He sang this doughty glee--
    Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
      And Scotland's hills for me--
    I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
      Wi' a' the honours three.

    They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,
      Where freedom's voice ne'er rang;
    Gie me the hills where Ossian lies,
      And Coila's minstrel sang;
    For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
      That ken nae to be free;
    Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
      And Scotland's hills for me--
    I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet
      Wi' a' the honours three.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] This song, set to music by Mr Peter M'Leod, was published in a
separate form, and the profits, which amounted to a considerable sum,
given for the purpose of placing a parapet and railing around the
monument of Burns on the Calton Hill, Edinburgh.

THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.

    I sat in the vale, 'neath the hawthorns so hoary,
      And the gloom of my bosom seem'd deep as their shade,
    For remembrance was fraught with the far-travell'd story,
      That told where the dust of the minstrel was laid:
    I saw not his harp on the wild boughs above me,
      I heard not its anthems the mountains among;
    But the flow'rets that bloom'd on his grave were more lovely
      Than others would seem to the earth that belong.

    "Sleep on," said my soul, "in the depths of thy slumber
      Sleep on, gentle bard! till the shades pass away;
    For the lips of the living the ages shall number
      That steal o'er thy heart in its couch of decay:
    Oh! thou wert beloved from the dawn of thy childhood,
      Beloved till the last of thy suffering was seen,
    Beloved now that o'er thee is waving the wild-wood,
      And the worm only living where rapture hath been.

    "Till the footsteps of time are their travel forsaking,
      No form shall descend, and no dawning shall come,
    To break the repose that thy ashes are taking,
      And call them to life from their chamber of gloom:
    Yet sleep, gentle bard! for, though silent for ever,
      Thy harp in the hall of the chieftain is hung;
    No time from the mem'ry of mankind shall sever
      The tales that it told, and the strains that it sung."

OUR OWN LAND AND LOVED ONE.

AIR--_"Buccleuch Gathering."_

    No sky shines so bright as the sky that is spread
      O'er the land that gave birth to the first breath we drew--
    Such radiance but lives in the eye of the maid
      That is dear to our heart--to our heart ever true.

    With her--yes, with her that this spirit has bless'd,
      'Neath my dear native sky let my home only be;
    And the valley of flowers, and the heath-covered waste,
      Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for me.

    Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,
      Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my woe,
    And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,
      Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

    My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles,
      Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,
    But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles
      With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

    The anthems of music delightful may roll,
      Or eloquence flow as the waves of the sea,
    But the sounds that enchantment can shed o'er the soul
      Are--the lass that we love, and the land that is free!

THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

    I form'd a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,
    Afar from the din and the dwellings of men;
    Where still I might linger in many a dream,
    And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.
    From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,
    Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,
    I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,
    And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

    But the fair maidens came, from yon vale far away,
    And sought my lone grotto still day after day,
    And soon were the stems of their fair blossoms shorn
    That the flowers of the bard might their ringlets adorn.
    Full fair were they all, but the maiden most fair
    Would still have no flower till I pull'd it with care;
    And gentle, and simple, and modest, and mild,
    She stole my lone heart in the bower of the wild.

    The summer is past, and the maidens are gone,
    And this heart, like my grotto, is wither'd and lone,
    And yet, with the winter, I'll cease not to mourn,
    Unless, with the blossoms, these fair ones return.
    Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,
    I sing in my sorrow still day after day.
    The scene seems a desert--the charm is exiled,
    And woe to my blooms and my bower of the wild!

THE CROOK AND PLAID.

AIR--_"The Ploughman."_

    I winna love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,
    Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;
    For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,
    Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true to his lassie--he's aye true to his lassie,
              Who wears the crook and plaid.

    At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,
    While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;
    His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,
    Sae blithe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;
              And he's aye true, &c.

    At noon he leans him down upon the high and heathy fell,
    And views his flocks, beneath him a', fair feeding in the dell;
    And there he sings the sangs o' love, the sweetest ever made;
    O! how happy is the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
              And he's aye true, &c.

    He pu's the bells o' heather red, and the lily-flowers sae meek,
    Ca's the lily like my bosom, and the heath-bell like my cheek;
    His words are sweet and tender, as the dews frae heaven shed;
    And weel I love to list the lad who wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

    When the dews begin to fauld the flowers, and the gloamin' shades draw on,
    When the star comes stealing through the sky, and the kye are on the loan,
    He whistles through the glen sae sweet, the heart is lighter made
    To ken the laddie hameward hies who wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

    Beneath the spreading hawthorn gray, that's growing in the glen,
    He meets me in the gloamin' aye, when nane on earth can ken,
    To woo and vow, and there I trow, whatever may be said,
    He kens aye unco weel the way to row me in his plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

    The youth o' mony riches may to his fair one ride,
    And woo across the table cauld his madam-titled bride;
    But I'll gang to the hawthorn gray, where cheek to cheek is laid,
    Oh! nae wooers like the laddie that rows me in his plaid;
              And he's aye true, &c.

    To own the truth o' tender love what heart wad no comply,
    Since love gives purer happiness than aught aneath the sky?
    If love be in the bosom, then the heart is ne'er afraid;
    And through life I'll love the laddie that wears the crook and plaid;
              For he's aye true, &c.

THE MINSTREL'S BOWER.

AIR--_"Bonnie Mary Hay."_

    Oh, lassie! if thou'lt gang to yonder glen wi' me,
    I'll weave the wilds amang a bonnie bower for thee;
    I'll weave a bonnie bower o' the birks and willows green,
    And to my heart thou'lt be what nae other e'er has been.

    When the dew is on the flower, and the starlight on the lea,
    In the bonnie green-wood bower I'll wake my harp to thee;
    I'll wake my hill-harp's strain, and the echoes o' the dell
    Shall restore the tales again that its notes o' love shall tell.

    Oh, lassie! thou art fair as the morning's early beam,
    As the image of a flower reflected frae the stream;
    There's kindness in thy heart, and there's language in thine e'e,
    But ah! its looks impart nae sweet tale o' love to me!

    Oh, lassie! wert thou mine I wad love thee wi' such love
    As the lips can ne'er define, and the cold can never prove;
    In the bower by yonder stream our happy home should be,
    And our life a blissful dream, while I lived alone for thee.

    When I am far away my thoughts on thee shall rest,
    Allured, as by a ray, frae the dwellings o' the blest;
    For beneath the clouds o' dew, where'er my path may be,
    Oh! a maiden fair as thou, I again shall never see!

WHEN THE STAR OF THE MORNING.

    When the star of the morning is set,
      And the heavens are beauteous and blue,
    And the bells of the heather are wet
      With the drops of the deep-lying dew;
    'Mong the flocks on the mountains that lie,
      'Twas blithesome and blissful to be,
    When these all my thoughts would employ;
      But now I must think upon thee.

    When noontide displays all its powers,
      And the flocks to the valley return,
    To lie and to feed 'mong the flowers
      That bloom on the banks of the burn;
    O sweet, sweet it was to recline
      'Neath the shade of yon hoar hawthorn-tree,
    And think on the charge that was mine;
      But now I must think upon thee.

    When Gloaming stole down from the rocks,
      With her fingers of shadowy light,
    And the dews of the eve in her locks,
      To spread down a couch for the night;
    'Twas sweet through yon green birks to stray,
      That border the brook and the lea;
    But now, 'tis a wearisome way,
      Unless it were travell'd with thee.

    All lovely and pure as thou art,
      And generous of thought and of will,
    Oh Mary! speak thou to this heart,
      And bid its wild beating be still;
    I'd give all the ewes in the fold--
      I'd give all the lambs on the lea,
    By night or by day to behold
      One look of true kindness from thee.

THOUGH ALL FAIR WAS THAT BOSOM.

    Though all fair was that bosom, heaving white,
      While hung this fond spirit o'er thee;
    And though that eye, with beauty's light,
      Still bedimm'd every eye before thee;
    Oh! charms there were still more divine,
    When woke that melting voice of thine,
    The charms that caught this soul of mine,
      And taught it to adore thee.

    Then died the woes of the heart away
      With the thoughts of joys departed;
    For my soul seem'd but to live in thy lay,
      While it told of the faithful-hearted.
    Methought how sweet it were to be
    Far in some wild green glen with thee;
    From all of life and of longing free,
      Save what pure love imparted.

    Oh! I could stray where the drops of dew
      Never fell on the desert round me,
    And dwell where the fair flowers never grew
      If the hymns of thy voice still found me.
    Thy smile itself could the soul invest
    With all that here makes mortals bless'd;
    While every thought thy lips express'd
      In deeper love still bound me.

WOULD THAT I WERE WHERE WILD WOODS WAVE.

    Would that I were where wild woods wave
    Aboon the beds where sleep the brave;
    And where the streams o' Scotia lave
      Her hills and glens o' grandeur!

    Where freedom reigns, and friendship dwells,
    Bright as the sun upon the fells,
    When autumn brings the heather-bells
      In all their native splendour.
    The thistle wi' the hawthorn joins,
    The birks mix wi' the mountain pines,
    And heart with dauntless heart combines
      For ever to defend her.
        Then would I were, &c.

    There roam the kind, and live the leal,
    By lofty ha' and lowly shiel;
    And she for whom the heart must feel
      A kindness still mair tender.
    Fair, where the light hill breezes blaw,
    The wild-flowers bloom by glen and shaw;
    But she is fairer than them a',
      Wherever she may wander.
        Then would I were, &c.

    Still, far or near, by wild or wood,
    I'll love the generous, wise, and good;
    But she shall share the dearest mood
      That Heaven to life may render.
    What boots it then thus on to stir,
    And still from love's enjoyment err,
    When I to Scotland and to her
      Must all this heart surrender.
        Then would I were, &c.

OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_"Paddy's Resource."_

    Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear--
      The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?
    'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear,
      When chanting the songs of her own native vale.
    More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale,
      Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore;
    More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale,
      When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

    Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky,
      Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?
    'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye
      Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.
    More charming is this than the glory of art,
      More lovely than rays from yon heavens above;
    It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart,
      Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

    Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek
      That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?
    'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek
      When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!
    More tender is this--more celestial and fair--
      Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn;
    A balm that still softens the ranklings of care,
      And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

OUR MARY.[7]

    Our Mary liket weel to stray
      Where clear the burn was rowin',
    And trouth she was, though I say sae,
      As fair as ought ere made o' clay,
        And pure as ony gowan.

    And happy, too, as ony lark
      The clud might ever carry;
    She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good,
      E'en mair than weel was understood;
        And a' fouk liket Mary.

    But she fell sick wi' some decay,
      When she was but eleven;
    And as she pined frae day to day,
      We grudged to see her gaun away,
        Though she was gaun to Heaven.

