankind; shew to the world 
 tliat you are a God-sent man." 
 
 Thus do we leave the life of Burns ; we come now to 
 his character. The tongue of slander slaked over it 
 too ; the venom of vile thought has been busy with this 
 man's memory. Far be it from me to say he was in- 
 fallible. We are not blind to his errors. We think he 
 sinned not a little, and suffered much. But we are 
 strong in the belief that we shall be able to repel many 
 of the charges that have been brought against him. We 
 humbly think that we shall be able to prove that since 
 his death he has been more sinned against than he ever 
 sinned, by men to whom (as it has been well said) he 
 was as superior in virtue as he was in genius. 
 
 First of all, he has been called an uneducated man. 
 Secondly, he has been called an irreligious man. 
 Thirdly, he has been called an immoral man. 
 
 I shall notice these charges in the order in which 
 they are here set down. First of all, he has been called 
 an uneducated man. This charge is true only to a certain 
 extent. He had not what is called a classical education. 
 He did not know Hebrew, he did not know Greek, He 
 did not read so many books as we in this age of wondrous 
 wisdom are supposed to read, but therein he was wise, 
 and it was well. If he did not read so much as we do,
 
 29 
 
 perhaps he thouglit more. He was not an educated man 
 in the high sense of the term, but he cannot with truth 
 he called an unlearned man ; he read his Bible, he read 
 Milton, he read Shakspeare ; and who will tell me that 
 the man who reads and understands these books as Burns 
 did, can remain uneducated 1 But above and beyond all 
 this, Burns Avas learned, deeply learned, in the mysteries 
 of the human soul — he was a philosopher by inspiration. 
 But farther still, Burns was taught, and taught pro- 
 foundly too, by the book of nature, which was liis 
 favourite book ; he gazed upon the stars, which were to 
 him then what they are tons now — the poetry of heaven; 
 the wind when it blew high, rocking castles, telling tlu' 
 wa'etch to tremble, and letting the world know that the 
 Lord was abroad,was to him a source of deep inspiration. 
 The trees bending beneath the blast, as if in adoration 
 of their God, taught him a lesson of devotion. I'he 
 morning star as it lingered between daylight and dark- 
 ness, wafted his soul to heaven as it died away. He saw 
 the moonbeams .sleeping in the waters, and said it 
 was no purer than the love of a true woman's soul. A 
 summer cloud floating in the blue heaven, like the last 
 vestige of the breath of God, coidd not pass over him 
 without his special wonder. Spring with her beauty — 
 Autumn with her bounty— Summer with her golden sun- 
 shine—and Winter Avith her sheet of snoAV — to him were 
 teachers all. The flowers of earth were dear to him — 
 the rosebud blushing in the morning dew — the lily pale 
 as the cheek of a dying child— the daisy, modest as the 
 blush of a young maiden — he loved them all. The bird.';, 
 too, earth's sweetest choristers, were his doliglit. The 
 lark's loud song at heaven's gate — the cuckoo, welcome 
 with the spring— the robin's sweet domestic chirp— the
 
 30 
 
 lapwing, lamenting the loss of her love — all, all, were 
 very dear to him, I^ature in all her phases Avas to him 
 an exceeding joy. The solitary cottage on the desert 
 moor, with its reek curling to the clouds — the lonely cairn 
 on the mountain side touched his soul with reverence for 
 the glory of the past. The shepherd in the grey plaid 
 under his old oak tree — the mdkmaid's song — the loud 
 laugh of playful children — cattle grazing in the field — 
 sheep at the fell — all were very dear to him. His hook, 
 we say, was the hook of nature, and by it he was taught 
 profoundly. We but shew our want of education when 
 we say Burns was an imeducated man. 
 
 It has also been said that Burns was an irreligious 
 man. I do not believe it, but I deny it. This slander 
 was first sent abroad by those among whom Bimis min- 
 gled, and it was sent abroad because he differed in opinion 
 from the time in Avhich he lived, and the men among 
 whom he mingled ; but to call him u'religious because he 
 did this is to take him up before he was fallen. For a 
 man to differ from the religion of his time is, I maintain, 
 no proof that that man is irreligious. After this fashion 
 Socrates was u'religious. According to the fashion which 
 they call heresy, Paul worshipped the God of his fathers. 
 Becaiise Burns after this fashion diftered from his fellow- 
 men he has been called irreligious. We stay not here 
 to inquu-e Avhat was the religious belief of the times in 
 which Burns lived ; our business now simply is, to prove 
 that Burns was no irreligious man. To that do we now 
 address ourselves. Let us first of all take a broad view 
 of the man. Burns believed in God. He believed in 
 Christ, and loved and admired the beauty of his charac- 
 ter. He believed in immortality, and while here longed 
 much for another and a better world. If these state-
 
 31 
 
 ments be true, we think it would be bard to prove tbat 
 the man who held such opmions could be irrehgious. 
 But above and beyond all this, we believe that Burns 
 was not an irreligious man, because of tlie general tenor 
 of his writings. As proof of this, witness his many- 
 letters in which he speaks of religion. Witness also his 
 many poems wherein he refers to the subject. His 
 " Cottar's Saturday Night," a strain which, without 
 profanity be it spoken, angels might admire. I would 
 direct attention to several written to Mrs Dunlop, and 
 one to his friend Cunningham. His " Address to Mary 
 in heaven," wherein " he holds communion with tlie 
 sainted spirit of his first affection, each word sealed with 
 a tear and a sigh, the purest that ever tiowed on eartli 
 and the sincerest that was ever uplifted to heaven." 
 Above all, remember his own declaration that an in-eligi- 
 ous poet was a monster. This we conceive to be perfect- 
 ly true, but we go beyond it, we say that an irreligious 
 poet was not only a monster, but an irreligious poet is 
 an impossibility. There can be no such thing — no such 
 being ever Avalked God's earth. Shelley said there was 
 no God, but he did not believe it. Byron, for all his 
 waywardness, said what we believe to be true, tliat he 
 was readier to die than the world supposed him to be. 
 So was it with Burns. We look in vain in tlie world 
 for an irreligious poet. What is a poet ? lie is the 
 very man above all others who cannot be irreligious ; 
 he is a being who feels great truths and tells them ; 
 whose soul is attuned to the harmonies of nature. He 
 cannot, even if he would, turn against the giver of his 
 gift ; he must be true to his mission, true to God — such 
 was Burns. Both in word and deed scorning and giving 
 the lie to much of the world's morality, and also its re-
 
 32 
 
 ligion ; lie was, nevertheless, not an irreligious man. His 
 soul was deeply imbued with the spirit of nature, open to 
 the grace of God. He reverenced all that was divine 
 and holy, and admired Avith a devout admiration, beauty, 
 and truth. 
 
 Barns has been called an immoral man. In answer- 
 ing this charge we must take a broad view of the man 
 and a liberal view of human nature. ^lan is a com- 
 bination, shall I not say, of good and evil ; he has a 
 body which is of the earth, earthy — a soul which is of 
 heaven, heavenly ; he is a compound of sense and soul 
 — the quintessence of dust and deity, he has two natures 
 what the Scriptures expressively call the carnal and 
 the spiritual — the one leads to what we call good, the 
 other to what we call evil. To take this view of human 
 nature is, I think, the best, perhaps the only way in 
 which we can account for the actions of our great men ; 
 while at the same time it leads us to have but little sym- 
 pathy for the erring philosophy which has been pro- 
 pounded by the living sitting in stupid wonder over the 
 sepulchres of the dead, bespattering the departed spirits 
 of the mighty great witli condemnation — making them 
 out to be demons only. Equally vain is that philosophy 
 which in opposition to this has made out our great men 
 to be angels. The truth is wholly with neither of these 
 parties ; — those among men who have had the hoof of 
 the fiend have also had the tongue of an angel. Giant 
 sons of God, great in good and great in evil, but ever 
 great ; now gi-ovelling in earth, now aspiring to heaven. 
 Thus do we account for the lewdness of Voltaire, the 
 vulgarity of Paine, the misanthropy of Byron, the 
 atheism of Shelley, the debauchery of Burns, the am- 
 bition of Bonaparte.
 
 33 
 
 Looking then, at human nature in this light, we can- 
 not and do not deny that Burns had strong passions ; 
 sometimes they laid him low, and stained his name. 
 But because of this, for his fellowmen to bring against 
 him the general charge of immorality, is to sin against 
 the living and slander the dead. If Burns had the vices 
 of mankind he also had their virtues — if he sinned he 
 suffered ; and we hope that he was made pure through 
 suffering. He was a dutiful son, a loving husband, an 
 affectionate father — what more can mortal be ? These 
 general charges, damning to the memory of men, are 
 brought against Burns, and such as he, by men who 
 have neither his power to do good, nor his power to do 
 evil; by men whose chief delight it is eternally to rake 
 up the ashes of the dead, and rail on the Lord's anointed. 
 Thus do we hurl back those strictures, and forever con- 
 sign them to the "tomb of all the capulets," that from 
 it there may be no after resurrection. 
 
 "We come now to the writings of Burns, before which, 
 however, we have one other charge to refer to, one other 
 murmur to chastise and rebuke. He has been accused 
 of writing no long poem. JSTow Avhen wiU this (as it 
 would seem everlasting) murmuring cease ? Had tlic 
 man not liberty to write what he pleased ? Who has a 
 right to accuse him for what he has not done 1 Bums 
 was, like all the tridy gi-eat, too great for writing books. 
 The truly great among men write no books— they have 
 too much faith for this ; they do with their thoughts 
 what we are told to do witli our In-ead — cast them on 
 the waters, believing that, after many days, they will 
 find them safe. Socrates wrote no books— he just uttered 
 his thoughts, and once uttered they were for ever immor-
 
 34 
 
 tal. So it was with oiu* own Shakspeare ; lie while liv- 
 ing wrote no books — he ^vrote a few irregular poems, 
 which modern admiration and art hath collected into a 
 book ; but the thoughts expressed of such men live long 
 after books have crumbled into the dust from whence 
 they came. 
 
 So it was with Burns, he wrote no long book ; he 
 could not be forever inspired. The wind bloweth where 
 it listeth — he wrote when the spirit moved him. He 
 Avrote no great epic, but his poems when collected to- 
 gether may be said to be one great and glorious lyric ; 
 abrupt, irregiUar, lofty, sublime, soft and tender, ravish- 
 ing the soul. He was great " either for tragedy, comedy, 
 history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, pastoral-historical, 
 tragical-historical, tragical-comical, historical-pastoral, — 
 scene individual, or poem unlimited." Now moving you 
 to tears, now convulsiag you with laughter ; now lifting 
 you to heaven on the wings of the wind ; anon chaining 
 you with love's willing fetters, as he mourns the loss of 
 his Mary. ]N'ow singing a song to rouse up the patriotic 
 love of a people against oppression. Now inditing his 
 verses to the mouse, wherein he shows us that the hum- 
 blest thing in God's creation is the earth-born companion 
 and fellow-mortal of man. 
 
 In his Cottar's Saturday Niglit he has lit the lamp of 
 love, and poured a gleam of glory round the family altar. 
 In his Man was made to Mourn he has given us a gloomy 
 view of Man, and told us some truths Avhich the world 
 Avill not willingly let die. In his Tarn o' Shanter he 
 draws a picture of pleasure, and sums up the whole in 
 words not soon to be forgotten. In his epistle to a 
 Young Friend, he has shov\Ti that he was both poet and 
 philosopher. In his Address to the De'il he gi^-es us a
 
 35 
 
 proof of tlie cliarity that was in his soul, for he tells us 
 that even he may have a stake in heaven. In his song 
 of a Man's a Man for a' that, he sliows us that a true, 
 soul can heat under a tattered garment as well as 
 heneath a Roman toga. 
 
 It was the mission of Burns to hind man to man — to 
 teach us love and kindness — to soothe the sorrows — to 
 sing the joys — to lighten the lahour of the poor — to vin- 
 dicate the dignityof the mind — to speak trumpet-tongued 
 against oppression — and make us in love with liherty — 
 to teU the world great truths which the Avorld must one 
 day helieve. All this he has done, and in doing this he 
 made life more delightful by the rich feast of poetry and 
 music which he hath provided for his fellow-men. 
 
 Burns was a remarkable writer in prose as Avell as 
 poetry, though his poetry has eclipsed his prose. Like 
 Milton, he has been remembered chiefly hitherto as a 
 poet. Still the letters of Burns are remarkable produc- 
 tions. I grant that in them we behold him too often on 
 stilts. But all things considered, we cannot but wonder 
 that in his letters there is so much that is noble, good, 
 and true. Had it been a peer instead of a ploughman 
 that wrote them, and had he, the peer, died young, men 
 would have said that he was a wild and wondrous genius 
 and but wanted years to amaze maid'ciud. I know few 
 books of the same dimensions from which so many beau- 
 ties could be culled as from the letters of Burns. 
 
 " The poetic genius of my country found me, as the 
 prophetic bard Elijah did Elisha, at the plough, and 
 threw her inspiring mantle over me." Such is the lan- 
 guage of the poet. We do not wonder at the fact, we 
 only name it. Heaven and earth are full of poetry, and 
 nature, when she wished a voice wherewith to speak, liad
 
 3G 
 
 as good a right to chose her man from the plough as 
 from the professor's desk. Ferguson the astronomer was 
 a shepherd boy ; Bloomfield the poet was a shoemaker ; 
 Bu.ms was hred to the plough. God is with his child- 
 ren everywhere to bless them and to do them good. 
 
 Such was Burns, such is the legacy he has left to man. 
 His place as a poet we do not and cannot fix ; but he 
 has well been called one of the brightest stars shining 
 round the sun — Shakspeare. 
 
 Thus let him be — thus let him shine. So long as the 
 thistle bends to the blast — so long as the heather grows 
 in the sun, and gilds the mountain top — so long as honest 
 men and bonnie lasses people the town of Ayr — so long 
 as birds sing from the bush and flowers are beautiful — so 
 long as grass waves green on the banks o' bonnie Doune — 
 so long as man loves woman, and woman trusts to man — 
 so long shall Burns be remembered. I bid farewell to 
 his memory with gratitude and joy. I rejoice at the 
 opportunity I now have had of strewing this frail gar- 
 land of love and admiiatiou on his glorious grave.
 