    There's fears for them that's far awa',
      And fykes for them are flitting,
    But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
      We, by and by, o'er-pit them a';
        But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

    And nature's bands are hard to break,
      When thus they maun be broken;
    And e'en the form we loved to see,
      We canna lang, dear though it be,
        Preserve it as a token.

    But Mary had a gentle heart--
      Heaven did as gently free her;
    Yet lang afore she reach'd that part,
      Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start
        Had ye been there to see her.

    Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,
      And growing meek and meeker,
    Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair,
      She wore a little angel's air,
        Ere angels cam to seek her.

    And when she couldna stray out by,
      The wee wild-flowers to gather;
    She oft her household plays wad try,
      To hide her illness frae our eye,
        Lest she should grieve us farther.

    But ilka thing we said or did,
      Aye pleased the sweet wee creature;
    Indeed ye wad hae thought she had
      A something in her made her glad
        Ayont the course o' nature.

    For though disease, beyont remeed,
      Was in her frame indented,
    Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,
      She grew and grew the lovelier still,
        And mair and mair contented.

    But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,
      As it to a' is comin';
    And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
      Nae waur to others than it was
        To Mary, sweet wee woman!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cottagers of Glendale,"
Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem.

MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.

The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis
was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical practitioner,
who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of
Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October
1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a
subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took
place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her
family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of
John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of
Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her
second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which
her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her
widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in
prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends,
a duodecimo volume, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly
Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are
several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of
elegant fancy.

Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted
as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet
Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own
songs. Of retiring and unobtrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in
general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in
estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded
cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and
songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the
present work.

SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

AIR--_"Banks of the Devon."_

      Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
      Where art thou wandering?
    Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.
      Why round yon craggy rocks
      Wander thy heedless flocks,
    While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?
      Cold as the mountain stream,
      Pale as the moonlight beam,
    Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
      Wild may the tempest's wave
      Sweep o'er thy lonely grave;
    Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.

      Like a meteor's brief light,
      Like the breath of the morning,
    Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;
      Till thy soft numbers stealing
      O'er mem'ry's warm feeling,
    Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.
      Sweet was thy melody,
      Rich as the rose's dye,
    Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;
      Love laugh'd on golden wing,
      Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,
    All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.

      Cold on Benlomond's brow
      Flickers the drifted snow,
    While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
      Winter's mad winds may sweep
      Fierce o'er each glen and steep,
    Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
      And when on dewy wing
      Comes the sweet bird of spring,
    Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree;
      The Bird of the Wilderness,
      Low in the waving grass,
    Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick
Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.

YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_

    Leafless and bare were the shrub and the flower,
    Cauld was the drift that blew over yon mountain,
    But caulder my heart at his last ling'ring hour,
    Though warm was the tear-drap that fell frae my e'e.
    O saft is the tint o' the gowan sae bonny,
    The blue heather-bell and the rose sweet as ony,
    But softer the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e,
    And sweeter the smile o' young Jamie.

    Dark lowers the cloud o'er yon mountain sae hie,
    Faint gloams the sun through the mists o' the ocean,
    Rough rows the wave on whose bosom I see
    The wee bit frail bark that bears Jamie frae me.
    Oh, lang may I look o'er yon wild waste sae dreary,
    And lang count the hours, now so lonesome and weary,
    And oft may I see the leaf fade frae the tree,
    Ere I see the blithe blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

    Cheerless and wae, on yon snaw-cover'd thorn,
    Mournfu' and lane is the chirp o' the Robin,
    He looks through the storm, but nae shelter can see;
    Come, Robin, and join the sad concert wi' me.
    Oh, lang may I look o'er yon foam-crested billow,
    And Hope dies away like a storm-broken willow;
    Sweet Robin, the blossom again ye may see,
    But I'll ne'er see the blink o' his bonnie blue e'e.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Printed for the first time.

CHARLIE'S BONNET'S DOWN, LADDIE.

AIR--_"Tullymet."_

    Let Highland lads, wi' belted plaids,
    And bonnets blue and white cockades,
    Put on their shields, unsheathe their blades,
      And conquest fell begin;
    And let the word be Scotland's heir:
    And when their swords can do nae mair,
    Lang bowstrings o' their yellow hair
      Let Hieland lasses spin, laddie.
        Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
        Kilt yer plaid and scour the heather;
        Charlie's bonnet's down, laddie,
          Draw yer dirk and rin.

    Mind Wallace wight, auld Scotland's light,
    And Douglas bright, and Scrymgeour's might,
    And Murray Bothwell's gallant knight,
      And Ruthven light and trim--
    Kirkpatrick black, wha in a crack
    Laid Cressingham upon his back,
    Garr'd Edward gather up his pack,
      And ply his spurs and rin, laddie.
        Charlie's bonnet's down, &c.

HEARD YE THE BAGPIPE?

    Heard ye the bagpipe, or saw ye the banners
    That floated sae light o'er the fields o' Kildairlie;
    Saw ye the broadswords, the shields and the tartan hose,
    Heard ye the muster-roll sworn to Prince Charlie?
    Saw ye brave Appin, wi' bonnet and belted plaid,
    Or saw ye the Lords o' Seaforth and Airlie;
    Saw ye the Glengarry, M'Leod, and Clandonachil,
    Plant the white rose in their bonnets for Charlie?

    Saw ye the halls o' auld Holyrood lighted up,
    Kenn'd ye the nobles that revell'd sae rarely;
    Saw ye the chiefs of Lochiel and Clanronald,
    Wha rush'd frae their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
    But saw ye the blood-streaming fields of Culloden,
    Or kenn'd ye the banners were tatter'd sae sairly;
    Heard ye the pibroch sae wild and sae wailing,
    That mourn'd for the chieftains that fell for Prince Charlie.

    Wha, in yon Highland glen, weary and shelterless,
    Pillows his head on the heather sae barely;
    Wha seeks the darkest night, wha maunna face the light,
    Borne down by lawless might--gallant Prince Charlie?
    Wha, like the stricken deer, chased by the hunter's spear,
    Fled frae the hills o' his father sae scaredly;
    But wha, by affection's chart, reigns in auld Scotland's heart--
    Wha but the royal, the gallant Prince Charlie?

BRUCE'S ADDRESS.

    When the morning's first ray saw the mighty in arms,
      And the tyrant's proud banners insultingly wave,
    And the slogan of battle from beauty's fond arms
      Roused the war-crested chieftain, his country to save;
    The sunbeam that rose on our mountain-clad warriors,
      And reflected their shields in the green rippling wave,
    In its course saw the slain on the fields of their fathers,
      And shed its last ray on their cold bloody graves.

    O'er those green beds of honour our war-song prepare,
      And the red sword of vengeance triumphantly wave,
    While the ghosts of the slain cry aloud--Do not spare,
      Lead to victory and freedom, or die with the brave;
    For the high soul of freedom no tyrant can fetter,
      Like the unshackled billows our proud shores that lave;
    Though oppressed, he will watch o'er the home of his fathers,
      And rest his wan cheek on the tomb of the brave.

    To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise,
      Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;
    Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that flies,
      Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;
    Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,
      For the war-shock shall reach to his dark-centered cave,
    While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors
      Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.

REMOVED FROM VAIN FASHION.

    Removed from vain fashion,
      From title's proud ken,
    In a straw-cover'd cottage,
      Deep hid in yon glen,
    There dwells a sweet flow'ret,
      Pure, lovely, and fair,
    Though rear'd, like the snowdrop,
      'Midst hardships' chill air.

    No soft voice of kindred,
      Or parent she knows--
    In the desert she blooms,
      Like the sweet mountain rose,
    Like the little stray'd lammie
      That bleats on the lea;
    She's soft, kind, and gentle,
      And dear, dear to me.

    Though the rich dews of fortune
      Ne'er water'd this stem,
    Nor one fostering sunbeam
      Matured the rich gem--
    Oh! give me that pure bosom,
      Her lot let me share,
    I'll laugh at distinction,
      And smile away care.

WHEN SHALL WE MEET AGAIN?

    When shall we meet again,
      Meet ne'er to sever?
    When shall Peace wreath her chain
      Round us for ever?
    When shall our hearts repose,
    Safe from each breath that blows,
    In this dark world of woes?
      Never! oh, never!

    Fate's unrelenting hand
      Long may divide us,
    Yet in one holy land
      One God shall guide us.
    Then, on that happy shore,
    Care ne'er shall reach us more,
    Earth's vain delusions o'er,
      Angels beside us.

    There, where no storms can chill,
      False friends deceive us,
    Where, with protracted thrill,
      Hope cannot grieve us;
    There with the pure in heart,
    Far from fate's venom'd dart,
    There shall we meet to part
      Never! oh, never!

JAMES KING.

James King was born in Paisley in 1776. His paternal ancestors, for a
course of centuries, were farmers in the vicinity of Gleniffer Braes.
Having been only one year at school, he was, at the age of eight,
required to assist his father in his trade of muslin-weaving. Joining a
circulating library, he soon acquired an acquaintance with books; he
early wrote verses, and became the intimate associate of Tannahill, who
has honourably mentioned him in one of his poetical epistles. In his
fifteenth year he enlisted in a fencible regiment, which was afterwards
stationed at Inverness. On its being disembodied in 1798, he returned to
the loom at Paisley, where he continued till 1803, when he became a
recruit in the Renfrewshire county militia. He accompanied this regiment
to Margate, Deal, Dover, Portsmouth, and London, and subsequently to
Leith, the French prisoners' depôt at Penicuick, and the Castle of
Edinburgh. At Edinburgh his poetical talents recommended him to some
attention from Sir Walter Scott, the Ettrick Shepherd, and several
others of the poets of the capital.

Accused of exciting disaffection, and promoting an attempt made by a
portion of his comrades to resist lawful authority while the regiment
was stationed at Perth, King, though wholly innocent of the charge,
fearing the vengeance of the adjutant, who was hostile to him, contrived
to effect his escape. By a circuitous route, so as to elude the
vigilance of parties sent to apprehend him, he reached the district of
Galloway, where he obtained employment as a shepherd and agricultural
labourer. He subsequently wrought as a weaver at Crieff till 1815, when,
on his regiment being disembodied, he was honourably acquitted from the
charge preferred against him, and granted his discharge. He now settled
as a muslin-weaver, first at Glasgow, and afterwards at Paisley and
Charleston. He died at Charleston, near Paisley, on the 27th September
1849, in his seventy-third year.

Of vigorous intellect, lively fancy, and a keen appreciation of the
humorous, King was much esteemed among persons of a rank superior to his
own. His mind was of a fine devotional cast, and his poetical
compositions are distinguished by earnestness of expression and
sentiment.

THE LAKE IS AT REST.

      The lake is at rest, love,
      The sun's on its breast, love,
    How bright is its water, how pleasant to see;
      Its verdant banks shewing
      The richest flowers blowing,
    A picture of bliss and an emblem of thee!

      Then, O fairest maiden!
      When earth is array'd in
    The beauties of heaven o'er mountain and lea,
      Let me still delight in
      The glories that brighten,
    For they are, dear Anna, sweet emblems of thee.

      But, Anna, why redden?
      I would not, fair maiden,
    My tongue could pronounce what might tend to betray;
      The traitor, the demon,
      That could deceive woman,
    His soul's all unfit for the glories of day.

      Believe me then, fairest,
      To me thou art dearest;
    And though I in raptures view lake, stream, and tree,
      With flower blooming mountains,
      And crystalline fountains,
    I view them, fair maid, but as emblems of thee.

LIFE'S LIKE THE DEW.

AIR--_"Scott's Boat Song."_

    No sound was heard o'er the broom-cover'd valley,
    Save the lone stream o'er the rock as it fell,
    Warm were the sunbeams, and glancing so gaily,
    That gold seem'd to dazzle along the flower'd vale.
      At length from the hill I heard,
      Plaintively wild, a bard,
    Yet pleasant to me was his soul's ardent flow;
      "Remember what Morard says,
      Morard of many days,
    Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe.

    "Son of the peaceful vale, keep from the battle plain,
    Sad is the song that the bugle-horns sing;
    Though lovely the standard it waves o'er the mangled slain,
    Widows' sighs stretching its broad gilded wing.
      Hard are the laws that bind
      Poor foolish man and blind;
    But free thou may'st walk as the breezes that blow,
      Thy cheeks with health's roses spread,
      Till time clothes with snow thy head,
    Fairer than dew on the hill of the roe.

    "Wouldst thou have peace in thy mind when thou'rt hoary,
    Shun vice's paths in the days of thy bloom;
    Innocence leads to the summit of glory,
    Innocence gilds the dark shades of the tomb.
      The tyrant, whose hands are red,
      Trembles alone in bed;
    But pure is the peasant's soul, pure as the snow,
      No horror fiends haunt his rest,
      Hope fills his placid breast,
    Hope bright as dew on the hill of the roe."

    Ceased the soft voice, for gray mist was descending,
    Slow rose the bard and retired from the hill,
    The blackbird's mild notes with the thrush's were blending,
    Oft scream'd the plover her wild notes and shrill,
      Yet still from the hoary bard,
      Methought the sweet song I heard,
    Mix'd with instruction and blended with woe;
      And oft as I pass along,
      Chimes in mine ear his song,
    "Life's like the dew on the hill of the roe."

ISOBEL PAGAN.

The author of a sweet pastoral lyric, which has been praised both by
Robert Burns and Allan Cunningham, Isobel Pagan claims a biographical
notice. She was born in the parish of New Cumnock, Ayrshire, about the
year 1741. Deserted by her relations in youth, and possessing only an
imperfect education, she was led into a course of irregularities which
an early moral training would have probably prevented. She was lame and
singularly ill-favoured, but her manners were spirited and amusing. Her
chief employment was the composition of verses, and these she sung as a
mode of subsistence. She published, in 1805, a volume of doggerel
rhymes, and was in the habit of satirising in verse those who had
offended her. Her one happy effort in song-making has preserved her
name. She lived chiefly in the neighbourhood of Muirkirk. She died on
the 3d November 1821, in her eightieth year, and her remains were
interred in the churchyard of Muirkirk. A tombstone marks her grave.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.[10]

    Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
    Ca' them where the heather grows,
    Ca' them where the burnie rows,
      My bonnie dearie.

    As I gaed down the water-side,
    There I met my shepherd lad,
    He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
      An' he ca'd me his dearie.

    "Will ye gang down the water-side,
    And see the waves sae sweetly glide
    Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
      The moon it shines fu' clearly.

    "Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
    Cauf-leather shoon to thy white feet,
    And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
      And ye shall be my dearie."

    "If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
    I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
    And ye may row me in your plaid,
      And I shall be your dearie."

    "While water wimples to the sea,
    While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
    Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
      Ye shall be my dearie."

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original
chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis'
evening sang."

JOHN MITCHELL.

John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August
1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour
of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He
contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary
Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he
was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the
Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840
by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter
being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise
produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a
work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His
next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original
Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs,"
was published in 1852.

Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his
publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable
maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with
considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present
work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had
Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche
in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was
not unconscious of his poetical endowments.

BEAUTY.

    What wakes the Poet's lyre?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What kindles his poetic fire?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What makes him seek, at evening's hour,
    The lonely glen, the leafy bower,
    When dew hangs on each little flower?
      Oh! it is Beauty.

    What melts the soldier's soul?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What can his love of fame control?
      'Tis Beauty;
    For oft, amid the battle's rage,
    Some lovely vision will engage
    His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:
      Such power has Beauty.

    What tames the savage mood?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What gives a polish to the rude?
      'Tis Beauty;
    What gives the peasant's lowly state
    A charm which wealth cannot create,
    And on the good alone will wait?
      'Tis faithful Beauty.

    Then let our favourite toast
      Be Beauty;
    Is it not king and peasant's boast?
      Yes, Beauty;
    Then let us guard with tender care
    The gentle, th' inspiring fair,
    And Love will a diviner air
      Impart to Beauty.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

      Star of descending Night!
        Lovely and fair,
      Robed in thy mellow light,
        Subtle and rare;
    Whence are thy silvery beams,
    That o'er lone ocean gleams,
    And in our crystal streams
        Dip their bright hair?

      Far in yon liquid sky,
        Where streamers play
      And the red lightnings fly,
        Hold'st thou thy way;
    Clouds may envelop thee,
    Winds rave o'er land and sea,
    O'er them thy march is free
        As thine own ray.

OH! WAFT ME TO THE FAIRY CLIME.

    Oh! waft me to the fairy clime
      Where Fancy loves to roam,
    Where Hope is ever in her prime,
      And Friendship has a home;
    There will I wander by the streams
      Where Song and Dance combine,
    Around my rosy waking dreams
      Ecstatic joys to twine.

    On Music's swell my thoughts will soar
      Above created things,
    And revel on the boundless shore
      Of rapt imaginings.
    The rolling spheres beyond earth's ken
      My fancy will explore,
    And seek, far from the haunts of men,
      The Poet's mystic lore.

    Love will add gladness to the scene,
      And strew my path with flowers;
    And Joy with Innocence will lean
      Amid my rosy bowers.
    Then waft me to the fairy clime
      Where Fancy loves to roam,
    Where Hope is ever in her prime,
      And Friendship has a home.

THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

    The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,
    Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?
      Can the doctor cure her woe
      When she will not let him know
      Why the tears incessant flow
        From the love-sick maid?

    The flaunting day, the flaunting day,
    She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!
      For she sits and pines alone,
      And will comfort take from none;
      Nay, the very colour's gone
        From the love-sick maid.

    The secret 's out, the secret 's out,
    A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!
      For she finds at e'ening's hour,
      In a rosy woodland bower,
      Charms worth a prince's dower
        To a love-sick maid.

ALEXANDER JAMIESON.

Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire,
on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of
Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he
settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful
mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he
was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses
with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the _Stirling
Journal_ newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed
one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of
Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit
a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated
about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next
morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours
afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of
varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply
regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in
Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford
evidence of power.

THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

_"Russian Air."_

    The maid who wove the rosy wreath
    With every flower--hath wrought a spell,
    And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
    And balmy sweets--I know full well,
    'Neath every bud, or blossom gay,
    There lurks a chain--Love's tyranny.

    Though round her ruby lips, enshrin'd,
    Sits stillness, soft as evening skies--
    Though crimson'd cheek you seldom find,
    Or glances from her downcast eyes--
    There lurks, unseen, a world of charms,
    Which ne'er betray young Love's alarms.

    O trust not to her silent tongue;
    Her settled calm, or absent smile;
    Nor dream that nymph, so fair and young,
    May not enchain in Love's soft guile;
    For where Love is--or what's Love's spell--
    No mortal knows--no tongue can tell.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] This song was addressed by Mr Jamieson to Miss Jane Morrison of
Alloa, the heroine of Motherwell's popular ballad of "Jeanie Morrison,"
and who had thus the singular good fortune to be celebrated by two
different poets. For some account of Miss Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, see
vol. iii. p. 233.

A SIGH AND A SMILE.

WELSH AIR--_"Sir William Watkin Wynne."_

    From Beauty's soft lip, like the balm of its roses,
    Or breath of the morning, a sigh took its flight;
    Nor far had it stray'd forth, when Pity proposes
    The wanderer should lodge in this bosom a night.

    But scarce had the guest, in that peaceful seclusion,
    His lodging secured, when a conflict arose,
    Each feeling was changed, every thought was delusion,
    Nor longer my breast knew the calm of repose.

    They say that young Love is a rosy-cheek'd bowyer,
    At random the shafts from his silken string fly,
    But surely the urchin of peace is destroyer,
    Whose arrows are dipp'd in the balm of a sigh.

    O yes! for he whisper'd, "To Beauty's shrine hie thee;
    There worship to Cupid, and wait yet awhile;
    A cure she can give, with the balm can supply thee,
    The wound from a sigh can be cured by a smile."

JOHN GOLDIE.

A short-lived poet and song-writer of some promise, John Goldie was born
at Ayr on the 22d December 1798. His father, who bore the same Christian
name, was a respectable shipmaster. Obtaining an ample education at the
academy of his native town, he became, in his fifteenth year, assistant
to a grocer in Paisley; he subsequently held a similar situation in a
stoneware and china shop in Glasgow. In 1821 he opened, on his own
account, a stoneware establishment at Ayr; but proving unfortunate in
business, he abandoned the concerns of trade. From his boyhood being
devoted to literature he now resolved on its cultivation as a means of
support. Already known as an occasional contributor, both in prose and
verse, to the public press, he received the appointment of assistant
editor of the _Ayr Courier_, and shortly after obtained the entire
literary superintendence of that journal. In 1821, he published a
pamphlet of respectable verses; and in the following year appeared as
the author of a duodecimo volume of "Poems and Songs," which he
inscribed to the Ettrick Shepherd. Of the compositions in the latter
publication, the greater portion, he intimates in the preface, "were
composed at an early age, chiefly betwixt the years of sixteen and
twenty;" and as the production of a very young man, the volume is
altogether creditable to his genius and taste.

Deprived of the editorship of the _Courier_, in consequence of a change
in the proprietary, Goldie proceeded to London, in the hope of forming
a connexion with some of the leading newspapers in the metropolis.
Unsuccessful in this effort, he formed the project of publishing _The
London Scotsman_, a newspaper to be chiefly devoted to the consideration
of Scottish affairs. Lacking that encouragement necessary to the
ultimate success of this adventure, he abandoned the scheme after the
third publication, and in very reduced circumstances returned to
Scotland. He now projected the _Paisley Advertiser_, of which the first
number appeared on the 9th October 1824. The editorship of this
newspaper he retained till his death, which took place suddenly on the
27th February 1826, in his twenty-eighth year.