 GEORGE GILFILLAN, 
 
 AND HLS AVPJTIXGS. 
 
 (Ieorge Gilfillan is a remarkable man. He is the 
 critic of the present age, as Bjron was the poet thereof 
 some years ago. Gilfillan the critic, like Byron the poet 
 has not had to climb up the hill of fame ; but from tlie 
 natural height on which he found himself exalted, he has 
 lighted down upon its top,whereon he now sits enthroned 
 in the garb of immortality. The critic, like the poet, 
 has by one giant stride outstripped all his contemporar- 
 ies. What it took them years of labour to accomplish, 
 lie has by one great effort achieved. Gilfillan as a critic 
 has the power and eloquence of ]\Iacaulay ; the sparkling 
 brilliancy of Jeffrey ; the wildness if not the wit of Sidney 
 Smith ; is just and unerring in his judgment as Ilazlitt. 
 Above and beyond this, he has an eloquence belonging 
 to himself, peculiarly his own. He has, among other 
 things, written a book, called " A Gallery of Literary 
 Portraits," which has given him, who six years ago was 
 not known, a fame which if not as yet European, is at 
 least British and American. Gilfillan is a painter, and 
 has drawn the mental characteristics of the most emi- 
 nent literary men of the present and past generations. 
 
 Jeffrey — alas ! we can no longer say as Byron said, 
 health to him ; but we can at least, and do say, peace to 
 the memory of the great immortal; Christopher North 
 ainong the mountains ; Chalmers, fit follower oi' llic
 
 38 
 
 Apostle Paul ; Emersou, the transcendentalist, deeply 
 embued witli the spirit of nature ; Wordsworth, king of 
 rocky Skiddaw, now no more (the stars are falling from 
 lis, the firmament is all but left in darkness ! Even the 
 harp of Erin is broken among the mountains, it is now 
 for ever silent, and no longer vibrates to the passing 
 breeze); Carljde, the thinker deep and strong ; Byron a 
 weed thrown upon the water ; Shelley, the enthusiast ; 
 Coleridge, the dreamer ; and many more are treated of 
 in this delightful book. 
 
 Gilfillan is not only a clever man, but he is a man of 
 the highest talents, of the most exalted genius. This 
 gift from God, genius, quivers on his tremidous lips, 
 extends his keen nostril, and flashes in his fiery eye. 
 His intellect is piercing ; what other men see as through 
 a glass darkly, is, to his keen vision as the bright and 
 broad noon day. He is guided not by the light of clever- 
 ness or talent only, but of genius ; and thus gifted, he 
 leaps as if by instinct, to a conclusion regarding the men- 
 tal qualities of an author, in a way which almost invari- 
 ably insures success and certainty. In his analysis of an 
 author, Gilfillan takes hold of him frankly and freely ; he 
 looks at him from top to toe, turns him roimd about and 
 round about, lifts him up and down, and scrutinizes him 
 in every possible way. He surveys liim from all points 
 and is monarch of all he surveys. Thus the very shades 
 of his author's meanmg are caught, every phase of his 
 mind are laid hold of, and put down palpably upon the 
 printed page. It is an eloquent and glowing book, full 
 at once of love, benevolence, and stern truth. It awakes 
 the finest feelings of the soul ; while you read it your 
 blood runs cold and warm at once. In a language which 
 is now withered and now wild in its attire, the author
 
 39 
 
 does mucli to make us love with a still fonder affection 
 the truly great — nature's nobles, those who have left be- 
 hind them a legacy for the good of man. "We are trans- 
 ported with the author, wander where he will ; and 
 where has he not wandered 1 He is a divine with Irving, 
 an historian with Macaulay, an astronomer with Nichol, 
 and a poet with Keats. When he reviews " Chahners' 
 Astronomical Sermons," you fancy yourself seated on a 
 golden cloud and feel in a fit humour for Festus to be 
 by your side. In his notice of " Carlyle's French Re- 
 volution," he hurries you through that scene of blood, 
 and makes you for the time being, sup full of horrors. 
 He has elevated many of his heroes to heaven, and is 
 wonderfully eloquent when speaking of death. "When 
 he relates the sad fate of Shelley, who perished in the 
 waters, the soul is moved with thoughts that are too deep 
 for tears. In his article on "Wordsworth, how beauti- 
 fully he shows that the mission of the true poet is high 
 and holy, God-like and great. He, too, has exalted the 
 lowly, lifted up the fallen ; and one must ever regret 
 that Keats had not Gilfillan instead of Giffbrd for his 
 reviewer. He has in a few instances dragged from ob- 
 scurity men who, but for him, might long have blushed 
 unseen. It may be uulike the law of nature, nevertheless 
 so it is — the stars are made brilliant in the glory and 
 light of the sun. Embalmed in his eloquence, they now 
 bid fair for immortality ; they shall now be known and 
 remembered so long as truth and beauty are loved among 
 men. With aU his benevolence and kindness, which we 
 so much admire, he is always truthful and stern, some- 
 times sarcastic and severe. One tiling that will strike tho 
 reader of Gilfillan, is his wonderful power of concentra- 
 tion, giving us much tliought in a few words. Thus wo
 
 40 
 
 have a history of tlie literature of America in a few pages; 
 and taking it as a whole, we cannot doubt its correctness. 
 We have also an account of the various kinds of preach- 
 ing graphically given in a page or two. We lately read 
 to a learned German friend a single passage from this 
 book, that in reference to the leading German writers, in 
 the review of Carlyle ; our friend was astonished, and 
 said that although he had read ere now volumes on the 
 same authors, he had not before so succinct and clear an 
 idea of their various merits. The book before us is cal- 
 culated to cultivate the affections, to elevate the soul, 
 to lift it from the grovelling things of earth to the better 
 things of heaven. It does much to bind us in a bond 
 of eternal union to the mighty living and the mighty 
 dead ; and more than all does it bind us in a love which 
 language is poor to express — to God, from whom the 
 gifted among men receive their power and greatness. 
 
 About Gilfillan's style we know not what to say. He 
 is master of all kinds' of style, and in his book are all 
 kinds. The plain, the neat, the elegant, the florid, are 
 familiar to him. He can turn a period with his pen as 
 easy as a sugar plum in his mouth. He does not think 
 much if at all of style ; he is out of his " Blair's Ehe- 
 toric" long ago. As a general rule, however, there is 
 about his style a reckless revelry, a wild savagery, pro- 
 found, and deep, and strong. There is, moreover, the 
 glow of poetry ever hanging over it, which renders it 
 mellow and beautiful — pleasing to the soul. 
 
 Gilfillan has faults, he is too great to be perfect. He 
 quotes by far too many pretty bits from the poets, which 
 along with other beauties make his pages run over with 
 sweets.
 
 41 
 
 Besides the volume to wliicli we have referred, our 
 author has published several other things, all of them 
 more or less characl^eristic. Sermons and lectures have 
 at intervals come from his pen. He also writes, among 
 other things, in " Hogg's Instructor," a series of papers 
 called a " Bundle of Books." In one of those he lately 
 smote our humble selves in a way which, though 
 ticklish at the time, we now thank liim for, and hope 
 it improved us.'"^ 
 
 Mr Gillillan has also just published a second " Gallery 
 of Literary Portraits," a work somewhat like the first. 
 To it in the meantime we cannot particularly refer. He 
 says it is written in a tone more subdued than his for- 
 
 * The late respected anil favourite Provost Bvirness of Montrose, 
 when showing the writer of this note sevei-al relics of his cousin 
 the poet, pointed out the letter sent by Eobert on the death of his 
 father, in whicli were the words, " I have lost one of the best of 
 fathers." On finishing the sentence, Burns' tears had evidently 
 begun to flow, for their indentation was visible on tlie paper 
 below the line ; the sight of which led to some conversation on 
 the sensitiveness of authors. The Provost remarked, " I can give 
 an instance of this in Robert's own case. When Will NicoU and 
 the poet were returning from their northern tour, my father and 
 myself went out as far as Mary kirk to meet them ; among the first 
 words Eobert said, after kindly embracing us, was, ' I have been at 
 our paternal farm in the Mearns, and showed our old cousin some 
 things I have wi-ote by the way, which I mean to publish, — but 
 the farmer streekit himself up, gave a knap with his stick on tlie 
 floor, and said, fie, fie, man, are you gaen to aflfront your respectable 
 friends, by printing godless nonsence ; na, na, gie me them, and 
 I'll put them in the fire.' The incident was again alluded to \vith 
 evident chagrin, before the poet left Montrose — and his old cousin 
 was no great favourite with Robert as long as he lived." [This 
 note is inserted with the view to shew the extreme sensibility of 
 niost authors.]
 
 42 
 
 mer book. For some reasons we like this, for others we 
 do not. Gilfillan should take care how he subdues him- 
 self. For ourselves we are willing to tolerate a good 
 deal of extravagance when we have his fire and truth. 
 He will understand us when we say that the lion want- 
 ing his mane is no longer the king of the forest. The 
 sun in a mist is no such glorious thing as when he goes 
 through the heavens with his locks of golden fire. 
 
 Our author is also about to publish a work on the 
 "Hebrew Bards." "We do not, as a Avretched critic 
 lately said in the Athenceum — a journal which is day by 
 day sinking in the estimation of honest men — a journal 
 which, unless it changes its course, will sink and sink 
 speedily till it can sink no more — a journal which of late 
 has been as remarkable for its false philosophy, as for its 
 bad grammar ; for a recent specimen of both of which 
 witness its review of the noble genius David Scott — a 
 journal notorious for its vile and heartless attacks on the 
 three men of the present generation, the trinity of talent 
 — Carlyle, Gilfillan, and Emerson, to whom no parallel, 
 not the most distant comparison, can in those days of 
 ours be found. We do not, like this journal, look forward 
 to the appearance of Gilfillan's book with " awe and ap- 
 prehension ; " but we look forward to its coming with im- 
 patient expectation, hopes and joy. We fancy that here 
 Gilfillan will rise to the height of his great argument 
 and soar away into regions which even he has never 
 reached before.* Indeed, Gilfillan hasnot done yet nearly 
 
 * Since the above was written, " The Bards of the Bible" has 
 appeared ; we hesitate not to pronounce it one of the most 
 sublime creations of genius that was ever laid at the feet of Him 
 who bore the cross — the production and fruit of undying inspira- 
 tion.
 
 43 
 
 all that he can do ; the world has reason to expect gi-eat 
 things from him in time to come ; he has hitherto been 
 to a certain extent by the high- ways and by-ways of the 
 world, a gatherer of weeds and wild flowers that grow 
 rank upon the mountain side, many of which, wanting 
 his fostering aid, woidd have wasted their sweetness in 
 the desert air. We have hope that he will one day give 
 us a full length portrait of Jesus ; his picture of a pro- 
 phet, in the notice of Shelley, shews his ability for the 
 task. We know no pen of the present age more fit for 
 the theme than Gilfillan's. We can fancy how great 
 would be his picture of Christ — he who was God among 
 men. Deep into time, and through the dim vista of far 
 distant years he had an eye to pierce — he soimded the 
 depths of eternity — he lived in the future and livetli 
 now. The mantle of the Everlasting fell upon him 
 while he slept in a manger ; and he rose from the river 
 Jordan embalmed in the spirit of God. 
 
 We must now say a word respecting the personal 
 history and personal appearance of our author. He was 
 born at Connie in Perthshire, where we have lieard him 
 say that his cradle was rocked by the earthquake. There 
 is poetry in everything he says. He studied at Glasgow 
 University for the ministry. At College he was a great 
 devourer of books, the fruits of which arc now seen in 
 " his writings. He panted not for college honours, the 
 greatest honour to him evidently being to get enshrined 
 in the hearts of the people. He is now, and has been 
 for several years, pastor of a large and flourishing con- 
 gregation in Dundee, connected with the United Pres- 
 byterian Church ; here he labours, belovingand beloved. 
 Some persons who know nothing of him and little ol 
 anything else, have shaken their heads and slinigg<Ml
 
 44 
 
 tlieir shoulders, and wondered mucli if lie could pay 
 attention to his clerical duties and write so many hooks. 
 There is more in heaven and earth than is dreamt of in 
 their philosophy. Do they imagine for a moment that 
 they can repress the out-pourings of a soul bursting with 
 the beautiful ui nature and man 1 GUfillan is only now 
 spreading abroad that which years of reading and reflec- 
 tion in former days enabled hiin to store up in his mind. 
 He is thirty-nine years of age ; tail, but not stout, accord- 
 ing to the fashion of Old Joe in " Barnaby Eudge," he 
 is, however, what connoisseui-s iu these matters — which 
 Ave are not — would call a muscular man. His hair is 
 dark brown inclining to curl ; his brow broad and high. 
 As if his far-seeing mind took away from him the power 
 of his natural vision, he wears spectacles. In his walk 
 on the street there is somethmg very odd ; and it has 
 often struck us that there is something remarkable in. 
 the Avalk of many great men. Tliat of Emerson is a 
 calm and holy soliloquy ; that of Professor Wilson the 
 unfinished fragment of a great epic ; that of Gilfillan a 
 fiery ode. You see at once he is a son of the mountains, 
 In the pidpit or on the platform there can be no mis- 
 take about him. Whether sitting or standing he seems 
 somewhat fidgetty, and you see at once that he is some- 
 thing to look upon. In speaking he is dreadfully in 
 earnest. Elocution is an art he has never studied ; 
 nevertheless he is, as Dr Chalmers was, and as all earnest 
 men must ever be, an elocutionist. When wishing to 
 impress some great truth upon his hearers, there is a 
 rude grandeur about his manner that is truly sublime. 
 He holds you -with his "glittering eye," and gives out 
 liis words in a voice now loud and long, as thunder 
 among the mountains ; anon, deep and low, like the
 
 45 
 
 dying cadence of a powerful gong, sounded to summon 
 the loitering idlers of a baron's hall to a Christmas feast. 
 As he utters the last word he seems to get relieved of a 
 burden that pressed hard upon him, and ho rises, lil<e a 
 giant renewed in his strength, fresh for another effort. 
 For the present, our brief labour of love is ended. 
 Farewell; thou great and gifted spirit, — thine is a 
 soul prophetic, burning with true fire. Thou hast made 
 us more and still more in love with the beautiful in 
 nature and the noble in man ; and in doing this thou 
 art working at once for an earthly immortality and an 
 inheritance in heaven.
 