Of a vigorous intellect, and possessed of a correct literary taste,
Goldie afforded excellent promise of eminence as a journalist. As a poet
and song-writer, a rich vein of humour pervades certain of his
compositions, while others are marked by a plaintive tenderness. Of
sociable and generous dispositions, he was much esteemed by a circle of
admiring friends. His personal appearance was pleasing, and his
countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.

AND CAN THY BOSOM?

AIR--_"Loudon's Bonnie Woods and Braes."_

    And can thy bosom bear the thought
      To part frae love and me, laddie?
    Are all those plighted vows forgot,
      Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?
    Canst thou forget the midnight hour,
    When in yon love-inspiring bower,
    You vow'd by every heavenly power
      You'd ne'er lo'e ane but me, laddie?
    Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--
    Win my heart and then deceive me?
    Oh! that heart will break, believe me,
      Gin' ye part wi' me, laddie.

    Aft ha'e ye roos'd my rosy cheek,
      Aft praised my sparkling e'e, laddie,
    Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,
      But love and live wi' me, laddie.
    But soon those cheeks will lose their red,
    Those eyes in endless sleep be hid,
    And 'neath the turf the heart be laid
      That beats for love and thee, laddie.
    Wilt thou--wilt thou gang and leave me--
    Win my heart and then deceive me?
    Oh! that heart will break, believe me,
      Gin ye part frae me, laddie.

    You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,
      Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,
    But, oh! the heart can never bear
      A love sae true as mine, laddie.
    But when that heart is laid at rest--
    That heart that lo'ed ye last and best--
    Oh! then the pangs that rend thy breast
      Will sharper be than mine, laddie.
    Broken vows will vex and grieve me,
    Till a broken heart relieve me--
    Yet its latest thought, believe me,
      Will be love an' thine, laddie.

SWEET'S THE DEW.

    Sweet's the dew-deck'd rose in June
      And lily fair to see, Annie,
    But there's ne'er a flower that blooms
      Is half so fair as thee, Annie.
    Beside those blooming cheeks o' thine
    The opening rose its beauties tine,
    Thy lips the rubies far outshine,
      Love sparkles in thine e'e, Annie.

    The snaw that decks yon mountain top
      Nae purer is than thee, Annie;
    The haughty mien and pridefu' look
      Are banish'd far frae thee, Annie.
    And in thy sweet angelic face
    Triumphant beams each modest grace;
    And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace
      A form sae bright as thine, Annie.

    Wha could behold thy rosy cheek
      And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie;
    What heart could view thy smiling looks,
      And plot to do thee wrang, Annie?
    Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,
    My heart, my soul, wi' thee I'll leave,
    And never, till I cease to breathe,
      I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.

ROBERT POLLOK.

Robert Pollok, author of the immortal poem, "The Course of Time," was
the son of a small farmer in the parish of Eaglesham, Renfrewshire,
where he was born on the 19th October 1798. With a short interval of
employment in the workshop of a cabinetmaker, he was engaged till his
seventeenth year in services about his father's farm. Resolving to
prepare for the ministry in the Secession Church, he took lessons in
classical learning at the parish school of Fenwick, Ayrshire, and in
twelve months fitted himself for the university. He attended the
literary and philosophical classes in Glasgow College, during five
sessions, and subsequently studied in the Divinity Hall of the United
Secession Church. He wrote verses in his boyhood, in his eighteenth year
composed a poetical essay, and afterwards produced respectable
translations from the Classics as college exercises. His great poem,
"The Course of Time," was commenced in December 1824, and finished
within the space of nineteen months. On the 24th March 1827, the poem
was published by Mr Blackwood; and on the 2d of the following May the
author received his license as a probationer. The extraordinary success
of his poem had excited strong anticipations in respect of his
professional career, but these were destined to disappointment. Pollok
only preached four times. His constitution, originally robust, had
suffered from over exertion in boyhood, and more recently from a course
of sedulous application in preparing for license, and in the production
of his poem. To recruit his wasted strength, a change of climate was
necessary, and that of Italy was recommended. The afflicted poet only
reached Southampton, where he died a few weeks after his arrival, on the
18th September 1827. In Millbrook churchyard, near Southampton, where
his remains were interred, a monument has been erected to his memory.

Besides his remarkable poem, Pollok published three short tales relative
to the sufferings of the Covenanters. He had projected a large work
respecting the influences which Christianity had exercised upon
literature. Since his death, several short poetical pieces from his pen
have, along with a memoir, been published by his brother. In person he
was of the ordinary height, and of symmetrical form. His complexion was
pale brown; his features small, and his eyes dark and piercing. "He
was," writes Mr Gabriel Neil, who enjoyed his friendship, "of plain
simple manners, with a well-cultivated mind; he loved debate, and took
pleasure in good-humoured controversy." The copyright of "The Course of
Time" continues to produce emolument to the family.

THE AFRICAN MAID.

    On the fierce savage cliffs that look down on the flood,
      Where to ocean the dark waves of Gabia haste,
    All lonely, a maid of black Africa stood,
      Gazing sad on the deep and the wide roaring waste.

    A bark for Columbia hung far on the tide,
      And still to that bark her dim wistful eye clave;
    Ah! well might she gaze--in the ship's hollow side,
      Moan'd her Zoopah in chains--in the chains of a slave.

    Like the statue of Sorrow, forgetting to weep,
      Long dimly she follow'd the vanishing sail,
    Till it melted away where clouds mantle the deep;
      Then thus o'er the billows she utter'd her wail:--

    "O my Zoopah come back! wilt thou leave me to woe?
      Come back, cruel ship, and take Monia too!
    Ah ye winds, wicked winds! what fiend bids ye blow
      To waft my dear Zoopah far, far from my view?

    "Great Spirit! why slumber'd the wrath of thy clouds,
      When the savage white men dragg'd my Zoopah away?
    Why linger'd the panther far back in his woods?
      Was the crocodile full of the flesh of his prey?

    "Ah cruel white monsters! plague poison their breath,
      And sleep never visit the place of their bed!
    On their children and wives, on their life and their death,
      Abide still the curse of an African maid!"

J. C. DENOVAN.

J. C. Denovan was born at Edinburgh in 1798. Early evincing a
predilection for a seafaring life, he was enabled to enter a sloop of
war, with the honorary rank of a midshipman. After accomplishing a
single voyage, he was necessitated, by the death of his father, to
abandon his nautical occupation, and to seek a livelihood in Edinburgh.
He now became, in his sixteenth year, apprentice to a grocer; and he
subsequently established himself as a coffee-roaster in the capital. He
died in 1827. Of amiable dispositions, he was an agreeable and
unassuming member of society. He courted the Muse to interest his hours
of leisure, and his poetical aspirations received the encouragement of
Sir Walter Scott and other men of letters.

OH DERMOT, DEAR LOVED ONE!

    Thou hast left me, dear Dermot! to cross the wide seas,
    And thy Norah lives grieving in sadness forlorn,
    She laments and looks back on the past happy days
    When thy presence had left her no object to mourn
             Those days that are past,
             Too joyous to last,
    A pang leaves behind them, 'tis Heaven's decree;
             No joy now is mine,
             In sadness I pine,
    Till Dermot, dear Dermot, returns back to me.

    O Dermot, dear Dermot! why, why didst thou leave
    The girl who holds thee so dear in her heart?
    Oh! couldst thou hold a thought that would cause her to grieve,
    Or think for one moment from Norah to part?
             Couldst thou reconcile
             To leave this dear isle,
    In a far unknown country, where dangers there be?
             Oh! for thy dear sake
             This poor heart will break,
    If thou, dear beloved one, return not to me.

    In silence I 'll weep till my Dermot doth come,
    Alone will I wander by moon, noon, and night,
    Still praying of Heaven to send him safe home
    To her who 'll embrace him with joy and delight.
             Then come, like a dove,
             To thy faithful love,
    Whose heart will entwine thee, fond, joyous, and free;
             From danger's alarms
             Speed to her open arms,
    O Dermot, dear loved one! return back to me.

JOHN IMLAH.

John Imlah, one of the sweetest and most patriotic of Scottish
song-writers, was born in North Street, Aberdeen, about the close of the
year 1799. His progenitors were farmers in the parish of Fyvie, but his
father followed the profession of an innkeeper. Of seven sons, born in
succession to his parents, the poet was the youngest. On completing an
ordinary education at the grammar-school, he was apprenticed to a
pianoforte maker in Aberdeen. Excelling as a piano-tuner he, in this
capacity, sought employment in London, and was fortunate in procuring an
engagement from the Messrs Broadwood. For the first six months of the
year he performed the duties of a tuner in the metropolis, and during
the remaining six months prosecuted his vocation in Scotland. Attached
to his native country, he took delight in celebrating her strains. He
composed songs from his boyhood. In 1827, he published "May Flowers," a
duodecimo volume of lyrics, chiefly in the Scottish dialect, which he
followed by a second volume of "Poems and Songs" in 1841. He contributed
to Macleod's "National Melodies" and the _Edinburgh Literary Journal_.
On the 9th January 1846, his death took place at Jamaica, whither he had
gone on a visit to one of his brothers.

Imlah was a person of amiable dispositions and agreeable manners. Of his
numerous lyrics, each is distinguished by a rich fancy, and several of
his songs will maintain a lasting place in the national minstrelsy.

KATHLEEN.

AIR--_"The Humours of Glen."_

    O distant but dear is that sweet island, wherein
      My hopes with my Kathleen and kindred abide;
    And far though I wander from thee, emerald Erin!
      No space can the links of my love-chain divide.
    Fairest spot of the earth! brightest gem of the ocean!
      How oft have I waken'd my wild harp in thee!
    While, with eye of expression, and heart of emotion,
      Listen'd, Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

    The bloom of the moss-rose, the blush of the morning,
      The soft cheek of Kathleen discloses their dye;
    What ruby can rival the lip of mavourneen?
      What sight-dazzling diamond can equal her eye?
    Her silken hair vies with the sunbeam in brightness,
      And white is her brow as the surf of the sea;
    Thy footstep is like to the fairy's in lightness,
      Of Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

    Fair muse of the minstrel! beloved of my bosom!
      As the song of thy praise and my passion I breathed,
    Thy fair fingers oft, with the triad leaf'd blossom,
      Sweet Erin's green emblem, my wild harp have wreathed;
    While with soft melting murmurs the bright river ran on,
      That by thy bower follows the sun to the sea;
    And oh! soon dawn the day I review the sweet Shannon
      And Kathleen mavourneen, cuishlih ma chree!

HIELAN' HEATHER.

AIR--_"O'er the Muir amang the Heather."_

      Hey for the Hielan' heather!
      Hey for the Hielan' heather!
    Dear to me, an' aye shall be,
      The bonnie braes o' Hielan' heather!

    The moss-muir black an' mountain blue,
      Whare mists at morn an' gloamin' gather;
    The craigs an' cairns o' hoary hue,
      Whare blooms the bonnie Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    Whare monie a wild bird wags its wing,
      Baith sweet o' sang an' fair o' feather;
    While cavern'd cliffs wi' echo ring,
      Amang the hills o' Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    Whare, light o' heart an' light o' heel,
      Young lads and lasses trip thegither;
    The native Norlan rant and reel
      Amang the halesome Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    The broom an' whin, by loch an' lin,
      Are tipp'd wi' gowd in simmer weather;
    How sweet an' fair! but meikle mair
      The purple bells o' Hielan' heather!
        Hey for the Hielan' heather!

    Whare'er I rest, whare'er I range,
      My fancy fondly travels thither;
    Nae countrie charms, nae customs change
      My feelings frae the Hielan' heather!
        Hey, for the Hielan' heather!

FAREWELL TO SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Kinloch."_

    Loved land of my kindred, farewell--and for ever!
      Oh! what can relief to the bosom impart;
    When fated with each fond endearment to sever,
      And hope its sweet sunshine withholds from the heart!
    Farewell, thou fair land! which, till life's pulse shall perish,
      Though doom'd to forego, I shall never forget,
    Wherever I wander, for thee will I cherish
      The dearest regard and the deepest regret.

    Farewell, ye great Grampians, cloud-robed and crested!
      Like your mists in the sunbeam ye melt in my sight;
    Your peaks are the king-eagle's thrones--where have rested
      The snow-falls of ages--eternally white.
    Ah! never again shall the falls of your fountains
      Their wild murmur'd music awake on mine ear;
    No more the lake's lustre, that mirrors your mountains,
      I'll pore on with pleasure--deep, lonely, yet dear.

    Yet--yet Caledonia! when slumber comes o'er me,
      Oh! oft will I dream of thee, far, far, away;
    But vain are the visions that rapture restore me,
      To waken and weep at the dawn of the day.
    Ere gone the last glimpse, faint and far o'er the ocean,
      Where yet my heart dwells--where it ever shall dwell,
    While tongue, sigh and tear, speak my spirit's emotion,
      My country--my kindred--farewell, oh farewell!

THE ROSE OF SEATON VALE.

    A bonnie Rose bloom'd wild and fair,
      As sweet a bud I trow
    As ever breathed the morning air,
      Or drank the evening dew.
    A Zephyr loved the blushing flower,
      With sigh and fond love tale;
    It woo'd within its briery bower
      The rose of Seaton Vale.

    With wakening kiss the Zephyr press'd
      This bud at morning light;
    At noon it fann'd its glowing breast,
      And nestled there at night.
    But other flowers sprung up thereby,
      And lured the roving gale;
    The Zephyr left to droop and die
      The Rose of Seaton Vale.

    A matchless maiden dwelt by Don,
      Loved by as fair a youth;
    Long had their young hearts throbb'd as one
      Wi' tenderness and truth.
    Thy warmest tear, soft Pity, pour--
      For Ellen's type and tale
    Are in that sweet, ill-fated flower,
      The Rose of Seaton Vale.

KATHERINE AND DONALD.

    Young Donald dearer loved than life
      The proud Dunallan's daughter;
    But, barr'd by feudal hate and strife,
      In vain he loved and sought her.
    She loved the Lord of Garry's glen,
      The chieftain of Clanronald;
    A thousand plaided Highlandmen
      Clasp'd the claymore for Donald.

    On Scotland rush'd the Danish hordes,
      Dunallan met his foemen;
    Beneath him bared ten thousand swords
      Of vassal, serf, and yeomen.
    The fray was fierce--and at its height
      Was seen a visor'd stranger,
    With red lance foremost in the fight,
      Unfearing Dane and danger.

    "Be praised--brave knight! thy steel hath striven
      The sharpest in the slaughter;
    Crave what thou wilt of me--though even
      My fair--my darling daughter!"
    He lifts the visor from his face--
      The chieftain of Clanronald!
    And foes enclasp in friends' embrace,
      Dunallan and young Donald.

    Dunallan's halls ring loud with glee--
      The feast-cup glads Glengarry;
    The joy that should for ever be
      When mutual lovers marry.
    The shout and shell the revellers raise,
      Dunallan and Clanronald;
    And minstrel measures pour to praise
      Fair Kath'rine and brave Donald!

GUID NIGHT, AN' JOY BE WI' YOU A'.

    Guid night, and joy be wi' you a'!
      Since it is sae that I maun gang;
    Short seem'd the gate to come, but ah!
      To gang again as wearie lang.
      Sic joyous nights come nae sae thrang
    That I sae sune sou'd haste awa';
      But since it's sae that I maun gae,
    Guid night, and joy be wi' ye a'!

    This night I ween we've had the heart
      To gar auld Time tak' to his feet;
    That makes us a' fu' laith to part,
      But aye mair fain again to meet!
      To dree the winter's drift and weet
    For sic a night is nocht ava,
      For hours the sweetest o' the sweet;
    Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

    Our bald-pow'd daddies here we've seen,
      In younker revels fidgin' fain;
    Our gray-hair'd grannies here hae been,
      Like daffin hizzies, young again!
      To mony a merrie auld Scot's strain
    We've deftly danced the time awa':
      We met in mirth--we part wi' pain,
    Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

    My nimble gray neighs at the yett,
      My shouthers roun' the plaid I throw;
    I've clapt the spur upon my buit,
      The guid braid bonnet on my brow!
      Then night is wearing late I trow--
    My hame lies mony a mile awa';
      The mair's my need to mount and go,
    Guid night, an' joy be wi' you a'!

THE GATHERING.[12]

    Rise, rise! Lowland and Highlandman,
      Bald sire to beardless son, each come and early;
    Rise, rise! mainland and islandmen,
      Belt on your broad claymores--fight for Prince Charlie;
            Down from the mountain steep,
            Up from the valley deep,
    Out from the clachan, the bothie, and shieling,
            Bugle and battle-drum
            Bid chief and vassal come,
    Bravely our bagpipes the pibroch is pealing.

    Men of the mountains--descendants of heroes!
      Heirs of the fame as the hills of your fathers;
    Say, shall the Southern--the Sassenach fear us
      When to the war-peal each plaided clan gathers?
            Too long on the trophied walls
            Of your ancestral halls,
    Red rust hath blunted the armour of Albin;
            Seize then, ye mountain Macs,
            Buckler and battle-axe,
    Lads of Lochaber, Braemar, and Breadalbin!

    When hath the tartan plaid mantled a coward?
      When did the blue bonnet crest the disloyal?
    Up, then, and crowd to the standard of Stuart,
      Follow your leader--the rightful--the royal!
            Chief of Clanronald,
            Donald Macdonald!
    Lovat! Lochiel! with the Grant and the Gordon!
            Rouse every kilted clan,
            Rouse every loyal man,
    Gun on the shoulder, and thigh the good sword on!

FOOTNOTES:

[12] A MS. copy of this song had been sent by the author to the Ettrick
Shepherd. Having been found among the Shepherd's papers after his
decease, it was regarded as his own composition, and has consequently
been included in the posthumous edition of his songs, published by the
Messrs Blackie. The song appears in Imlah's "May Flowers," published in
1827.

MARY.

AIR--_"The Dawtie."_

    There lives a young lassie
      Far down yon lang glen,
    How I lo'e that lassie
      There's nae ane can ken!
    Oh! a saint's faith may vary,
      But faithfu' I'll be--
    For weel I lo'e Mary,
      And Mary lo'es me.

    Red, red as the rowan
      Her smiling wee mou,
    An' white as the gowan
      Her breast and her brow;
    Wi' the foot o' a fairy
      She links o'er the lea--
    Oh! weel I lo'e Mary,
      An' Mary lo'es me.

    Where yon tall forest timmer,
      An' lowly broom bower,
    To the sunshine o' simmer,
      Spread verdure an' flower;
    There, when night clouds the cary,
      Beside her I'll be--
    For weel I lo'e Mary,
      An' Mary lo'es me!

OH! GIN I WERE WHERE GADIE RINS.[13]

    Oh! gin I were where Gadie rins,
    Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
    Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
        By the foot o' Bennachie.

    I've roam'd by Tweed, I've roam'd by Tay,
    By Border Nith, and Highland Spey,
    But dearer far to me than they
        The braes o' Bennachie.

    When blade and blossoms sprout in spring,
    And bid the burdies wag the wing,
    They blithely bob, and soar, and sing
        By the foot o' Bennachie.

    When simmer cleeds the varied scene
    Wi' licht o' gowd and leaves o' green,
    I fain would be where aft I've been
        At the foot o' Bennachie.

    When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn,
    And barn-yards stored wi' stooks o' corn,
    'Tis blithe to toom the clyack horn
        At the foot o' Bennachie.

    When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill
    O'er icy burn and sheeted hill,
    The ingle neuk is gleesome still
        At the foot o' Bennachie.

    Though few to welcome me remain,
    Though a' I loved be dead and gane,
    I'll back, though I should live alane,
        To the foot o' Bennachie.

    Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins,
    Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
    Oh, gin I were where Gadie rins
        By the foot o' Bennachie.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] The chorus of this song, which is said to have been originally
connected with a plaintive Jacobite ditty, now lost, has suggested
several modern songs similar in manner and sentiment. Imlah composed two
songs with this chorus. The earlier of these compositions appears in the
"May Flowers." It is evidently founded upon a rumour, which prevailed in
Aberdeenshire during the first quarter of the century, to the effect,
that a Scottish officer, serving in Egypt, had been much affected on
hearing a soldier's wife _crooning_ to herself the original words of the
air. We have inserted in the text Imlah's second version, as being
somewhat smoother in versification. It is the only song which we have
transcribed from his volume, published in 1841. But the most popular
words which have been attached to the air and chorus were the
composition of a student in one of the colleges of Aberdeen, nearly
thirty years since, who is now an able and accomplished clergyman of the
Scottish Church. Having received the chorus and heard the air from a
comrade, he immediately composed the following verses, here printed from
the author's MS.:--

        Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,
        Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins,
        Oh, an' I were where Gadie rins,
          At the back o' Bennachie!

    I wish I were where Gadie rins,
    'Mong fragrant heath and yellow whins,
    Or, brawlin' doun the bosky lins
        At the back o' Bennachie;

    To hear ance mair the blackbird's sang,
    To wander birks and braes amang,
    Wi' friens and fav'rites, left sae lang,
        At the back o' Bennachie.

    How mony a day, in blithe spring-time,
    How mony a day, in summer's prime,
    I wil'd awa' my careless time
        On the heights o' Bennachie.

    Ah! Fortune's flowers wi' thorns are rife,
    And walth is won wi' grief and strife--
    Ae day gie me o' youthfu' life
        At the back o' Bennachie.