 LETTER ON DE DICK, 
 
 THE CHEISTIAN PHILOSOPHER 
 
 Sir,* — Can we stand idly on, can man, can humanity 
 stand idly on 1 Is the old tragedy once again to be 
 enacted ? Do the voices of the dead call to us in vain ; 
 From the graves of Burns, Chatterton, and Thorn, do 
 we learn nothing 1 If so, then let the dead past hury 
 the dead. How fares the living ? Alas, there are at the 
 present moment prophets being neglected amongst us, 
 There is a popular au.thoress, a woman, and an ornament 
 to womankind, she is in jjoverty ; the Christian philo- 
 sopher, Dr Dick, is overlooked. Can such things be, and 
 overcome us like a summer cloud, without our s^jecial 
 Avonder. Here is a man over whose eloquent pages 
 millions in this country, in Europe, and America, have 
 hung with rapture and pondered with profit. Here is 
 the man who has done more than any other man we 
 know, to popularize science among the people. 
 
 The man who has written the" Christian Philosopher," 
 in which he speaks of the -w^orks of God ; and shows that 
 in wisdom he hath made them all, — the man who has 
 ■\\Titten the philosophy of a future state in which he has 
 built up our hope ; confirmed our faith in another and 
 better world, — the man Avho has written the " Sidereal 
 heavens," in wliich he holds communion with the stars, 
 
 * This letter was written foi- the Cardiff and Merthyr 
 Gwirdian.
 
 47 
 
 and talks to tlie sun as to a play-fellow, — the man who 
 has done all this, and much more than this ; he who 
 has given the world so much bread, has received in 
 return for his gift, a stone. 
 
 The British Parliament, as we think, is in many- 
 respects a good parliament. It is in many respects a 
 good parliament ; but in one thing we think it is very 
 deficient, — that is in the patronage of good and great 
 men. All parliaments are, and ever have been, deficient 
 in this. We, however, offer this complaint more in 
 sorrow than in anger. Parliament cannot do everything. 
 We very often ought to be doing ourselves when we are 
 babbling about the duties of parliament. Let it be so 
 now ; let us have home reformation — let us assist our- 
 selves and our fellow-men who have done us good. 
 With this feeling I call upon Scotchmen ; I call upon 
 Englishmen and Irishmen; I call upon Britain not to let 
 this man, of whom I have been speaking, die neglected. 
 He will die some day, in the course of nature that day 
 cannot be far distant, and when he dies, wc shall all 
 then make a universal rush to erect a monument over 
 his gTave. But shoidd we before doing this, let the 
 living object whom when dead we should thus honour, 
 die without shewing him our gratitude; then I say, and 
 I say it -without sentimentality, that the very stone we 
 use shall rise up in mutiny against us. I have not 
 written without a knowledge of the facts that call forth 
 my remarks. I know that Dr Dick has lived a long and 
 laborious life, writing books whicli have done much good 
 to man. Should man, therefore, not shew him good in 
 return? I know, too, that throughout liis life he has 
 lived with the moderation and meekness of a saint, ns 
 he has written with the wisdom of a sage; and knowing
 
 48 
 
 these tilings, I would fain save tlie country the shame 
 of his becoming a martyr. 
 
 I call then on the public to protect this man. Why 
 does not a body of literary men — with George Gilfillau 
 at their head — without delay, set about this labour of 
 love. We hope, and have faith that it will at once be 
 done, and be the means of saving the feelings of the 
 friends of this great and good man. 
 
 P. L.
 
 POEMS AND SONGS,
 
 POEMS AI^D SOKGS. 
 
 SABBATH IN A SCOTTISH COTTAGE. 
 
 From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
 That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hail ! Sabbath morn ; welcome, sweet day of rest ; 
 Hail to tliat peaceful joy tliat comes with thee ; 
 I love this holy feeling in my breast, 
 Which now is caused by all I hear and see. 
 Hushed is tlie din of labour, mute and still 
 Is the loud voice of reapers 'mong tlie corn ; 
 No more is heard the ploughman whistling shrill 
 The milkmaid's song has ceased, the hunter's horn 
 Is silent and hung by^all hail to Sabbath morn ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon as the bright sun beams across the lawn 
 The humble cottar leaves his lowly bed — 
 With grateful heart he welcomes in tlie dawn, 
 And thanks tlie God who watches o'er his head ;
 
 52 
 
 The youngsters- soon assemble ; and all kneel 
 Before the Almighty's tliroue ; The Father prays ; 
 His words go from the lieart to heaven, — all feel 
 Comfort and peace, and soon their voices raise 
 In liumhie notes of joy, of thankfulness and praise. 
 
 in. 
 
 And now he takes the Bible — blessed book. 
 And reads a portion from the Holy Word ; 
 He reads of Joseph's story, and all look 
 Amazed, whilst listening to the strange record ; 
 He reads of Jesus — God's beloved Son, 
 "Who came on earth to wash our sins aAvay ; 
 He reads of what he did — of what was done — 
 Of what he bore for us by night, by day ; 
 His feeling heart is touched, and thus the sire doth say 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lo ! Christ our Lord was in a stable born 
 And the young babe was in a manger laid ; 
 No pomp, no grandeur, did his birth adorn. 
 The humble shepherds o'er his body prayed ; 
 He was a man of sorrows and became 
 Acquainted with our weakness and our Avoe ; 
 He knew our frailties, and he bore the same 
 With patience ; our rebellious state below 
 Cau-;ed tears of sorrow o'er his sinless cheeks to How.
 
 53 
 
 V. 
 
 While on this earth he cured the deaf and dumh, 
 He healed the sick and made the blind to see ; 
 At his command the silent dead did come 
 From their dark graves, the captives were set free ; 
 He stilled the raging waters with a word : 
 He cast out devils ; walked upon the sea ; 
 He came to teach mankind to sheath the sword, 
 To live in peace, and brothers all to be ; 
 Yet man received him not, but pierced him on a tree ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 They planted on his head a crown of thorns, 
 And led him forth to Calv'ry, there to die ; 
 He bore the cross, and meekly bore tlie scorns 
 Of jeerLiig soldiers, and was heard to cry — 
 "My God ! jNIy God !" and then he closed his eyes 
 In death. The Temple's veil in twain was riven ; 
 The sun is darkened — lo, the dead arise — 
 Huge rocks are rent — men to despair are driven — 
 And earth affrighted shakes beneath the frown of heaven. 
 
 YII. 
 
 Oh ! think on Jesus, tliink on wliai lir bore, 
 Obey his word, tlie sinner's way despise, 
 0]), strive to enter in at tlie strait door 
 Which leads to peace for aye beyond the skies. 
 Remember thy Creator, and in jirayer 
 Implore his aid, tlien nought hast tlmu lo f<'ar.
 
 54 
 
 ^lake God your staff" and comfort — then tho' care 
 Oppress you, when your days are ended here 
 A bright beloved saint with Christ you Avill appear. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 And thus with them the pleasant moments flow, 
 The dainties soon are on the table spread. 
 Of which they all partake, and then they go 
 To where their flxther's fathers have been laid — 
 To the church- j^ard and the church. Hark, the 
 
 loud bell 
 Is pealing through the wood and o'er the lea ; 
 JS'ow groups are seen on distant hdl and dale, 
 "Wending their way with joy to where we see 
 The spire that points to heaven, in which they hope 
 
 to be. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The guidman and guidwife hae each put on 
 Their Sunday claes, and seen the bairnies dre&t ; 
 Their eldest daughter Jessie, peered by none, 
 >She too is buskit in her very best ; 
 And John, their worthy, guid, respected son — 
 Wha toils wi' pleasure for them day by day. 
 He wearies not, but still he labours on. 
 And ne'er an angry word is heard to say — 
 He's ready for the kirk — his heart is glad and gay. 
 
 X. 
 
 They reach the lone sequestered house of God, 
 Where friends are loitering in the auld kirk-j-ard,
 
 55 
 
 Speaking of those who lie beneath the sod, 
 And heaving sighs o'er friends langsyne interred. 
 Lo ! here the widow weeps her husband lost ; 
 Here the forsaken lonely maid may mourn 
 And tell her hapless tale to midnight ghost ; 
 Here wild llowers and the green yew tree adorn 
 The graves of those who sleep till life's eternal morn. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The bell has ceased, all enter church, and now 
 Service begins — a psalm is read and sung — • 
 Their pastor prays — and see, on every brow 
 Sits holy thought at his instructive tongue — 
 He reads a chapter, then the text is given — 
 He knows what erring mortals need and want ; 
 He acts and speaks as should a guide to heaven ; — 
 With him there is no hypocritic cant, 
 No nauseous statements made, no rhapsody, no rant. 
 
 xir. 
 
 He bids them first honour and serve tlieir God, 
 Love and adore Him, and you will do well ; 
 He bids them strive to gain that blest abode 
 Beyond the skies, where saints forever dwell. 
 He bids them aU respect their fellow iiu-ii, 
 And oh ! be kind, and feel for other's woes ; 
 Be just, — from all dishonest acts refrain, 
 And the reward is yours. Peace and repose 
 Attend the good man still, where'er ou earth he goc.'i.
 
 56 
 
 XITI. 
 
 And tlius time passes. Service soon is ended, 
 Tlie congregation slowly Avears away ; 
 Pleasure and joy on every face are blended, — 
 Oh, tliey have cause to bliss the Sabbath day. 
 And soon our humble family reach their home, 
 A lonely cot by wliimplin' burnie seen ; 
 Meg gie's them hearty welcome as they come. 
 Spreads a repast before them a', I ween, 
 Which her ain hands prepared, sae wholesome, guid, 
 and clean. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A blessing's asked, and then they all partake 
 That food which God thus gives them day by day — 
 Again they thanlv Him for His mercy's salce, 
 And thus the time glides pleasantly away ; 
 The aged father now selects a book 
 Frae aff his shelves, on which are many seen — 
 Hail to those treasures, hail ! But let me look 
 What are they 1 Ah ! the best of books, I ween 
 O'er Avhich the earnest student ponders morn and e'en. 
 
 XV. 
 
 There's first the big Ha' Bible, and upon 
 
 It the good father ponders morn and night — 
 
 Then Bunyan's Pdgrim's Progress — honest John 
 
 Is read by king and cottar with delight, — 
 
 The Fourfold State T)y Boston— Watt and Blair,
 
 57 
 
 Staekhouse and Harvey's Meditations too, 
 Paley and Watson's noble works are tliere, 
 Wliicli make the doubting sceptic turn, I trow, 
 And too his broken reed bid a long last adieu. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 There is no blind selection ; here are seen 
 Books on all subjects, art and science too, 
 Histories of men and nations ; and I ween 
 Of great and gifted poets not a few, — 
 Shakspeare and Milton, Thomson, Blair, and P.urns, 
 Are kept with care Avithin his humble bield, 
 And all are read with rapture — read by turns. 
 While round the blazing fire or in the field, 
 Those great and gifted minds unmmgled pleasure yield. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 But noAV the sun is sinking in the west, 
 The day's declining — evening winds grow cool, 
 The younger cottars now again get dressed, 
 For they maun a' gang to the Sabbath School, 
 The auld guid wife gets a' her young sons near 
 To say their tasks to her before they gae ; 
 The guid man gets his daughters, he docs spcer 
 Their questions at them, ranged around his knee ; 
 He strokes their heads and bids them— say your task.s 
 to me.
 
 58 
 
 XVIIT. 
 
 And now they leave tlaeir humble home, and go 
 With willing hearts to school, at which are seen 
 Young groups, all free from sorrow, care, and woe. 
 With patience loitering on the village green ; 
 And soon they enter, soon their tasks are said. 
 Here all are told and taught to sing and pray ; 
 An exhortation's given, a chapter's read, 
 Tlae young mind's made familiar with the way 
 Of Him who shall appear at the great Judgment Day. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 But time flies on, the twilight bell is pealing, 
 The sun has sunlv beyond yon heath-clad hill ; 
 Darkness on wood and dell is quickly stealing, 
 Night comes apace, and all is hushed and still — 
 Homeward in haste our humble group returning 
 Enter their cot — dispelled is every dread ; 
 The door is barred, the lamp is dimly burning, 
 The bible's opened— passages are read — 
 Which, thanks be to our God, console the heart and head. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Hark ! once again the voice of praise ascends ; 
 How the heart melts at melody so sweet ! 
 The contrite bosom in devotion betids. 
 And yields its grateful homage at the feet 
 Of Him who made the world in which we live. 
 Who gives us all our comforts day by day,
 
 59 
 
 And sent his Son, who taiight us to forgive 
 Our earthly foes, and pointed out the way 
 To gain his love who is our comfort, staff, and stay. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Hail ! to this humble family, peace and rest 
 Be ever with them in this world below, — 
 All hail to him that hath a feeling breast, 
 Who sees and fain would share a brother's woe ; 
 Peace to the just, the generous, and the good ; 
 Hasten that time, Lord, when we shall see 
 The holy precepts practised — understood — 
 then, and not till then, will mankind be 
 The good and God-like beings meant and made by Thee.
 
 GO 
 
 THE AULD KIRK YARD. 
 
 'Tis but a night, a long and moonless niglit, 
 AVe make the grave our bed, and then are gone. 
 
 Blair. 
 
 I. 
 
 ! WEEL I like to wander 
 
 Wlien the e'ening sun is set — 
 AVlien the raven on the castle croaks, 
 
 And the grass wi' dew is wet — 
 When the birds hae ceased their singing, 
 
 And to their liames repaired. 
 Then, then, I like to wander 
 
 In the anld kirk-yard.''' 
 
 * The small city of the dead that suggested to the author the 
 \vi-iting of these lines is as perfect a ruin as its citizens within ; 
 no kind of fence defends it from the raid of the ruthless intruder 
 — yet would the poet reverently linger among its stones till the 
 eleventh hour had proclaimed the approach of summer's midnight. 
 About the time it appeared, a friend, remarked to the author, — 
 "that Auld Kirk Yard seems just an imitation of 'there grows 
 ii Bonnie Brier Bush in our Kail Yard : ' " the youth stood some 
 minvites in a state of apparent stiipefaction, his face becoming 
 whiter than the paper on which the poem was printed, but at 
 length said, " You do not know how much you hurt me ; I declare 
 I never saw nor heard of the piece of which you speak." That 
 friend has sometimes since regretted the occurrence, and would 
 say to others similarly situated — Do nothing rashly, remember 
 the fate of poor Tannahill.
 
 Gl 
 
 II. 
 
 In the auld kirk-yard I've pleasures 
 
 That the gay can never hae, 
 Thougli Avhiles I may be gloomy, 
 
 And my heart wi' trouble wae. 
 0, its there that I see justice ; 
 
 There the cottar and the laird 
 Lie side by side in slumber, 
 
 In the auld kirk -yard. 
 
 III. 
 
 Grim death comes fast upon us, 
 
 Aiid tak's baith ane an a', 
 He flies about on fiery wing 
 
 And tears our friends awa' ; 
 The father and the iiiother dies, 
 
 And the bairnie it's no spared — 
 Folk are freed frae a' their sorrows 
 
 In the auld kirk-yard. 
 
 lY. 
 
 I like to see the charnel house, 
 
 "Where lie decaying banes — 
 I like to read the epitaplis 
 
 Engraven on the stanes — ■ 
 I like to lean upon the tombs, 
 
 Ajid tread the lang green sward 
 That waves o'er friends departed. 
 
 In the auld kirk -yard.
 
 62 
 
 V. 
 
 Here's a nook wi' nae memorial, 
 
 Where tlie village strangers* sleep, 
 At whose dying hour nae bosom friend 
 
 Was heard to waU or weep. 
 Here they're laid to rest ; nae marhles tell 
 
 The toils on earth they shared ; 
 But their griefs and woes are ended 
 
 In the aidd kii-k-yard. 
 
 YI. 
 
 How oft hae I sat lonely here — 
 
 Kae li\'ing mortal wi's — 
 When a' was dark and dreary, 
 
 And the loud wind 'mang the trees ; 
 I thought on grim ghost stories. 
 
 But e'en then I wasna feard, 
 For I kenn'd that God was wi' me 
 
 In the auld kirk-yard. 
 
 YII. 
 
 0, wae's me ! what a strange strange place, 
 
 Is this wee spot o' groimd — 
 Sma' though it be, there's niony a true 
 
 And lovino- heart that's bound 
 
 *Mr Kobert Chambers, in a beautiful essay, speaks thus of 
 the Stranger's Nook : — " In country church-yards in Scotland, 
 and perhaps in otlier countries also, thei-e is alwaj's a corner 
 near the gateway, which is devoted to the reception of strangers, 
 and is distinguished from the rest of the area, by its total want 
 of monuments.
 
 63 
 
 To wander here and shed sad tears 
 O'er friends langsyne interred : 
 
 There's something that's enticing 
 In the auld kirk-yard. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Still and silent are they sleeping, 
 But the day Avill dawn on graves — 
 
 Their inmates will he roused from death 
 And ne'er again he slaves, 
 
 The great last day is coming, 
 When their God, eternal guard, 
 
 Will wake them from their slumhers 
 In the aidd kirk-yard.
 
 64 
 
 MY FATHER'S HA.' 
 
 I. 
 
 My Father's Ha' ! my Father's Ha' ! 
 
 ! I've been happy there, 
 "V^^len sitting round tlie blazing fire, 
 
 Our hearts sae free frae care. 
 Despite o' a' the ills that came 
 
 To tak' our peace awa' 
 We were unco blythe and happy aye 
 
 Around my Father's Ha'. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've Avandered east, I've wandered west, 
 
 I've wandered 'mang the hills 
 And flowery glens aird rocky dens. 
 
 And I hae felt the Uls 
 That man is subject to. 
 
 But I hae felt that a' 
 The cares o' life were banished. 
 
 When round my Father's Ha'. 
 
 III. 
 
 ! weel I mind the winter nights, 
 AVlien L'oreas blew sae bauld,
 
 65 
 
 When round the ingle cheek we sat 
 An' smiled baith young and auld. 
 
 "We naething had to trouble's then, 
 But we heard the loud winds blaw, 
 
 And wished the homeless wanderer wi'; 
 Around my Father's Ha'. 
 
 IV. 
 
 It's there that I first learned 
 
 To read guid and holy books — 
 It's there that I first saw wi' joy 
 
 A mither's anxious looks — 
 It's there that I first heard the prayer 
 
 Sent up for ane an' a' ; 
 It's the sweetest, dearest spot on earth 
 
 To me — my Father's Ha'. 
 
 V. 
 
 My Father's Ha', my Father's Ila', 
 
 To me 'twill aye be dear ; 
 And those wha round it used to sit — 
 
 Alas ! how few arc here. 
 They're scattered noo, and some are t(» 
 
 A better world awa', 
 And left us here to think on them 
 
 Around my Father's Ha'.
 
 66 
 
 VI. 
 
 But we'll a' yet be happy 
 
 When life's jom-ney here is o'er, 
 "We'll meet beyond yon snnny skies — 
 
 "We'll meet to part no more. 
 Our bliss will be eternal there, 
 
 It will never flee awa' ; 
 We'U be happier than we've ever been 
 
 Around my Father's Ha'.
 
 67 
 
 A HAME BEYOND THE SKIES. 
 
 I. 
 
 When the heart's oppressed ^yi' sorrow, 
 
 And the head bowed down wi' care ; 
 Wlien we labour wi' a heavy load 
 
 0' grief and dark despair ; 
 When a' before seems niirky, 
 
 And black clouds round us rise — 
 'It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A liame beyond the skies. 
 
 II. 
 
 When friends wha dearly lo'ed us, 
 
 Wha by us were aye held dear ; 
 When we're lowly laid by fell disease, 
 
 And stretched upon the bier ; 
 When we kiss the cheek so lately warm, 
 
 And close the glistening eyes — 
 It's a blessed thing to think we haii 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 III. 
 
 When our earthly friends forsake u>-, 
 And upon us shut their door —
 
 - 68 
 
 AVlien left by a' like some lone tree 
 
 Upon a Masted moor, 
 There's a friend that never leaves us, 
 
 If we're just, and good, and wise — 
 It's a hlessed thing to tliink we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ah me ! I often wonder 
 
 What this weary world would l)e, 
 If we ken'd nae o' anither 
 
 "VMien in death we closed our e'e ; 
 When we're laid into the lonesome grave 
 
 From which we a' maun rise — 
 It's a blessed thing to think we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 V. 
 
 A' kinds, a' colours, and a' creeds 
 
 Are blest wi' hope in heaven ; 
 To Saint and Savage, Turk and Je'\\', 
 
 This balm of life is given. 
 The Catholic and the Calvinist, 
 
 Wha ither's creeds despise, 
 Think its a blessed thing to hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies. 
 
 YI. 
 
 The burdened slave Avho lives on earth 
 A life of care and woe ;
 
 09 
 
 The GreeiilanJer, Avho climbs o'er liills 
 
 Of everlasting snow ; 
 The poor untutored Indian, 
 
 Who for lack of knowledge dies, 
 Is taught by nature that he has 
 
 A liame beyond the skies. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Let us thank our God the giver 
 
 Of this cheering hope below. 
 Which dispels the darkest clouds of fate, 
 
 And sets us free from woe. 
 There's a land of bliss, where He will wipe 
 
 AU tears from weeping eyes — 
 It's a blessed thing to tliink we hae 
 
 A hame beyond the skies.
 
 70 
 
 VERSES TO MY AUNT. 
 
 * This is one of my earliest efforts ; it will explain itself. The 
 person to whom it was written — Mrs Warden of the Plans of 
 Thornton — is one of the kindest and best of women. She is one 
 of "Nature's Nobles," dearly beloved by all who know her. 
 Would that the world were composed of her like. 
 
 Dearest Aunt, when thinking on your 
 Kindness to us day by day, 
 
 I see that we are among your 
 Debtors wha can never pay. 
 
 II. 
 
 When I think upon tlie ruin 
 
 That comes ower baith ane and a' 
 
 When a father wha's well-doing 
 Frae his family wears awa. 
 
 III. ' 
 
 When I think, and thinking shiver 
 On the havoc it wad make. 
 
 Had my father been forever 
 Laid within his narrow bed.
 
 71 
 
 IV. 
 
 When I think upon your kindness 
 To him, Aunt, baith air and late, 
 
 If my beating heart were mindless ■ 
 Only when it stops to beat. 
 
 V. 
 
 A' the toil that you had wi' him, 
 Save yoursel' there's few did see'd ; 
 
 StQl wi' pleasure did you gie him 
 Ilk thino- he could wish or need. 
 
 VI 
 
 Pale and wan he came out to you — 
 Wild disease made dismal strife, 
 
 But wi' grace that God did gie you, 
 You e'en saved his very life. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Aft you gaed to pu' at mid day, 
 A' the best fruit you could see, 
 
 Though he aft to stop did bid you. 
 Still you kindly bade him pree. 
 
 VIII. 
 When the sun had ceased his vigour. 
 
 And in warmth did shine nac mair. 
 Then when e'en was calm, you placed hiiu 
 
 At the door wi' meikle care.
 
 IX. 
 
 Tlien lie aften saw descending 
 In the west the setting sun ; 
 
 Balmy breezes him were mending— 
 Thus wi' joy the e'en did run. 
 
 X. 
 
 At the hour of midnight when you 
 Heard the lonely owlet cry, 
 
 You had need of rest, but then you, 
 Even then you couldna lie. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Then you quietly gaed to see him. 
 And to speer if aught was wrong ; 
 
 IMilk in plenty did you gie him. 
 Cooled the almost parched tongue. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Dearest Aunt, can I ever 
 Kindness such as that forget ! 
 
 Xo ! I'm sure that I can never, 
 TiU this heart has ceased to beat. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I, 'tis true, can ne'er reward ye, 
 Wljich does fill my heart Avi' care;
 
 73 
 
 But accept frae lium'ble "bardie 
 A' lie has — an earnest prayer. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Peace and pleasure to your cot aye, 
 Comfort to tlie ruling twa ; 
 
 O, may bliss attend your lot aye — 
 Peace to ane and peace to a'. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Comfort to you a' the day time ; 
 Peace when laid upon your bed — 
 
 God forsakes the guid at nae time- 
 Then he hovers roimd your head. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 AVhen your days on earth are ended, 
 When you're o'er life's ocean driven, 
 
 Cares on eartli will a' be mended, 
 When we reap the pi-omise given. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Dearest Aunt I canna gie you 
 Words to tell you what I feel ; 
 
 1 maun soon be out to see you— 
 Cod aye bless you — Parc-you-wcel.
 
 THE TRY8TING TREE. 
 
 I. 
 
 The trystin' tree ! the trystin' tree ! 
 
 I'll mind it a' my days ; 
 It weel deserves a sang frae me, 
 
 Or something in its praise. 
 So sit ye dowTi beside me, love. 
 
 And I will sing to thee, 
 The pure delights that we enjoyed 
 
 Beneath the trystin' tree. 
 
 11. 
 
 D'ye mind when first we met there 
 
 I was reading at some book, 
 WTien you passed ae summer mornin' 
 
 An' you gied me sic a look ; 
 Weel I mind you gaed by slowly, 
 
 And you seemed to smUe to me — 
 So I bade you come and rest awhile 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree.
 
 To 
 
 III. 
 
 Ye consented, and cam near me, 
 
 And, Jessie, that ae look 
 Gard me loe ye ever after — 
 
 I loot fa' the very hook. 
 And I pressed ye to my hosom, 
 
 While the tear stood in my e'e, 
 0, sacred are the joys o' love, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree began 
 
 A true love that will last 
 Till this fair earth he hurned up 
 
 And all its glories past- 
 Yon sun may he extinguished, 
 
 But I'll live and think on thee, 
 And remember a' the joys we've huen, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 V. 
 
 Yes, the time will come, dear Jessie, 
 
 When e'en you and I maun part, 
 0' ye needna look amazed nor let 
 
 This touch your tender heart ; 
 For ye ken tho' death divide us, 
 
 I will meet again with thee. 
 And hae bliss beyond the joys we've haen 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree.
 
 76 
 
 VI. 
 
 We ha'e met here ilka e'enin' 
 
 AVlien the eerie bat tiew hame, 
 And we've seen the pale moon gane 
 
 To the land I canna name ; 
 We hae met here ilka mornin', 
 
 Ere the smi cam o'er the sea, 
 And constant was our happiness 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When wearied nature sank to rest, 
 
 And a' was hushed and still, 
 Wi' lightsome heart I crossed the nuiir, 
 
 And passed the Haunted Mill.* 
 The feint a ghaist or bogle 
 
 Ere tried to hinder me — 
 I guess they kenn'd they couldna 
 
 When I sought the trysting tree. 
 
 * 1741 was a disastrous year for Scotland — bad seed and a 
 backward spi-ing, followed by a wet summer and a late harvest, 
 brought on the country the evils of famine. At that time (and 
 not far from the trysting tree) there stood, and yet stands a 
 meal-mill romantically situated on the banks of an ever-running 
 brook. In a hut, on the farm attached to the mill, there lived a 
 labourer, having a numerous family, and out of work ; he asked
 
 77 
 
 VIII. 
 
 0, its here I vowed to loe you 
 
 While my life was spared below ; 
 Here I vowed to shield and guard you 
 
 Frae this warld's care and woe ; 
 It's here at times we haith hae prayed 
 
 Upon the bended knee — 
 "We've tasted bliss beyond compare 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 from the miller (on credit) a small quantity of meal ; tlie favour 
 was refused ; the family was starving ; and driven to desijeration 
 by their cries for bread, in tlie course of the night he went to the 
 mill, and getting in at a wide aperture in the wall, through which 
 passed the axle of the wheel, was in the act of filling a bag with 
 meal, when, unfortunately for him, the miller entered with a 
 light in his hand, for the purpose of setting on the mill. Being 
 thus detected, the miller took him to his house, where a fire was 
 already blazing on the hearth, upon which was a heated girdle, 
 for the purpose of firing the bread which the servants were bak- 
 ing for the family's use. Either from infatuation or frolic it was 
 agi-eed — that as his feet had brought him to the mill, and his 
 hands had stolen the meal — to place all four on the red-hot girdle, 
 which they accordingly did with great violence, his agony and 
 cries for mercy being of none avail. A female relative of the 
 miller's cried out " dinna let him go till I put in anither cowe 
 yet." Getting at last released, he crawled out on his elbows and 
 knees until he reached the cart shed, whei-e death ere long put 
 an end to his sufferings. The man being poor, the miller's inthi- 
 ence prevailed, and the affair was therefore hushed over, the mill 
 was ever after said to be haunted. The miller's family is now 
 extinct, their affairs having previously gone to ruin, and not a 
 few of them suffered violent deaths. To this time, if the neigli- 
 bours have to go that way at night, they generally foci timorous 
 as they pass the haunted mill.
 