    Oh, Mary! there, on ilka nicht,
    When baith our hearts were young and licht,
    We've wander'd whan the moon was bricht
        Wi' speeches fond and free.

    Oh! ance, ance mair where Gadie rins,
    Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins--
    Oh! micht I dee where Gadie rins
        At the back o' Bennachie.

"The air," communicates the reverend author of this song, "is
undoubtedly old, from its resemblance to several Gaelic and Irish airs.
'Cuir's chiste moir me,' and several others, might be thought to have
been originally the same _in the first part_. The second part of the air
is, I think, modern." The Gadie is a rivulet, and Bennachie a mountain,
in Aberdeenshire.

JOHN TWEEDIE.

John Tweedie was born in the year 1800, in the vicinity of Peebles,
where his father was a shepherd. Obtaining a classical education, he
proceeded to the University of Edinburgh, to prosecute his studies for
the Established Church. By acting as a tutor during the summer months,
he was enabled to support himself at the university, and after the usual
curriculum, he was licensed as a probationer. Though possessed of
popular talents as a preacher, he was not successful in obtaining a
living in the Church. During his probationary career, he was employed as
a tutor in the family of the minister of Newbattle, assisted in the
parish of Eddleston, and ultimately became missionary at Stockbridge,
Edinburgh. He died at Linkfieldhall, Musselburgh, on the 29th February
1844. Tweedie was a person of amiable dispositions and unaffected piety;
he did not much cultivate his gifts as a poet, but the following song
from his pen, to the old air, "Saw ye my Maggie," has received a
considerable measure of popularity.[14]

FOOTNOTES:

[14] In the "Cottagers of Glendale," Mr H. S. Riddell alludes to two of
Tweedie's brothers, who perished among the snow in the manner described
in that poem. The present memoir is prepared from materials chiefly
supplied by Mr Riddell.

SAW YE MY ANNIE?

    Saw ye my Annie,
    Saw ye my Annie,
    Saw ye my Annie,
            Wading 'mang the dew?
    My Annie walks as light
    As shadow in the night
    Or downy cloudlet light
            Alang the fields o' blue.

    What like is your Annie,
    What like is your Annie,
    What like is your Annie,
            That we may ken her be?
    She's fair as nature's flush,
    Blithe as dawning's blush,
    And gentle as the hush
            When e'ening faulds her e'e.

    Yonder comes my Annie,
    Yonder comes my Annie,
    Yonder comes my Annie,
            Bounding o'er the lea.
    Lammies play before her,
    Birdies whistle o'er her,
    I mysell adore her,
            In heavenly ecstasy.

    Come to my arms, my Annie,
    Come to my arms, my Annie,
    Come to my arms, my Annie,
            Speed, speed, like winged day.
    My Annie's rosy cheek
    Smiled fair as morning's streak,
    We felt, but couldna speak,
            'Neath love's enraptured sway.

THOMAS ATKINSON.

Thomas Atkinson, a respectable writer of prose and verse, was born at
Glasgow about the year 1800. Having completed an apprenticeship to Mr
Turnbull, bookseller, Trongate, he entered into copartnership with Mr
David Robertson, subsequently King's publisher in the city. Of active
business habits, he conducted, along with his partner, an extensive
bookselling trade, yet found leisure for the pursuits of elegant
literature. At an early age he published "The Sextuple Alliance," a
series of poems on the subject of Napoleon Bonaparte, which afforded
considerable promise, and received the commendation of Sir Walter Scott.
In 1827, he published "The Ant," a work in two volumes, one of which
consists of entirely original, and the other of selected matter. "The
Chameleon," a publication of the nature of an annual, commenced in 1831,
and extended to three octavo volumes. Of this work, a _melange_ of prose
and poetry, the contents for the greater part were of his own
composition. The last volume appeared in September 1833, shortly before
his death.

Deeply interested in the public affairs, Atkinson was distinguished as a
public speaker. At the general election, subsequent to the passing of
the Reform Bill, he was invited to become a candidate in the liberal
interest for the parliamentary representation of the Stirling burghs, in
opposition to Lord Dalmeny, who was returned. Naturally of a sound
constitution, the exertions of his political canvass superinduced an
illness, which terminated in pulmonary consumption. During a voyage he
had undertaken to Barbadoes for the recovery of his health, he died at
sea on the 10th October 1833. His remains, placed in an oaken coffin,
which he had taken along with him, were buried in the deep. He
bequeathed a sum, to be applied, after accumulation, in erecting a
building in Glasgow for scientific purposes. A monument to his memory
has been erected in the Glasgow Necropolis. The following stanzas were
composed by the dying poet at the outset of his voyage, and less than
three weeks prior to his decease; they are dated the "River Mersey,"
21st September 1833:--

    I could not, as I gazed my last--there was on me a spell,
    In all its simple agony--breathe that lone word--"Farewell,"
    Which hath no hope that clings to it, the closer as it dies,
    In song alone 'twould pass the lips that loved the dear disguise.

    I go across a bluer wave than now girds round my bark,
    As forth the dove went trembling--but to my Father's ark
    Shall I return? I may not ask my doubting heart, but yet
    To hope and wish in one--how hard the lesson to forget.

    But drooping head and feeble limbs--and, oh! a beating heart,
    Remind the vow'd to sing no more of all his weary part;
    Yet, with a voice that trembles as the sounds unloose the spell,
    In this, his last and rudest lay, he now can breathe--"Farewell."

In the "Chameleon" several of Mr Atkinson's songs are set to music, but,
with the exception of "Mary Shearer," none of them are likely to obtain
popularity.

MARY SHEARER.

    She's aff and awa', like the lang summer-day,
      And our hearts and our hills are now lanesome and dreary;
    The sun-blinks o' June will come back ower the brae,
      But lang for blithe Mary fu' mony may weary.
          For mair hearts than mine
            Kenn'd o' nane that were dearer;
          But nane mair will pine
            For the sweet Mary Shearer!

    She cam' wi' the spring, just like ane o' its flowers,
      And the blue-bell and Mary baith blossom'd thegither;
    The bloom o' the mountain again will be ours,
      But the rose o' the valley nae mair will come hither.
          Their sweet breath is fled--
            Her kind looks still endear her;
          For the heart maun be dead
            That forgets Mary Shearer!

    Than her brow ne'er a fairer wi' jewels was hung;
      An e'e that was brighter ne'er glanced on a lover;
    Sounds safter ne'er dropt frae an aye-saying tongue,
      Nor mair pure is the white o' her bridal-bed cover.
          Oh! he maun be bless'd
            Wha's allow'd to be near her;
          For the fairest and best
            O' her kind 's Mary Shearer!

    But farewell Glenlin, and Dunoon, and Loch Striven,
      My country and kin,--since I 've sae lov'd the stranger;
    Whare she 's been maun be either a pine or a heaven--
      Sae across the braid warld for a while I'm a ranger.
           Though I try to forget,
             In my heart still I 'll wear her,
           For mine may be yet--
             Name and a'--Mary Shearer!

WILLIAM GARDINER.

William Gardiner, the author of "Scotland's Hills," was born at Perth
about the year 1800. He established himself as a bookseller in
Cupar-Fife. During a period of residence in Dundee, in acquiring a
knowledge of his trade, he formed the acquaintance of the poet Vedder.
With the assistance of this gifted individual, he composed his popular
song of "Scotland's Hills." Introduced at a theatre in Dundee, it was
received with marked approbation. It was first printed, in January 1829,
in the _Fife Herald_ newspaper, with a humorous preface by Vedder, and
was afterwards copied into the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_. It has
since found a place in many of the collections of Scottish song, and has
three different times been set to music.

Gardiner was unfortunate as a bookseller, and ultimately obtained
employment in the publishing office of the _Fife Herald_. He died at
Perth on the 4th July 1845. Some years before his death, he published a
volume of original and selected compositions, under the title of
"Gardiner's Miscellany." He was a person of amiable dispositions; and to
other good qualities of a personal character, added considerable skill
in music.

O SCOTLAND'S HILLS FOR ME![15]

    O these are not my country's hills,
      Though they seem bright and fair;
    Though flow'rets deck their verdant sides,
      The heather blooms not there.
    Let me behold the mountain steep,
      And wild deer roaming free--
    The heathy glen, the ravine deep--
      O Scotland's hills for me!

    The rose, through all this garden-land,
      May shed its rich perfume,
    But I would rather wander 'mong
      My country's bonnie broom.
    There sings the shepherd on the hill,
      The ploughman on the lea;
    There lives my blithesome mountain maid,
      O Scotland's hills for me!

    The throstle and the nightingale
      May warble sweeter strains
    Than thrills at lovely gloaming hour
      O'er Scotland's daisied plains;
    Give me the merle's mellow note,
      The linnet's liquid lay;
    The laverocks on the roseate cloud--
      O Scotland's hills for me!

    And I would rather roam beneath
      Thy scowling winter skies,
    Than listlessly attune my lyre
      Where sun-bright flowers arise.
    The baron's hall, the peasant's cot
      Protect alike the free;
    The tyrant dies who breathes thine air;
      O Scotland's hills for me!

FOOTNOTES:

[15] At the request of one Roger, a music-master in Edinburgh, who had
obtained a copy of the first two stanzas, a third was added by Mr Robert
Chambers, and in this form the song appears in some of the collections.
Mr Chambers's stanza proceeds thus:--

    In southern climes the radiant sun
      A brighter light displays;
    But I love best his milder beams
      That shine on Scotland's braes.
    Then dear, romantic native land
      If e'er I roam from thee,
    I'll ne'er forget the cheering lay;
      O Scotland's hills for me!

ROBERT HOGG.

Robert Hogg was born in the parish of Stobo, about the close of the
century. His father was William Hogg, eldest brother of the Ettrick
Shepherd. William Hogg was also a shepherd, a sensible, well-conducted
man, and possessed of considerable literary talent. Receiving a
classical education at the grammar-school of Peebles, Robert proceeded
to the University of Edinburgh, with the intention of studying for the
Church. Abandoning his original views, he became corrector of the press,
or reader in the printing-office of Messrs Ballantyne. John Wilson, the
future vocalist, was his yoke-fellow in office. His official duties were
arduous, but he contrived to find leisure for contributing, both in
prose and verse, to the periodicals. His literary talents attracted the
favourable notice of Mr J. G. Lockhart, who, on being appointed, in
1825, to conduct the _Quarterly Review_, secured his services as
secretary or literary assistant. He therefore proceeded to London, but
as it was found there was not sufficient occasion for his services in
his new appointment, he returned in a few months to the duties of his
former situation. For a short period he acted as amanuensis to Sir
Walter Scott, while the "Life of Napoleon" was in progress. According to
his own account,[16] this must have been no relief from his ordinary
toils, for Sir Walter was at his task from early morning till almost
evening, excepting only two short spaces for meals. When _Chambers's
Edinburgh Journal_ was commenced, Hogg was asked by his former
schoolfellow, Mr Robert Chambers, to undertake the duties of assistant
editor, on a salary superior to that which he then received; but this
office, from a conscientious scruple about his ability to give
satisfaction, he was led to decline. He was an extensive contributor,
both in prose and verse, to the two first volumes of this popular
periodical; but before the work had gone further, his health began to
give way, and he retired to his father's house in Peeblesshire, where he
died in 1834. He left a young wife and one child.

Robert Hogg was of low stature and of retiring manners. He was fond of
humour, but was possessed of the strictest integrity and purity of
heart. His compositions are chiefly scattered among the contemporary
periodical literature. He contributed songs to the "Scottish and Irish
Minstrels" and "Select Melodies" of R. A. Smith; and a ballad, entitled
"The Tweeddale Raide," composed in his youth, was inserted by his uncle
in the "Mountain Bard." Those which appear in the present work are
transcribed from a small periodical, entitled "The Rainbow," published
at Edinburgh, in 1821, by R. Ireland; and from the Author's Album, in
the possession of Mr Henry Scott Riddell, to whom it was presented by
his parents after his decease. In the "Rainbow," several of Hogg's
poetical pieces are translations from the German, and from the Latin of
Buchanan. All his compositions evince taste and felicity of expression,
but they are defective in startling originality and power.[17]

FOOTNOTES:

[16] See Lockhart's "Life of Sir Walter Scott."

[17] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr Robert Chambers for
many of the particulars contained in this memoir.

QUEEN OF FAIRIE'S SONG.

    Haste, all ye fairy elves, hither to me,
    Over the holme so green, over the lea,
    Over the corrie, and down by the lake,
    Cross ye the mountain-burn, thread ye the brake,
    Stop not at muirland, wide river, nor sea:
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

    Come when the moonbeam bright sleeps on the hill;
    Come at the dead of night when all is still;
    Come over mountain steep, come over brae,
    Through holt and valley deep, through glen-head gray;
    Come from the forest glade and greenwood tree;
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

    Were ye by woodland or cleugh of the brae,
    Were ye by ocean rock dash'd by the spray,
    Were ye by sunny dell up in the ben,
    Or by the braken howe far down the glen,
    Or by the river side; where'er ye be,
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to-night,
    Haste to your revel sports gleesome and light,
    To bathe in the dew-drops, and bask in the Leven,
    And dance on the moonbeams far up the heaven,
    Then sleep on the rosebuds that bloom on the lea;
    Hasten, ye fairy elves, hither to me!

WHEN AUTUMN COMES.

    When autumn comes an' heather bells
    Bloom bonnie owre yon moorland fells,
    An' corn that waves on lowland dales
        Is yellow ripe appearing;

    Bonnie lassie will ye gang
    Shear wi' me the hale day lang;
    An' love will mak' us eithly bang
        The weary toil o' shearing?

    An' if the lasses should envy,
    Or say we love, then you an' I
    Will pass ilk ither slyly by,
        As if we werena caring.

    But aye I wi' my heuk will whang
    The thistles, if in prickles strang
    Your bonnie milk-white hands they wrang,
        When we gang to the shearing.

    An' aye we'll haud our rig afore,
    An' ply to hae the shearing o'er,
    Syne you will soon forget you bore
        Your neighbours' jibes and jeering.

    For then, my lassie, we'll be wed,
    When we hae proof o' ither had,
    An' nae mair need to mind what's said
        When we're thegither shearing.

BONNIE PEGGIE, O!

    Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
    Down ayont the gowan knowe, bonnie Peggie, O!
        When the siller burn rins clear,
        When the rose blooms on the brier,
    An' where there is none to hear, bonnie Peggie, O!

    I hae lo'ed you e'en an' morn, bonnie Peggie, O!
    You hae laugh'd my love to scorn, bonnie Peggie, O!
        My heart's been sick and sair,
        But it shall be sae nae mair,
    I've now gotten a' my care, bonnie Peggie, O!

    You hae said you love me too, bonnie Peggie, O!
    An' you've sworn you will be true, bonnie Peggie, O!
        Let the world gae as it will,
        Be it weel or be it ill,
    Nae hap our joy shall spill, bonnie Peggie, O!

    Gang wi' me to yonder howe, bonnie Peggie, O!
    Where the flowers o' simmer grow, bonnie Peggie, O!
        Nae mair my love is cross'd,
        Sorrow's sairest pang is past,
    I am happy at the last, bonnie Peggie, O!

A WISH BURST.

    Oh, to bound o'er the bonnie blue sea,
      With the winds and waves for guides,
    From all the wants of Nature free
      And all her ties besides.
    Beyond where footstep ever trode
      Would I hold my onward way,
    As wild as the waves on which I rode,
      And fearless too as they.

    The angry winds with lengthen'd sweep
      Were music to mine ear;
    I'd mark the gulfs of the yawning deep
      Close round me without fear.
    When winter storms burst from the cloud
      And trouble the ocean's breast,
    I'd joy me in their roaring loud,
      And mid their war find rest.

    By islands fair in the ocean placed,
      With waves all murmuring round,
    My wayward course should still be traced,
      And still no home be found.
    When calm and peaceful sleeps the tide,
      And men look out to sea,
    My bark in silence by should glide,
      Their wonder and awe to be.

    When sultry summer suns prevail,
      And rest on the parching land,
    The cool sea breeze would I inhale,
      O'er the ocean breathing bland.
    A restless sprite, that likes delight,
      In calm and tempest found,
    'Twere joy to me o'er the bonnie blue sea
      For ever and aye to bound.

I LOVE THE MERRY MOONLIGHT.[18]

    I love the merry moonlight,
      So wooingly it dances,
    At midnight hours, round leaves and flowers,
      On which the fresh dew glances.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      On lake and pool so brightly
    It pours its beams, and in the stream's
      Rough current leaps so lightly.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      It ever shines so cheerily
    When night clouds flit, that, but for it,
      Would cast a shade so drearily.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      For when it gleams so mildly
    The passions rest that rule the breast
      At other times so wildly.

    I love the merry moonlight,
      For 'neath it I can borrow
    Such blissful dreams, that this world seems
      Without a sin or sorrow.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] Printed from the author's MS., in the possession of Mr H. S.
Riddell.

OH, WHAT ARE THE CHAINS OF LOVE MADE OF?[19]

    Oh, what are the chains of Love made of,
      The only bonds that can,
    As iron gyves the body, thrall
      The free-born soul of man?

    Can you twist a rope of beams of the sun,
      Or have you power to seize,
    And round your hand, like threads of silk,
      Wind up the wandering breeze?

    Can you collect the morning dew
      And, with the greatest pains,
    Beat every drop into a link,
      And of these links make chains?

    More fleeting in their nature still,
      And less substantial are
    Than sunbeam, breeze, and drop of dew,
      Smile, sigh, and tear--by far.

    And yet of these Love's chains are made,
      The only bonds that can,
    As iron gyves the body, thrall
      The free-born soul of man.

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Printed for the first time from the original MS.

JOHN WRIGHT.

A son of genius and of misfortune, John Wright was born on the 1st
September 1805, at the farm-house of Auchincloigh, in the parish of
Sorn, Ayrshire. From his mother, a woman of much originality and
shrewdness, he inherited a strong inclination towards intellectual
culture. His school education was circumscribed, but he experienced
delight in improving his mind, by solitary musings amidst the amenities
of the vicinity of Galston, a village to which his father had removed.
At the age of seven, he began to assist his father in his occupation of
a coal driver; and in his thirteenth year he was apprenticed to the
loom. His master supplied him with books, which he perused with avidity,
and he took an active part in the weekly meetings of apprentices for
mutual literary improvement; but his chief happiness was still
experienced in lonely rambles amidst the interesting scenes of the
neighbourhood, which, often celebrated by the poets, were especially
calculated to foment his own rapidly developing fancy. He fell in love,
was accepted, and ultimately cast off--incidents which afforded him
opportunities of celebrating the charms, and deploring the inconstancy
of the fair. He composed a poem, of fifteen hundred lines, entitled
"Mahomet, or the Hegira," and performed the extraordinary mental effort
of retaining the whole on his memory, at the period being unable to
write. "The Retrospect," a poem of more matured power, was announced in
1824. At the recommendation of friends, having proceeded to Edinburgh to
seek the counsel of men of letters, he submitted the MS. of his poem to
Professor Wilson, Dr M'Crie, Mr Glassford Bell, and others, who
severally expressed their approval, and commended a publication. "The
Retrospect," accordingly, appeared with a numerous list of subscribers,
and was well received by the press. The poet now removed to Cambuslang,
near Glasgow, where he continued to prosecute his occupation of weaving.
He entered into the married state by espousing Margaret Chalmers, a
young woman of respectable connexions and considerable literary tastes.
The desire of obtaining funds to afford change of climate to his wife,
who was suffering from impaired health, induced him to propose a second
edition of his poems, to be published by subscription. During the course
of his canvass, he unfortunately contracted those habits of intemperance
which have proved the bane of so many of the sons of genius. Returning
to the loom at Cambuslang, he began to exchange the pleasures of the
family hearth for the boisterous excitement of the tavern. He separated
from his wife and children, and became the victim of dissipation. In
1853, some of his literary friends published the whole of his poetical
works in a duodecimo volume, in the hope of procuring the means of
extricating him from his painful condition. The attempt did not succeed.
He died in an hospital in Glasgow, of fever, contracted by intemperance.
As a poet, he was possessed of a rich fancy, with strong descriptive
powers. His "Retrospect" abounds with beautiful passages; and some of
his shorter poems and songs are destined to survive.

AN AUTUMNAL CLOUD.

    Oh! would I were throned on yon glossy golden cloud,
    Soaring to heaven with the eagle so proud,
            Floating o'er the sky
            Like a spirit, to descry
            Each bright realm,--and, when I die,
                May it be my shroud!

    I would skim afar o'er ocean, and drink of bliss my fill,
    O'er the thunders of Ni'gara and cataracts of Nile,--
            With rising rainbows wreathed,
            In mist and darkness sheathed,
            Where nought but spirits breathed
                Around me the while.

    Above the mighty Alps (o'er the tempest's angry god
    Careering on the avalanche) should be my bless'd abode.
            There, where Nature lowers more wild
            Than her most uncultured child,
            Revels beauty--as one smiled
                O'er life's darkest mood.

    Our aerial flight should be where eye hath never been,
    O'er the stormy Polar deep, where the icy Alps are seen,
            Where Death sits, crested high,
            As he would invade the sky,
            Whilst the living valleys lie
                In their beautiful green!

    Spirit of the peaceful autumnal eve!
    Child of enchantment! behind thee leave
            Thy semblance mantled o'er me;
            Too full thy tide of glory
            For Fancy to restore thee,
                Or Memory give!