 78 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here I rowed you in my plaidie 
 
 Frae the cauld and biting blast, 
 Though the trysting tree can shield us 
 
 Frae the north wind or the wast ; 
 I bound a wreath around your brow — 
 
 A token true to thee, 
 Tliat we were bound in bands of love 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 X. 
 
 When I thinlv on thae days, Jessie, 
 
 My fond heart is like to break ; 
 But I stop the tears, for weel I ken 
 
 That her for wha's dear sake 
 I sigh stiU loes nie fondly — 
 
 Still is fondly loed by me, 
 And our first affection was begun 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Dy'e mind that time, dear lassie, 
 
 When I left ye to yoursel' 
 Tin sure we baith had sorrows which 
 
 Nae tongue can ever tell, 
 I came and waited though I kenn'd 
 
 I wadna meet wi' thee ; 
 0, 1 tliought my very heart would break 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree.
 
 79 
 
 XII. 
 
 When winter conies, our trysting tree 
 
 Grows naked, brown, and bare ; 
 Like mother nature round about 
 
 It hangs its head wi' care. 
 But spring returns and it revives, 
 
 As ye may plainly see — 
 There's no a tree about the burn 
 
 Like our ain trysting tree.
 
 80 
 
 MAN TO PEACE WAS BORN. 
 
 An Imitation of " Man was ]Made to IMourn. 
 
 Wlicn gentle spring's ethereal bloom 
 
 INEade fields and forests gay, 
 One morning as I wandered forth 
 
 Along the banks of Tay, 
 I spied a man whose back was bent, 
 
 But cankering grief and care 
 Seemed utter strangers to his heart, 
 
 Though hoary was his hair. 
 
 IL 
 
 Young stranger, whither wanderest thou 
 
 Began the reverend sage ? 
 Does love of nature call thee forth, 
 
 Before bowed down with age 1 
 Or haply wilt thou talk witli me 
 
 Of Providence's plan. 
 And vindicate the ways of God 
 
 To noble-minded man.
 
 81 
 
 III. 
 
 Yon sun that sheds a golden flood 
 
 Of light on tower and tree, 
 And tells us there's a God above 
 
 Delights and pleases me. 
 I've seen yon glorious summer sun 
 
 Twice forty times return, 
 And every time has added proof, 
 
 That man to peace was born. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My son, when young, be wise — be not 
 
 Too prodigal of time ; 
 Do not mispend thy precious hours, 
 
 Thy glorious youthful prime. 
 O ! let not follies take their sway, 
 
 Do not let passions burn — 
 Curb and contemn them, e'en to day, 
 
 And then thou wilt not mourn. 
 
 V. 
 
 'Tis true that tyrants while in power, 
 Oppress man here below ; 
 
 But why from this should it be said 
 That man was doomed to woe. 
 
 'Tis madness for the rich and great 
 To treat the poor with scorn ;
 
 82 
 
 Oh, why has man the will aud power 
 To make his fellow moiu'n. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Were mankind wise, we all might he 
 
 In pleasure's lap caressed — 
 Tliere's plenty here for high and low, 
 
 To make us truly blest ; 
 But sordid, sinful, selfish men 
 
 Hoard up all that they can, 
 And while they only serve themselves, 
 
 Oppress their fellow men. 
 
 YII. 
 
 ^lany and sharp the numerous ills 
 
 Inwoven with our frame, 
 And oft we cause remorse and grief 
 
 By bringing on the same. 
 Oh, were mankind when young all tauglit 
 
 The wicked's path to scorn, 
 Then blest experience soon Avould show 
 
 That man to peace was bom. 
 
 YIII. 
 
 See yonder ploughman on the fieLl, 
 He whistles as he goes ;
 
 83 
 
 He knows not grief nor care — his heart 
 Is ne'er oppressed with woes ; 
 
 And^when at e'en his toil is o'er 
 He homeward doth return, 
 
 Lo, there lie meets a cheerful Avife, 
 And'hahes to bless him born. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Proud man to be a slave was ne'er 
 
 By nature's law designed, 
 Then why should weak and puny man 
 
 To earth his brother bind 1 
 Oil ! shake the fetters from the feet 
 
 Of slaves ; wipe off this scorn 
 And just rejiroach from nature ; show 
 
 To freedom man was born. 
 
 X. 
 
 Yet, let not this too much, my son 
 
 Engage thy youthful breast ; 
 Think not this world's a paradise — 
 
 Perhaps indeeil 'twere best 
 To think and to believe tliat we 
 
 Are happy here below ; 
 But only if we're just and goo 1 — 
 
 If not we dwL'll in woe.
 
 84 
 
 XI. 
 
 Death is the good man's greatest friend, 
 
 The kindest and the best ; 
 For then his toils are at an end — 
 
 He's taken to his rest. 
 The vile and wicked fear its blow, 
 
 From sin to sorrow torn y 
 But the just and good ne'er fear to go, 
 
 "Who know for what they're born.
 
 55 • 
 
 MARTHA PALMER. 
 
 I. 
 
 O ! dear, dear Martha Palmer, 
 
 A' the grief you've gien to me, 
 It's far beyond my humble power 
 
 In Avords to tell to thee ; 
 But my heart's sae fu' o' sorrow 
 
 At the change I've lately seen, 
 That I canna do but tell you o't ; 
 
 And ask what ye could mean. 
 
 11. 
 
 I little thought that slanders, love, 
 
 Of heartless envious men. 
 Could e'er hae poisoned your high mind, 
 
 Or made you false ; but then 
 I find the love of woman 
 
 Is a frail and quivering reed. 
 And the heart that doats too fondly 
 
 Is the heart that doats to bleed.
 
 86 
 
 IIL 
 
 D'ye mind the scenes that we twa had 
 
 Since first we met thegither ; 
 D'ye mind the vows we made, to live 
 
 In love wi' ane anither ; 
 D'ye mind the tears we aften shed, 
 
 For very bliss and joy — 
 Did you think then, Martha, did yon mean 
 
 Our rapture to destroy ; 
 
 lY. 
 
 Oh ! how aften did we wander, 
 
 When the sun sunk o'er the hill, 
 DowTi the saugh road, across the burn 
 
 And by the haunted mill. 
 Up to the kirk and auld kirk yard, 
 
 Which ye woulil liardly leave, 
 Yov weel you lo'ed to linger 
 
 By the murdered niartyt's grave. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Whiles, when we stood frae winil or rain 
 
 Beside the auld grey tower, 
 An' saw the pale moon glimmering 
 
 At the solemn midnight hour ; 
 I told you warlock stories. 
 
 And I've felt you cling to me.
 
 87 
 
 As if I were your salvation — 
 Which indeed I weel could be. 
 
 VI. 
 
 And ah, we aften sat, my dear, 
 
 Beneath the trysting tree. 
 Where I made love to you, my dear, 
 
 And you made love to me. 
 And when we baith were left alane, 
 
 And nae intruder near. 
 We spoke the poems and sung the sangs 
 
 That true hearts like to hear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah, then, dear Martha, then this earth 
 
 Was paradise to me ! 
 This heart, sae heavy now, was light 
 
 When I was lo'ed by thee. 
 The flowers were bonnie, fields were green, 
 
 Frae ilka bush and tree ; 
 The birds sang sweetly, very sweet. 
 
 When Martha smiled on me. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But now that you hae left me. 
 Now that we by fate arc parted, 
 
 Now that ye hae sought to live alane, 
 And I am broken hearted —
 
 88 
 
 I see not nature as it was — 
 The earth, the sun, the sea, 
 
 The trees, the birds, the bonnie flowers, 
 Are naething now to me. 
 
 IX. 
 
 At midnight like a ghaist I gang, 
 
 An' love, 'tween you and me, 
 I've fearfu' thoughts o' something 
 
 A^Thich I darena tell to thee. 
 I weep whiles like a very cliUd, 
 
 for a' my hopes are hurled 
 To feU destruction, and I'm left 
 
 Alane in this dark world. 
 
 X. 
 
 You, dearest have the triumph 
 
 Of disdaining, slighting me — 
 But I would not boast of glory 
 
 Had I done the same to thee. 
 True love should not be scorned — 
 
 It is sent to earth from heaven, 
 As the purest and the rarest gift 
 
 That God to man hath given. 
 
 XT. 
 
 Fareweel, dear Martha, you may ne'er 
 Forget me a' th'gither, —
 
 89 
 
 And I ken you'll keep yoxir aitli to God, 
 That you'll ne'er wed another ; 
 
 If it be sae, I know tliat when 
 Frae earth we gang awa', 
 
 I'll meet you in a better world 
 As pure as winter snaw. 
 
 A WELCOME TO QUEEN VICTORIA & PRINCE ALBERT 
 
 ON THEIR VISIT TO DUNDEE. 
 
 The following verses were sent to the Queen during her 
 residence at Blair Castle, through her Foreign Seci'etary, the Earl 
 of Aberdeen. His Lordship was kind enough to send me a note 
 acknowledging the receipt of the Poem by her Majesty. 
 
 "Stir the beal fire — wave the banner — 
 
 Bid the thundering cannon sound, 
 Rend the skies with acclamation. 
 
 Stun the woods and waters round, 
 Till the echoes of our gathering 
 
 Turn the world's admiring gaze, 
 To this act of duteous homage 
 
 Scotland to Victoria pays." 
 
 I. 
 
 Dundee welcomes with kind greeting, 
 Fair Victoria to our shore ; 
 
 And we hail the Queen of nations 
 Whom we honour and adore. 
 
 Delta.
 
 90 
 
 And we hail her joyful Consort, 
 Worthy of her fondest love — 
 
 ]\Iay their days on earth be happy 
 Till they reach the land ahove. 
 
 11. 
 
 Thoii bright sun ! shine forth in splendour, 
 
 Shine out on the royal pair — 
 Eaise our beating hearts, and let us 
 
 Bid a long adieu to care. 
 For, this the day and this the hour 
 
 With heartfelt joy we see, 
 Britain's great, and peerless Queen, 
 
 In our native home, Dundee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lo ! the lofty arch triumphal 
 
 Rears its columns to the skies — 
 Widely opened be its portals 
 
 To our Queen's admiring eyes. 
 The cannons sound — the banners wave — 
 
 The fairest flowers are seen 
 All bound in wreaths right royally — 
 
 To welcome Albion's Queen. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We woidd wish that this their visit 
 
 In aiild loyal Scotland, be 
 ^larked by all that kindly feeling • 
 
 WTiich is ever with the free !
 
 91 
 
 ^V'c would wish tlieni to be happy 
 While m Scotia tliey reinaiu ; 
 
 And may every joy attend them 
 To the " merry" land again. 
 
 May their sports among the heather 
 
 Be what boundmg hearts desire ; 
 May the hills, and glens, and fountains, 
 
 Them with health and mirth inspire. 
 Let us welcome Queen Victoria 
 
 To her Highland home with glee, 
 Where the heathcock's screammg loudl}', 
 
 And the wild deer boundins; free. 
 
 VI. 
 
 May the reign of Queen Victoria 
 
 Be a reign of rest and peace, 
 Prompted by her bright example. 
 
 May all strife and discord cease ; 
 ]\Iay her ministers act wisely, 
 
 And may all her subjects bo 
 Ever loving — ever loyal. 
 
 Ever fearless, bold, and free. 
 
 VII. 
 
 May the loyal babes be happy 
 Till their parents home return. 
 
 In theh own loved land, 0, may they 
 ^Ne'er have cause to grieve or mourn ;
 
 92 
 
 May they grow in grace and beauty, 
 May tliey ever, ever prove 
 
 Choicest blessings to their parents, 
 W]io reward thein with tlieir love. 
 
 VIII. 
 So we welcome here Prmce Albert, 
 
 Consort to our Eoyal Queen — 
 ]\Iay his days on earth be happy 
 
 As his days gone by have been. 
 And we welcome with kind greeting, 
 
 Fair Victoria to our shore, 
 And we hail the Queen of nations 
 
 "Whom we honour and adore.
 
 93 
 
 THE KIRK. 
 
 'Twas Sabbatli e'en ; the setting sun 
 Out o'er the Law''' was glowering ; 
 
 The day o' rest was nearly done, 
 
 And night's dark clouds were lowerinof. 
 
 The golden west I gladly saw 
 Was by the sun's rays riven ; 
 
 At length he camly sunk awaj', — 
 Like saint who soars to heaven. 
 
 As I stood, and wi' pleasure gazed 
 Upon the face of nature, 
 
 I saw what made me much amazed- 
 A maid wha's every feature 
 
 Betokened that she had not boiii 
 A dweller 'mong the rest o's, 
 
 For baith her manner and her mien 
 Were better than the best o's. 
 
 * The Law, a notable hill behind Dundee, containing on its 
 summit the remains of a Koman fortress.
 
 94 
 
 ■\Vi' smiling face she took my liand, 
 And, pointing up to heaven, 
 
 Said, " Sir that is the happy land, — 
 There hliss to all is given." 
 
 8he smiled again, "dear Sir," said she 
 " My name is Guide to Glory ; 
 
 come wi' me, I'll let you see 
 A scene at which I'm sorry." 
 
 1 howed and kissed her bonny hand. 
 Then on wi' joy she led me, 
 
 An' aft to seek the happy land, 
 Wi' smiling face she bade me. 
 
 She led me to the kirk, wdiere T 
 Hae aften heard a sermon ; 
 
 Rut, guid forgie me when I say 
 We landed 'mong a vermin. 
 
 " Now, Sir, I've brought you here you see, 
 
 'Mang mony lads and lasses ; 
 Sit down and teU the world an' me 
 
 The scenes that 'mong them passes. 
 
 "And oh," said she her hand up high, 
 
 " Do a' as I would hae ye ;" 
 Til en round my brow a wreath did tie — 
 
 " :May tliat and God be wi' you."
 
 95 
 
 Soon as tliese kind words she said, 
 She frae my sight was hidden, 
 
 I prayed to God to bless the maid, 
 Then strove to do her biddin.' 
 
 His reverence soon came up the stair, 
 And vow but there's a reaching 
 
 0' lieads and caps — its a' the care 
 0' some to see wha's preaching; 
 
 For niony a ane I ween is tliere 
 "Wha to the text will listen ; 
 
 When this is got they dinna care 
 For sermon or for blessin". 
 
 I kenna what the kimmer means 
 She's no doing aught but looking — 
 
 The trifling brat's but iu her teens, 
 And watch her how she's poking. 
 
 Her neighbour's ribs, saying, " Cast your e'c 
 
 But ower amang the fellows. 
 And if a wise-like chield you see 
 
 You'll no forget to tell us." 
 
 Should some late comer want a seat, 
 And scarce ken whar to find ane ; 
 
 Some bonnie queen will no be blate 
 To crush, and prove a kind one :
 
 96 
 
 And a' the pay for favour shewn, 
 Or fee that she seeks frae him, 
 
 Is just to get his arm when done, 
 And take a dander wi' him. 
 
 I cast my e'e across the kirk, 
 
 "Whar folk should aye sit douse — 
 
 A rotten seat conies down wi' jerk, 
 And this creates a noise. 
 
 It put the maist o' folk on edge ; — 
 And yonder's three chields brisk aye, 
 
 See, Tarn's now in an awfu' rage, 
 For Bob's drunk a' tlie whisky, 
 
 A modest matron sitting douse 
 Was for some minutes pested. 
 
 She thought that 'mang her feet a mouse* 
 Was jumping, but to test it. 
 
 She soon resolved in spite o' a' 
 She would be at the meaning — 
 
 Sae looking down I ween she saw 
 A fellow busy preening. 
 
 Her petticoats ; but weel I wat 
 The kind chield got a token — 
 
 The matron rose to stand, wi' that 
 The gallant's joke was broken.
 
 97 
 
 Look ye up yonder, there's three chields, 
 At " catch the ten" they're playing, 
 
 And hear yon gallant how he bans 
 At what his neighbour's saying. 
 
 And round and round are maids and men, 
 
 Quite the reverse o' civil ; 
 They make the house of God a den 
 
 In which to do a' evil. 
 
 Where is the genius of those rules, 
 Those precepts that would ease us — 
 
 "W'here are the teachers of those schools 
 Begun on earth by Jesus.
 
 98 
 
 STOBB'S FAIR. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Come, Pate, gie't ower man, work nae mair, 
 Let's baitli gae out and see the fair, - 
 
 Ilk lightsome body's fleeing ; 
 The road, I see, is thickly clad, 
 AVi' mony a bonnie lass and lad, 
 
 They'll a' be worth the seeing ; " 
 So said my friend, and quickly then 
 
 I rose and took the road, 
 On which were droves o' merry men, 
 
 And lasses neat and snod — 
 And a' that I saw 
 
 As I here and there was driven. 
 Just proved that ilk ane loved 
 
 To be lightsome as weel's livin' 
 
 II. 
 
 And mony a ploughman chield was seen 
 "VVha that night got rowin' e'en. 
 And some could scarcely stand.
 
 99 
 
 I like a cliiekl riglit glad to be 
 Whene'er lie meets wi' twa or three, 
 
 To grip warm friendship's hand, 
 I aften ower a hearty stoup 
 
 Hae spent a happy night, 
 But it's far the best and wisest plan 
 
 To keep ane's sell near right ; 
 It's beastly — I maistly 
 
 Could ca' the fellow down 
 Wha sits till his wit's 
 
 Wi' the warld's rinnin' round. 
 
 III. 
 
 ■ There's mony a puir thijig on the road 
 This day has left their sad abode, 
 And waes me they maun l)eg — 
 Wives, wed to poortith, wi' a bairn, 
 And mony a man without the arm. 
 
 And some without a leg ; 
 I like to see a generous chiel, 
 
 Wi' open liberal hand. 
 It shows, I ween, his heart can feel 
 
 For this neglected band, 
 To gie what he'll see tliat 
 
 To him will ne'er be missing ; 
 I like to hear with listening ear 
 The i50or auld beggar's blessing. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hark to those sounds from yomler tent, 
 I'm sure there's some ane discontent
 
 100 
 
 Although I wadna wish't, 
 " Alas ray friend, what can it he T 
 The lads wi' scarlet coats you see, 
 
 Are wanting "Will to list. 
 " Man, "Will, how can you gang awa' 
 
 Frae hame and friends sae far? 
 Said Eoger — " can you leave us a' 
 
 To face the ways o' Avar ; 
 Man, "V\^niy, be nae sUly, 
 
 Dinna plunge to sic a fate — 
 I'U no deceive, but me believe, 
 
 You'll rue't when far ower late." 
 
 V. 
 
 " Says "Wni, " my friend, I ken you weel ; 
 I ken that much for me you feel ; 
 
 But here, believe me, Eoger ; 
 I'm gaun to do't — yes, here I'm wUlmg, 
 The minute that I get the shilling, 
 
 To gae and be a sodger. 
 And as for her that saucy foir — 
 
 ]\Ty mind is on the rack — 
 She slighted me, but here I swear 
 
 To pay the false ane back ; 
 So, Eoger, here I vow and swear 
 
 To leave Uk social chiel' 
 To ilka brae and ilka burn — 
 
 To ane and a' fareweel." 
 
 Poor senseless "Will the shilling got, 
 The sergeant called the tither pot,
 
 101 
 
 And cried, " Our friend will pay't." 
 The beer was brought, round went tlic drink, 
 Will's spirits soon begun to sink. 
 
 They wi' his shilling gaed, 
 *' Come, do not let your spirits down," 
 
 The winning soldier said ; 
 *' Cheer up my lad, and do not fear, 
 
 A man you'll soon be made." 
 He cried then and dried then 
 
 The tears that down did fa' — 
 The daft ane, the saft ane. 
 
 Was easily won awa. 
 
 VII. 
 
 And list again to that loud noise 
 
 Of drums, and fifes, and men, and boys ; 
 
 Observe ye, these are j)layers — 
 They surely lead an awfu' life 
 Of toil and trouble strut and strife, 
 
 Of crosses and of cares. 
 They're j)inched, I wat, by poverty, 
 
 And naked maist for claes ; 
 Thus strolling through the world they gae 
 
 And sj)end their weary days. 
 !Nae hame can they claim 
 
 And nae comfort can they have ; 
 They're hurled through the world, 
 
 Till they sink into their grave. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And mony a kittle case was seen, 
 Wi' hearty Jock and rosy Jean —
 
 102 
 
 I wat he gat lier reel ; 
 And kindness came at ilka hand, 
 He treated her at tent and stand, 
 
 And pleased the lassie week 
 And mony a chapman chield was thei\', 
 
 Wi' rantin' roarin' voice, 
 Some selling saft, and some hard ware, 
 
 A penny for your choice. 
 And a' that I saw, 
 
 As I here and there was driven, 
 Just proved that ilk ane loved 
 
 To be lightsome as weel as livin'.
 
 103 
 
 THE MISERIES OF WAR. 
 
 I. 
 
 Among the many visitants since first the world licgan, 
 That have come on earth to murder and destroy the 
 
 peace of man, 
 I stand alone and go beyond all other ills as far 
 As the brilliant sun of summer goes beyond the morn- 
 ing star. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have fatted all the fields of earth with the bodies of 
 the dead ; 
 
 I have made your crystal streamlets and your rivers all 
 run red ; 
 
 And the bravest and the best of men I've buried in tin- 
 deep, 
 
 Whose dying groans were heard in heaven, and ni;idc 
 the angels weep.
 
 104 
 
 III. 
 
 I have brought destruction on the world, where gorgeous 
 
 cities stood, 
 Their temples, towers, and palaces I've mingled with 
 
 the hlood 
 Of fallen men, I've marred earth's joys, and with my 
 
 fiery rod 
 I've made this world a charnel house for the erring sons 
 
 of God. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I have dragged from many a happy home the parents' 
 
 joy and pride. 
 And I've torn the loving hushand from the new-made 
 
 mother's side, 
 With fiendish joy I led them to the hloody battle plain. 
 Where the music of my madness was the wailing o'er 
 
 the slain. 
 
 V. 
 
 My food hath been the flesh of men, my drink hath been 
 
 their blood. 
 Give me murdered men or murderers, whether by field 
 
 or flood ; 
 The thundering cannon, glancing steel, and carnage 
 
 covered field, 
 Murder and death to me a joy unspeakable did yield.
 
 105 
 
 VI. 
 
 I come from hell ! the tleejiest liell ; this workl that 
 
 would be fair, 
 Were it not for me, I've filled with dismal howlings of 
 
 despair. 
 If one had been " the liero of an hundred fights " or 
 
 more, 
 I'm the hero of ten million miseries counted o'er and o'er. 
 
 VII. 
 I've had friends on earth, and my most favoured son of 
 
 modern times, 
 Whose deeds heroic erring poets have sung in lofty 
 
 rhymes. 
 He was banished on a lonely rock in solitude to dwell, 
 And the men who wanted peace on earth in doing this 
 
 did welL 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Ye nations of the earth give ear, think on the deeds 
 
 I've done, 
 Think on the rendings of the heart, the woes by battle 
 
 won, 
 Think on the pangs of dying men, whose suil'erings now 
 
 are o'er ; 
 Ye may think of this, but ye who suffer not can do no 
 
 more.
 
 lOG 
 
 IX. 
 
 Ho, England, France, America ! shake hands and live 
 
 in peace, 
 Put up your swords, ye sons of men, let strife and 
 
 discord cease ; 
 Thou boasted Briton, sun-burnt Moor, ye great on 
 
 earth and small. 
 Love while you live, be brethren, as God meant and 
 
 made you all. 
 
 X. 
 
 I'm getting old and wrinkled now, my hair is turning 
 
 grey, 
 The world begins to like me less ; there dawns a brighter 
 
 day, 
 I've done my work — I'm wishing that my reign on 
 
 earth was o'er — 
 For I'm wearied with the deeds I've done, and wish tc> 
 
 do no more.
 
 107 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON VISITING THE GRAVES OF 
 ALEXANDER AND JOHN BETHUNE. 
 
 Alexander and John Bethnne were brothers. They were born at 
 Upper Rankeillour, in the parish of Lethani and county of Fife. 
 Being tlie sons of poor parents, they were trained from their 
 earliest days to win their bread by labour. Through life they 
 had to struggle with j)overty ; during the day they laboured, and 
 at night and other limited leisure hours, they wrote poems and 
 stories, which attracted the attention of very eminent literary 
 characters ; ]\Ir Murray and Mr E. Chambers being among their 
 patrons. From Woodmill in the parish of Abdie, they ultimately 
 removed to IMount Pleasant, where Alexander and John had built 
 a house, which will long remain a monument of their industry 
 and perseverance. It stands on a lofty hill, and is the liighe.st 
 house at the back of the beautiful town of Newburgh. Here the 
 family lived for some time, but death came upon them, and his 
 shafts fiew quick. The father died first, then John, then the 
 mother, and Alexander, who was left alone in this, to him bleak 
 world, soon followed them to the grave, and now they all rest in 
 the Abdie Churchyard, where a chaste and beautiful monument 
 tells who lie below. 
 
 In the spring of 1845 I spent a few days at Newburgh. During 
 my stay, I was favoured by a friend with Mr Crombie's deeply 
 interesting memoirs of Alexander. I had heard much of the 
 Bethunes before this, but being in the locality where they had 
 lived and died, and reading this ably compiled work, my interest 
 in them was excited, and I had an ardent desire to see the burial 
 place of the brothers. Accordingly I set out on Sabbath evening 
 to Abdie Churchyard, and it was to me a delightful evening. I 
 was enchanted by all I heard and saw. The scenery agree;d)ly 
 surprised me. It was unlooked for. I did not think tliere was s.. 
 much beauty in the locality so little talked of. Around me lay 
 the hills, reposing in quiet gran.leur, and In-fore me lay the Locli 
 of Lindores, bounded on the north l)y the Ijcautiful seat of Captain
 
 108 
 
 (afterwards Admiral) Maitlaml, to whom Napoleon Bonaparte sur- 
 rendered, off Eochfort, after the battle of Waterloo, "which in 
 the calm twilight of a summer's evening, appears like the eye of 
 nature looking up to its Maker in the spirit of meek and quiet 
 devotion." I arrived at Abdie Churchyard, and standing over the 
 grave of departed genius, the following verses were written. 
 
 I. 
 
 Eest in peace, Leloved brothers — 
 Eest in peace oppressed no more ; 
 
 Fame is yours wliich was no others, 
 x^ow that all life's toils are o'er. 
 
 II. 
 
 Ered 'raid hardship, shame upon her, 
 Tho' she strove to keep you down, 
 
 You have gained a name of honour 
 Erighter far than monarch's crown. 
 
 III. 
 
 Toiled from morning's sun till setting — 
 Students pale o'er glimmering lamp, 
 
 Still harassed by fortune fretting — 
 Murdered in a cottage damp. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Told in your affecting stories. 
 
 What was right and what was wi'ong ;
 
 109 
 
 When mspired by nature's glories, 
 Then your souls burst forth in song. 
 
 V. 
 
 Both were peasants — proud yet humble- 
 To their lowly lot resigned ; 
 
 l^either at their fate did grumble — 
 Gifted each with noble mind. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Both were one in fond affection — 
 One in feeling — one in faith — • 
 
 One, too, in their name's erection — ■ 
 One in life, and one in death. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Standing here, I am not weeping 
 O'er their graves, now free from ill ; 
 
 Buried here serenely sleeping 
 'Mid auld Scotia's quiet hills. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Standing here, I do not mourn 
 O'er this lowly bed of thine — 
 
 Oh, till death's eternal morn. 
 May such bed of rest be mine.
 
 no 
 
 IX. 
 
 Here all lie, tlie ilither, motlier, 
 Silently are sleeping here ; 
 
 Here the younger, elder brother, 
 Eoth lie stretched upon the bier. 
 
 X. 
 
 Be it so — they all resided 
 In one cot on earth in love ; 
 
 And they were not long divided 
 From the better land above. 
 
 XT. 
 
 Pilgrims here with bosoms swelling 
 Yet may come ; and tears may fall 
 
 O'er the dark and narrow dwelling 
 Of two brothers — one in all. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Eest in peace, beloved l)rotlicrs— 
 Rest in peace, oppressed no more ; 
 
 Fame is yours which was no others, 
 Xow that all life's toils are o'er.
 
 Ill 
 
 THE WIND. 
 
 I. 
 
 I Jiiiiia like that dreary wind, 
 
 It makes me dull and wae ; 
 It gares me think upon tlie grave 
 
 To which we a' maun gae. 
 It brings me to the gates of death, 
 
 Whaur a' is dark and drear — 
 There's something in the howling wind 
 
 I dinna like to hear. 
 
 II. 
 
 It brings to mind the tales I've read 
 
 0' mountain, moor and glen, 
 Where solitary wanderer found 
 
 Eemains of murdered men. 
 I think upon the houseless poor 
 
 W]ia wander wet and cauld 
 And sigh for a' the sufferings 
 
 0' the helpless young and auld. 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark ! how that gust is liowling, 
 0, it makes my blood run cliill ; 
 
 What a dreary sound gangs tlirougli the trees- 
 It's moaning o'er the hill.
 
 112 
 
 Grim sprites arise, and lo, methinks 
 
 Eight merrily beliincl 
 The charnel-house they're dancing, 
 
 To the music of the wind. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Ye howling winds, oh, spare the bark 
 
 On restless billows tossed ; 
 And spare the worthy father, 
 
 Deemed by friends for ever lost ; 
 And spare me a' the gloomy thoughts 
 
 That make me shake wi' fear — 
 There's something in the howlmg wind 
 
 I dinna like to hear.
 
 113 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 "Written on the occasion of an Amateur Performance 
 at Dr Beard's Academy. 
 
 Welcome to Stony Knolls ! a hearty greeting 
 
 We give to one and all at tliis our joyful meeting, 
 
 Not, it is true, the first, for there have been 
 
 Such bright assemblies here before I ween, 
 
 And, judging from the glories of the past, 
 
 I know not, friends, that this should be our last. 
 
 Shakespeare has said that " all the world's a stage ;" 
 
 'Tis said this is the saying of a sage — 
 
 Full well we know 'tis true, but in this mart 
 
 Of learning we have mostly played one part. 
 
 " The school-boy with his shining morning face" 
 
 Plays here his part — to him a serious case. 
 
 Here day by day, and week by week, 
 
 Are dull brains cudgelled over puzzling Greek ; 
 
 Eutopius teases here, and virgil vexes, 
 
 Horace is horrible, — Euclid perplexes ; 
 
 Here British commerce, textile manufactures. 
 
 Are themes on which we show ourselves the actors ; 
 
 Wliile sums, and numbers added to tlic sum. 
 
 Are themes on which our actors oft jjrovc dumb ; 
 
 And this truth is told in many a serious look, 
 
 II
 
 lU 
 
 That " Latin made easy" is no easy book. 
 
 Change is tlie law of nature ; change has been 
 
 Since first Creation's dawn beheld the queen 
 
 Of earth and women — pardon ladies all, 
 
 I speak of Eve anterior to her fall. 
 
 Since then the great and everlasting sea 
 
 Has sung its wild and endless melody. 
 
 The beauteous flowers of summer yearly blow 
 
 Anon comes surly Avinter with its snow. 
 
 Change rules the varied year — tlie life of man, 
 
 And woman too, thougli bounded by a span. 
 
 So from the ills with which we have to fight, 
 
 We wished to have a change, and so " quite right" 
 
 Exclaimed our actors all, and thus the ending 
 
 Of this shrewd thought is what just now is pending, 
 
 Thus have we left the gods of Greek and Eoman, 
 
 And for one night at least become tlie showman. 
 
 "Well, for our own amusement and yours, we 
 
 Have chosen the Critic which you soon will see ; 
 
 The Spoiled Child — by the way, offence to none, 
 
 We hope that in our temple there's but one ; — 
 
 And Monsieur Tonson, with his tricks and fun, 
 
 With which the night's amusement will be done. 
 
 Here great IMacready will not tread the stage, 
 
 IsoY Vandenhoff the grand your time engage. 
 
 Here G. V. Brooke, 'tis true, will not be seen, 
 
 Nor Helen Faucit, tragedy's fair queen 
 
 But here's Miss Bread, of whom the Greeks would say, 
 
 Her the gods love to honour and obey. 
 
 Here's Kriens to treat us to a German song 
 
 He cannot chant too often or too long. 
 
 Moses, with all his learning too, is here.
 
 115 
 
 To show his talent in another sphere ; 
 Here's David Slater, playing the greatest part. 
 Because most like to steal a lady's heart. 
 Here's Edwin Smith, alias Socrates, 
 Having at once the will and power to please. 
 Here's Blacket, too, with all his fun and tricks, 
 To act, as he himself would say, " like bricks.'' 
 These will be seen and many more besides ; 
 So, laughter, now prepare to liold your sides. 
 We'll try our best— if high we cannot soar— 
 Macready or Vandenhoff could do no more.
 
 116 
 
 SONGS. 
 
 WHAR ARE A' THE FRIENDS? 
 
 Air — Olij why left I my hame ? 
 
 Oh ! wliar are a' the friends 
 
 I had in early days 1 
 "VVha used to sport aljoufc 
 
 The burnies and the braes ; 
 "Wha used to rin about 
 
 Wi' meikle mirth and glee — 
 I ween they a' hae fled 
 
 Frae tlieir ain countrie. 
 
 II. 
 
 The sangs they used to sing 
 
 Are never heard ava ; 
 The village ne'er does ring 
 
 Wi' the fife or bugle's blaw. 
 It's true that some are laid 
 
 Beneath yon auld yew tree ; 
 But niaist o' them are fled 
 
 Frae their ain countrie.
 
 117 
 
 III. 
 
 At kirk or market noo, 
 
 "VVc never meet tlrem there — 
 It makes me wae to think 
 
 I ne'er may see them mair. 
 We ne'er assemble noo 
 
 Our village sports to see — 
 A's dull and lonely now 
 
 In our ain countrie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 My friends are far awa' — 
 
 They're scattered here and therj, 
 But 0, for ane and a' 
 
 I breathe this earnest prayer — 
 May God still be their guide, 
 
 Wherever they may be, 
 May peace and rest be their's 
 
 In anither countrie. 
 
 HERE LIES LOW THE BONNIE LASS. 
 
 Air— O AVhere, and O Where. 
 
 Oh, here lies low the bonnie lass, 
 The maiden that I lo'e ; 
 
 She lies within this narrow bed, 
 Where I maun soon lie too.
 
 118 
 
 Death's clay caukl hands has stilled the heart 
 
 That aye was kind and true ; 
 The form o'er which I fondly hung 
 
 Is sheltered by the yew. 
 
 II. 
 
 The flowers bloom bonnie ower the bed 
 
 0' her that I held dear : 
 And dark, dark is the envious grave 
 
 That keeps me mourning here. 
 I've naebody noo to live for, 
 
 And the warld's nought to me ; 
 Oh, life's a weary pilgrimage, 
 
 ]\Iy Mary, wanting thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 Pale, pale for ever are those lips 
 
 That I hae aften kissed ; 
 And cauld for ever are those cheeks 
 
 That I hae aften pressed ; 
 And still for ever is that voice, 
 
 Once music to my ear ; 
 Those beaming eyes that shone so bright 
 
 Are closed for ever here. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh, may I know the blissful home 
 In which my love doth dwell —
 
 119 
 
 In yon bright land wliere happy ones 
 Their holy anthems swell ; 
 
 Where saints for ever sing their songs 
 To God who reigns on hi.h, 
 
 Where sorrow never mora is kno.vn 
 Nor tears bedim the eye. 
 
 V. 
 
 Bat I am left alone on earth, 
 
 My grief I cannot hide, 
 And I Avill ne'er find peace or rest, 
 
 Till slumbering by her side. 
 Till then, my beating heart be still, 
 
 Which now in sorrow lies — 
 Oh, I maun soon be blest wi' her 
 
 Beyond yon sunny skies. 
 
 WHEN THINKING UPON MY SAD FATE. 
 
 ^ji^_jkly Lass's Black e'e. 
 
 I. 
 
 When thinking upon my sad fate, wi' my Annie, 
 This bosom o' mine it is burdened wi' care ; 
 
 There's something within tells mo plain that I mauiia 
 Think I can get peace to my soul ony mair.
 
 120 
 
 II. 
 
 I think that there's nane o' her kind half sae honnie, 
 There's nana o' her kind half sae honnie can be ; 
 
 Her face it is fairer, far fairer tlian ony, 
 Her form it seems like an angel's to me. 
 
 III. 
 
 Sometimes in my fondness, when on her I'm thinking, 
 I stand and look down wi' the tear in my e'e 
 
 I find my wae heart in my bosom aye sinking, 
 Then start quite regardless wherever I gae. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I start, but the wound in my bosom is biding — 
 Ah ! meilvle I fear it wdll ne'er gang awa ; 
 
 And though a' my grief frae my friends I am hiding, 
 The cauld hand o' death will devour and tell a'. 
 
 HILL AND DELL ARE DECKED IN GREEN. 
 
 Air — Gloomy Winter. 
 
 I. 
 
 Hill and dell are docked in green — 
 Kature's a' in beauty seen ; 
 Ilka thing delights my gazing een. 
 And so does lovely Annie, 0.
 
 121 
 
 II. 
 
 By yon bnni the daisies spring, 
 On yon bower the birdies sing, 
 They joy to every bosom bring, 
 And sae does lovely Annie, O. 
 
 III. 
 
 Wha could now be sad or wae, 
 When nature a' is blythe and gay I 
 'Tis I, because I dinna hae 
 The heart o' lovely Annie, 0. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I maun wander here and mourn,— 
 She has slighted me wi' scorn, 
 And left me here alane forlorn,— 
 My ain, my lovely Annie, 0. 
 
 V. 
 
 What are nature's joys to me 1 
 What are pleasures— wanting thee 1 
 Happy I can never be. 
 
 Unless wi' lovely Annie, 0. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Will ye, bonnic lass, be true ? 
 Will ye listen to my vow ] 
 And I will ne'er be false to yen, 
 My ain, my lovely Annie, O.
 
 122 
 
 NOW MAUN LEAVE MY LADY FAIR. 
 
 I. 
 
 I now maun leave my lady fair, 
 
 The wind blows high — the boat is ready, 
 The boat that fills my heart wi' care, 
 
 And bears me frae my winsome lady. 
 
 sair, sair, is this waefu' heart, 
 
 And fain, fain would I longer tarry ; 
 But fate has said that we maun j)art, 
 And I maun leave my bonnie j\Iary. 
 
 IT. 
 
 1 needna say her heart is true, 
 
 I needna say she's fair and bonnie ; 
 For maist folk think her matclied by few — 
 
 To me she's far fairer than ony. 
 I needna say our love will last 
 
 Till baitli our een are closed for ever, 
 But, ah ! I fear the joys now past 
 
 Will never come again — oh, never. 
 
 III. 
 
 It's no her een sae bonnie blue — 
 It's no her cheek sae red and rosy. 
 
 That gars me greet to say adieu — 
 Its no her fond embrace sae cosy.
 
 123 
 
 It's no that I regret to leave 
 
 The humble cot in which she's dwelling- 
 It's no for fear that she'll deceive — 
 
 It's no for this my hosom's swelling. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But it's to leave her all alone, 
 
 A lonely maiden unprotected — 
 Oh, who will guard her when I'm gone. 
 
 By me she ne'er wad he neglected — 
 The power ahoon keeps watch and care 
 
 0' worth and merit— He'U reward her ; 
 This aye will be my earnest prayer — 
 
 May a' that's guid for ever guard her. 
 
 COME TO YONDER BOWER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Come to yonder bower, my lassie. 
 Come to yonder bower Avi' me, 
 
 Come to yonder bower, my lassie, 
 There I'll teU my love to thee. 
 
 II. 
 Down by yonder wood, my lassie, 
 
 Blithly a' the birdies sing, 
 And upon the burnie's banks 
 
 Hoses fair and lilies spring.
 
 124 
 
 III. 
 
 O'er tlie eastern hill, my lassie, 
 Blythly blinks the setting sun ; 
 
 Hark ! the birds aboon our heads. 
 Mornings joys are just begun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 What are a' the joys, my lassie, 
 That the smiling inorn can gie — 
 
 "What are a' the joys, my lassie, 
 Kought, believe me, wanting thee. 
 
 WINTER NIGHTS ARE CAULD, LASSIE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Winter nights are cauld, lassie, 
 Winter nights are caidd, lassie. 
 
 Come, my love, come wi' me ! 
 While Boreas' blast is bauld, lassie. 
 
 II. 
 
 I've a couthie hame, laddie, 
 I've a couthie hame, laddie — 
 
 I've my father's humble roof. 
 Except me he has nane, laddie.
 
 125 
 
 III. 
 
 I'll keep him trig an' braw lassie, 
 I'll keep him trig an' hraw lassie, 
 
 About your parents dinna fear, 
 But wi' me come awa, lassie. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Gin summer time were here, laddie, 
 Gin summer time were here, laddie, 
 
 Then, then, I'll come wi' thee— 
 Just gie me time to speer, laddie. 
 
 V. 
 
 I canna bide my lane, lassie, 
 I canna bide my lane, lassie, 
 
 I'll speer, if ye'll but come wi' mo, 
 And ease my heart o' pain, lassie. 
 
 YI. 
 
 j\Iy pleadings a' in vain, laddie, 
 ]\ry pleadings a' in vain, laddie, 
 
 Gae get the guid auld folks' consent, 
 And then ca' me your ain, laddie.
 
 126 
 
 A QUID NEW YEAR. 
 
 Air— Wlien Silent Time. 
 
 I. 
 
 A Guid new year to ane an' a', 
 
 0' mony may you see, 
 And during a' the years that come, 
 
 0' happy may you he ! 
 And may you ne'er hae cause to mourn, 
 
 To sigh or shed a tear — 
 To ane an' a' baitli great an sma' 
 
 A hearty guid !N"ew Year. 
 
 II. 
 
 0' time flies fast, he winna wait, 
 
 My friend for you or me. 
 He works his wonders day by day. 
 
 And onward still doth flee. 
 ! wha can tell gin ilka ane 
 
 I see sae happy here, 
 Will meet again and happy he, 
 
 Anither guid ISTew Year. 
 
 III. 
 
 We twa hae baith been happy lang. 
 
 We ran about the braes — 
 In ae wee cot, beneath a tree, 
 
 We spent our early days ;
 
 127 
 
 "We ran about the burnie's side, 
 The spot will aye be dear, — 
 
 And those wha used to meet us there 
 We'U think on mony a year. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Now let us hope our years may be 
 
 As guid as they hae been ; 
 And let us hope we ne'er may see 
 
 The sorrows we hae seen ; 
 And let us hope that ane an' a' — 
 
 Our friends baith far and near — 
 May aye enjoy for time to come, 
 
 A hearty guid New Year. 
 
 BONNIE, BONNIE, WAS THE MORN. 
 
 Air— Blythe, blythe, aiul merry was she. 
 
 I. 
 Bonnie, bonnie was the morn 
 
 When we rose to rin awa ; 
 Phoebus did the liills adorn. 
 
 Scarce a breeze o' wind did blaw. 
 Anna rose and slipit near me — 
 
 " Johnny, Johnny, come," she cried, 
 " 0, I'm fear'd the aukl fulk lifar me ; 
 
 If they do, tliey'll gar us biik'."
 
 .128 
 
 II. 
 
 I gat ready, kissed my dearie, 
 
 We each, ither's fears did feel, 
 Bundled up our claes and eerie, 
 
 Bade tlie guid auld folk fareweel, 
 1 had -svrought and kept them canny, 
 
 Wrought I ween for mony a year ; 
 For my hire I wanted Annie, 
 
 But o' this they Avadna hear. 
 
 III. 
 
 Soon we left them — reached the haUan 
 
 I a week before had ta'en, 
 God sm'syne hae blessed our toilin' 
 
 We sin'syne hae haith been ane. 
 Soon the auld folk ceased to scorn, 
 
 When our well doin' ways they saw ; 
 Aye sin'syne we bliss the morn 
 
 When we rose to rin awa. 
 
 THE BLOOMING HEATHER. 
 
 I. 
 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather, 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather, 
 
 But it's bonnier still I ween. 
 
 When mans't twa lovers meet thegither.
 
 129 
 
 O, tlien it 1)1001115 sae fresli and fair, 
 Then ilka thing around is bonnie, 
 
 When the lovely lass is there 
 That we lo'e niair dear than ouy. 
 
 11. 
 
 Then the hleating lamhs that cry 
 
 Mak' illva thing seem blythe and cheery, 
 When upon the breast we lie, 
 
 0' her that we can ca' our dearie. 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather, 
 
 Bonnie is the blooming heather. 
 But dearest to the youthfu' heart 
 
 When 'mang't twa lovers meet thegithcr. 
 
 THE CARES 0' LIFE. 
 
 I. 
 
 O, why should mankind not be merry 
 As lang as he's todlin here 1 
 
 Life is at best a terrible worry- 
 But yet there's nae reason to fear. 
 
 II. 
 
 Man meets wi' mony a hardship. 
 
 As life's weary vale he gangs througli— 
 
 But I've aye found a gate to get out at, 
 And I hope that I ever will do.
 
 130 
 
 III. 
 
 It's true tliat we a' liae our sorrows, 
 At least for mysel' I've my share ; 
 
 But the truth is to look round aljout me, 
 There's mony a mortal has mair. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sad poverty presses the poor man, 
 The rich winna look to their state ; 
 
 Iiut there's happiness whiles in the cottage, 
 Unken'd to the wealthy and great. 
 
 Y. 
 
 When this life's done there's a prospect, 
 A hope which all honest men have, 
 
 A glorious land we may live in 
 
 When laid lowly down in the grave. 
 
 WINTER IS COME. 
 
 Air — Auld Bob Morris. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh, winter is come, and the cauld blasts noo blaw. 
 The hills o' auld Scotland are covered wi' snaw ; 
 
 My ain fate resembles ilk bush and ilk tree, 
 For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me.
 
 131. 
 
 II. 
 
 The spring may return, and deck a' in green, 
 The hills and the vales may in beauty be seen ; 
 
 But pleasure or peace they to me canna gie. 
 For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. 
 
 in. 
 
 Oh weel may my head aye be stoundin' and sair, 
 An' weel may my heart aye be beating wi' care. 
 
 An' weel may the tear trickle down frae my e'e, — 
 For Anna, fair Anna, ne'er smiles upon me. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But 0, when I think that she may yet bo mine 
 When a ray of this hope in my bosom dotli shine 
 
 I ask not on earth mair pleasure to hae, 
 Than Anna, fair Anna, to smile upon me. 
 
 MARCH OF MESMERISM. 
 
 Air— The Si-iuniug o"t. 
 
 I. 
 
 0, would the wide world beware o' the loons 
 Wha practise sae aften the gulling o't, 
 
 Wha come frae Auld Reekie and ither big towiH, 
 Their pockets they look to tlie filling o't,
 
 132 
 
 Those mounte"bank callants, who hastily flee 
 Frae city to city — frae Perth and Dundee — 
 And swear that you'll something astonishing see, 
 If ye'U only put liiith in the telling o't. 
 
 IT. 
 
 There's constantly something to tak up our time 
 Though a body has ever sae little o't, 
 
 Some blundermg scribblers pest us wi' rhyme, 
 But o' sense they seldom shew meikle o't ; 
 
 The flying machine late engaged a' our care, 
 
 Which promised to bear us awa through the air ; 
 
 But now the concern has blawn up I fear 
 High pressure has bursted tlie metal o't. 
 
 III. 
 
 Mesmeric Phrenology now is the go, 
 A' body's begun to the trying o't ; 
 If the science progress in the same ratio, 
 
 We'll no daur e'en think for the spying o't. 
 Its advocates teU us their patients can see 
 The folk in the moon at tlieir toddy and tea, 
 Or what's to tak place next year in Dundee — 
 There's ferlies, I wat in the doing o't. 
 
 IV. 
 
 If ony poor wight frae his hame gangs awa, 
 And offers to shew them the folly o't,
 
 133 
 
 The place that's no yucky he'll get it to claw, 
 As payment and thanks for the telling o't ; 
 
 Tliey'll stand up and swear they'll hear him no more, 
 
 They'll howl and they'll hiss, and they'll rant and they'll 
 roar, 
 
 Till the poor silly fellow is dragged to the door — 
 Eight glad to escape frae the melling o't.* 
 
 V. 
 
 I wonder in nature what will we liae next — 
 JSTow folk can he done by the willing o't ; 
 Teeth and legs can be drawn by the mesmeric touch, 
 
 E'en a heart may be had for the stealing o't ; 
 For the Mesmerists tell us their patients can see 
 The man o' the moon at his toddy and tea, 
 Or what will take place next year in Dundee — 
 There's ferlies, I wat, in the doing o't. 
 
 * About this time, considerable excitement was occasioned by 
 the visits of itinerant lecturers on mesmerism. The poet was 
 then rather sceptical on the subject ; but the fact of stiff arms 
 and stiffer legs made him appear unsuccessful in the debates. 
 Nothing daunted, he resolved to try a lecture in an adjoining 
 town, situated on the braes of Angus ; and for this purpose a 
 meeting was called, and the novelty of the lecture drew together 
 a large assemblage. The lecture was begun, and a goodly num- 
 ber of the .disciples of Mesmer were present. When they saw 
 that the orator was on the negative, a noisy warfare ensued ; 
 which resulted in the lecturer having to beat a speedy retreat. 
 It may here be remarked, that a relative of the author is preach- 
 ing and lecturing in the same place, with greater success, on 
 higher subjects, to an intelligent Christian congregation.
 
 134 
 
 CREEP BEFORE YOU GAE. 
 
 Tak time, my bonuie bairnie, dinna flee awa sae fast, 
 If ever mind tliough 'moug your playmates you some- 
 times are the last ; 
 Its not the hardest rinner that always gains the day, 
 Tak time, my Lonnie bairn, and aye creep before you gae. 
 The wee bairn todlin round about its mither's knee, 
 In-isking aye sae fondly wi' its heart sae fu' o' glee, 
 When it runs ower far and fast, look, it stumbles in 
 
 the wa}', 
 Tak time, my bonni(! bairn, and aye creep before you gae. 
 
 IT. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, when fechtin wi' 
 
 the strife, 
 And struggling hard for hapjnness and comfort in this 
 
 life, 
 "^'ou'll find it aye the best way, when pulling up the brae, 
 'i'ak time, niy bonnie bairn, and aye creep before you gae. 
 The world's woes and sorrows are brought on us by 
 
 oursel' 
 IJecause we'll no tak tent to what the aulder folk will tell ; 
 We've had muckle grief and sorrow, the heart has aft 
 
 been wae 
 Because we'll no tak time, my bairn, and creej) before
 
 135 
 
 III. 
 
 The wisest man liatli said, and wliat he says is never 
 
 wrong, — 
 The race is seldom to tlie swift, the "battle to the strong ; 
 The willing back has aft to bear the burthen o' the day, 
 Tak time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before ye gae. 
 We have need to use, whilst here all the caution that 
 
 we can, 
 In playing at this game o' life wi' wily-hearted man ; 
 The lion's heart — the eagle's eye — the fox's cumiing way 
 Are w-anted here, tak time, my bairn, creej) before you 
 
 fiiae. 
 
 IV. 
 
 You've known the mighty warrior, rushing fast i)ito tlie 
 
 fight. 
 Lose baith his crown and kingdom ere the falling of 
 
 the night ; 
 You've seen the darling projects of wise men melt away, 
 Tak time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before you gae. 
 You'll ne'er hae cause to rue, from tlie cradle to the 
 
 grave, 
 Eut many a pang o' sorrow in the heart it you will save, 
 If before each earthly project you remember what I say, 
 Tak time, my bonnie bairn, and aye creep before you 
 
 me.
 
 136 
 
 JUKE, AND LET THE JAW GANG BY. 
 
 I. 
 
 The rock may stand the stormy sea, 
 
 The mountain a' the Avinds that blaw. 
 And what was late the gowden lea, 
 
 JMay thole the drift o' winter snaw. 
 The war-horse on the field of blood, 
 
 Wi' fury on the foe may fly, 
 But would it no be just as guid. 
 
 To juke, and let the jaw gang by. 
 
 II. 
 
 The strong oak bends beneath the blast, 
 
 When Boreas rages through the air, 
 But when the storm is spent and past. 
 
 He lifts his head — defies despair. 
 So man, when pressed with care and woe, 
 
 "When sorrows come, should ever try 
 To bend a wee and let them flee. 
 
 Just juke, and let the jaw gang hj. 
 
 III. 
 
 The gallant barque, when tempest tossed. 
 Will yield to ocean's mad career ; 
 
 The sailor on the quivering mast, 
 Will closer clina wlien dane;er's near.
 
 137 
 
 So man, while on tlie voyage of life, 
 He's struggling here should ever try 
 
 To bend a wee and let them flee, 
 Just juke, and let the jaw gang by. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The darkness yields to dawning day, 
 
 When bright Aurora climbs the sky, 
 The moon must still the earth obey. 
 
 The branch bends as the stream runs by ; 
 The rosebud ope's to mornmg dew, 
 
 The swallow wi' the wind wdl fly, 
 So man in life, while struggling through, 
 
 Should juke, and let the jaw gang by. 
 
 V. 
 
 The friend you trust should ne'er prove false, 
 
 Though fortune change his course wi' thee, 
 There are ups and downs in nature's laws,— 
 
 What once you were you yet may be ; 
 The powers above will ne'er forsake, 
 
 And woman's love should never die, 
 And beating heart should never brealc, 
 
 Just juke, and let the jaw gang by.
 
 138 
 
 TIME AND TIDE WILL WAIT ON NAE MAN. 
 
 I. 
 
 The sun that sinks on yonder west, 
 
 Sails on across the broad Atlantic, 
 Then rides along in glory dressed, 
 
 O'er forests wide and hills gigantic ; 
 Tlie sea that laves the shore at lianie, 
 
 Has come frae lands right far away, man, 
 AVhen nature stood we canna name. 
 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 II. 
 
 The spring time decks the earth with flowers, 
 
 Tlie summer comes in burning glory, 
 Then sober autumn's fruitful bowers. 
 
 Must yield to winter aged and hoary ; 
 The village bell brings in the dawn, 
 
 Then bids farewell to dying day, man, 
 The wheels o' nature never stand. 
 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 III. 
 
 "Whate'er your hands may find to do. 
 Let it be done, trust not the morrow. 
 
 The present time's the time for you, 
 Xext day will bring its share of sorrow.
 
 139 
 
 Your house can ne'er be built too soon, 
 The corn must be cut down to-day, man, 
 
 Tlie earth moves, and the sun runs round. 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We lately ran about the braes, 
 
 And pu'd the flowers sae fresh and bonnie, 
 Ah, these were then the happy days, 
 
 Too bright to last ower lang wi' ony ; 
 We now may boast of manhood's health, 
 
 But time will turn a young head grey, man, 
 0, days and months and years are wealtli, 
 
 Time and tide will wait on nae man. 
 
 V. 
 
 The friends we loved in early days 
 
 Are scattered noo, they're a' departed, 
 Pursuing life in various ways. 
 
 And left us here thus lonely hearted ; 
 They're scattered noo, and some are gone. 
 
 E'en to a better world away, man, 
 They're waiting there till we too come. 
 
 But time and tide will wait on nae man.
 
 140 
 
 LITTLE CHILDREN. 
 
 Little cliildren make me glad 
 Though my very soul be sad ; 
 Laughing in their sport and glee, 
 Climbing up upon my knee, 
 Eunning round about my chaii". 
 With their hearts sae free frae care, 
 Playing wi' joy at hide and seek — 
 Out and in they merrily keek, 
 And their half pronounced names 
 Tend to cheer our humble hames ; 
 While we soothe them wi' a sang 
 "Winter nights are never lang ; 
 While they prattle by our side, 
 Cheerful is our clean fireside ; 
 They to bless mankind were given — 
 Home wi' them's a little heaven.
 
 7^ 
 
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