THE MAIDEN FAIR.

    The moon hung o'er the gay greenwood,
      The greenwood o'er the mossy stream,
    That roll'd in rapture's wildest mood,
      And flutter'd in the fairy beam.
    Through light clouds flash'd the fitful gleam
      O'er hill and dell,--all Nature lay
    Wrapp'd in enchantment, like the dream
      Of her that charm'd my homeward way!

    Long had I mark'd thee, maiden fair!
      And drunk of bliss from thy dark eye,
    And still, to feed my fond despair,
      Bless'd thy approach, and, passing by,
    I turn'd me round to gaze and sigh,
      In worship wild, and wish'd thee mine,
    On that fair breast to live and die,
      O'er-power'd with transport so divine!

    Still sacred be that hour to love,
      And dear the season of its birth,
    And fair the glade, and green the grove,
      Its bowers ne'er droop in wintry dearth
    Of melody and woodland mirth!--
      The hour, the spot, so dear to me!
    That wean'd my soul from all on earth,
      To be for ever bless'd in thee.

THE OLD BLIGHTED THORN.

    All night, by the pathway that crosses the moor,
      I waited on Mary, I linger'd till morn,
    Yet thought her not false--she had ever been true
      To her tryst by the old blighted thorn.

    I had heard of Love lighting to darken the heart,
      Fickle, fleeting as wind and the dews of the morn;
    Such were not my fears, though I sigh'd all night long,
      And wept 'neath the old blighted thorn.

    The snows, that were deep, had awaken'd my dread,
      I mark'd as footprints far below by the burn;
    I sped to the valley--I found her deep sunk,
      On her way to the old blighted thorn!

    I whisper'd, "My Mary!"--she spoke not: I caught
      Her hand, press'd her pale cheek--'twas icy and cold;
    Then sunk on her bosom--its throbbings were o'er--
      Nor knew how I quitted my hold.

THE WRECKED MARINER.

    Stay, proud bird of the shore!
      Carry my last breath with thee to the cliff,
      Where waits our shatter'd skiff--
    One that shall mark nor it nor lover more.

    Fan with thy plumage bright
      Her heaving heart to rest, as thou dost mine;
      And, gently to divine
    The tearful tale, flap out her beacon-light.

    Again swoop out to sea,
      With lone and lingering wail--then lay thy head,
      As thou thyself wert dead,
    Upon her breast, that she may weep for me.

    Now let her bid false Hope
      For ever hide her beam, nor trust again
      The peace-bereaving strain--
    Life has, but still far hence, choice flowers to crop.

    Oh! bid not her repine,
      And deem my loss too bitter to be borne,
      Yet all of passion scorn
    But the mild, deep'ning memory of mine.

    Thou art away, sweet wind!
      Bear the last trickling tear-drop on thy wing,
      And o'er her bosom fling
    The love-fraught pearly shower till rest it find!

JOSEPH GRANT.

Joseph Grant, a short-lived poet and prose writer, was born on the farm
of Affrusk, parish of Banchory-Ternan, Kincardineshire, on the 26th of
May 1805. He was instructed in the ordinary branches at the parish
school, and employed as a youth in desultory labour about his father's
farm. From boyhood he cherished a passionate love for reading, and was
no less ardent in his admiration of the picturesque and beautiful in
nature. So early as his fourteenth year he composed verses of some
merit. In 1828, he published "Juvenile Lays," a collection of poems and
songs; and in 1830, "Kincardineshire Traditions"--a small volume of
ballads--both of which obtained a favourable reception. Desirous of
emanating from the retirement of his native parish, he accepted, in
1831, the situation of assistant to a shop-keeper in Stonehaven, and
soon afterwards proceeded to Dundee, where he was employed in the office
of the _Dundee Guardian_ newspaper, and subsequently as clerk to a
respectable writer.

Grant furnished a series of tales and sketches for _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_. In 1834, he published a second small volume of "Poems and
Songs;" and subsequently, in the same year, committed to the press a
prose work, entitled "Tales of the Glens," which he did not, however,
survive to publish. After an illness of fifteen weeks, of a pulmonary
complaint, he died on the 14th April 1835, in his thirtieth year. His
remains were interred in the churchyard of Strachan, Kincardineshire,
where a tombstone, inscribed with some elegiac verses, has been erected
to his memory. The "Tales of the Glens" were published shortly after his
decease, under the editorial care of the late Mr James M'Cosh, of
Dundee, editor of the _Northern Warder_ newspaper; and, in 1836, an
edition of his collected works was published at Edinburgh, with a
biographical preface by the poet Nicol.

Of a fine genius, a gentle and amiable nature, and pure Christian
sentiments, Grant afforded eminent promise, with a prolonged career, of
becoming an ornament to literature. Cut down in the bloom of youth, his
elegy has been recorded by the Brechin poet, Alexander Laing--

    "A kinder, warmer heart than his
      Was ne'er to minstrel given;
    And kinder, holier sympathies
      Ne'er sought their native heaven."

THE BLACKBIRD'S HYMN IS SWEET.

    The blackbird's hymn is sweet
      At fall of gloaming,
    When slow, o'er grove and hill,
      Night's shades are coming;
    But there is a sound that far
      More deeply moves us--
    The low sweet voice of her
      Who truly loves us.

    Fair is the evening star
      Rising in glory,
    O'er the dark hill's brow,
      Where mists are hoary;
    But the star whose rays
      The heart falls nearest,
    Is the love-speaking eye
      Of our heart's dearest.

    Oh, lonely, lonely is
      The human bosom,
    That ne'er has nursed the sweets
      Of young Love's blossom!
    The loveliest breast is like
      A starless morning,
    When clouds frown dark and cold,
      And storms are forming.

LOVE'S ADIEU.

    The e'e o' the dawn, Eliza,
      Blinks over the dark green sea,
    An' the moon 's creepin' down to the hill-tap,
      Richt dim and drowsilie.
    An' the music o' the mornin'
      Is murmurin' alang the air;
    Yet still my dowie heart lingers
      To catch one sweet throb mair.

    We've been as blest, Eliza,
      As children o' earth can be,
    Though my fondest wish has been knit by
      The bonds of povertie;
    An' through life's misty sojourn,
      That still may be our fa',
    But hearts that are link'd for ever
      Ha'e strength to bear it a'.

    The cot by the mutterin' burnie,
      Its wee bit garden an' field,
    May ha'e mair o' the blessin's o' Heaven
      Than lichts o' the lordliest bield;
    There 's many a young brow braided
      Wi' jewels o' far-off isles,
    But woe may be drinkin' the heart-springs,
      While we see nought but smiles.

    But adieu, my ain Eliza!
      Where'er my wanderin's be,
    Undyin' remembrance will make thee
      The star o' my destinie;
    An' well I ken, thou loved one,
      That aye, till I return,
    Thou 'lt treasure pure faith in thy bosom,
      Like a gem in a gowden urn.

DUGALD MOORE.

A poet of remarkable ingenuity and power, Dugald Moore was born in
Stockwell Street, Glasgow, in 1805. His father, who was a private
soldier in one of the Highland regiments, died early in life, leaving
his mother in circumstances of poverty. From his mother's private
tuition, he received the whole amount of his juvenile education. When a
child he was sent to serve as a tobacco-boy for a small pittance of
wages, and as a youth was received into the copper-printing branch of
the establishment of Messrs James Lumsden and Son, booksellers, Queen
Street. He very early began to write verses, and some of his
compositions having attracted the notice of Mr Lumsden, senior, that
benevolent gentleman afforded him every encouragement in the prosecution
of his literary tastes. Through Mr Lumsden's personal exertions in
procuring subscribers, he was enabled to lay before the public in 1829 a
volume of poems entitled "The African, a Tale, and other Poems." Of this
work a second edition was required in the following year, when he
likewise gave to the world a second volume, with the title "Scenes from
the Flood; the Tenth Plague, and other Poems." "The Bridal Night, and
other Poems," a volume somewhat larger than its predecessors, appeared
from his pen in 1831. The profits of these publications enabled him to
commence on his own account as a bookseller and stationer in the city.
His shop, No. 96 Queen Street, became the rendezvous of men of letters,
and many of the influential families gave its occupant the benefit of
their custom.

In 1833, Moore published "The Bard of the North, a series of Poetical
Tales, illustrative of Highland Scenery and Character;" in 1835, "The
Hour of Retribution, and other Poems;" and in 1839, "The Devoted One,
and other Poems." He died unmarried, after a brief illness, on the 2d
January 1841, in his thirty-sixth year, leaving a competency for the
support of his aged mother. Buried in the Necropolis of the city, a
massive monument, surmounted by a bust, has been raised by his personal
friends in tribute to his memory. Though slightly known to fame, Moore
is entitled to rank among the most gifted of the modern national poets.
Possessed of a vigorous conception, a lofty fancy, intense energy of
feeling, and remarkable powers of versification, his poetry is
everywhere impressed with the most decided indications of genius. He has
chosen the grandest subjects, which he has adorned with the richest
illustration, and an imagery copious and sublime. Had he occupied his
Muse with themes less exalted, he might have enjoyed a wider temporary
popularity; as it is, his poems will find admirers in future times.

RISE, MY LOVE.

    Rise, my love! the moon, unclouded,
      Wanders o'er the dark blue sea;
    Sleep the tyrant's eye has shrouded,
      Hynda comes to set thee free!
    Leave those vaults of pain and sorrow,
      On the long and dreaming deep;
    A bower will greet us ere to-morrow,
      Where our eyes may cease to weep.

    Oh! some little isle of gladness,
      Smiling in the waters clear,
    Where the dreary tone of sadness
      Never smote the lonely ear--
    Soon will greet us, and deliver
      Souls so true, to freedom's plan;
    Death may sunder us, but never
      Tyrant's threats, nor fetters can.

    Then our lute's exulting numbers,
      Unrestrain'd will wander on,
    While the night has seal'd in slumbers,
      Fair creation, all her own.
    And we'll wed, while music stealeth
      Through the starry fields above,
    While each bounding spirit feeleth
      All the luxury of love.

    Then we'll scorn oppression's minions,
      All the despot's bolts and powers;
    While Time wreathes his heavy pinions
      With love's brightest passion-flowers.
    Rise, then! let us fly together,
      Now the moon laughs on the sea;
    East or west, I care not whither,
      When with love and liberty!

JULIA.

    Born where the glorious star-lights trace
    In mountain snows their silver face,
      Where Nature, vast and rude,
    Looks as if by her God design'd
    To fill the bright eternal mind,
      With her fair magnitude.

    Hers was a face, to which was given
    Less portion of the earth than heaven,
      As if each trait had stole
    Its hue from Nature's shapes of light;
    As if stars, flowers, and all things bright
      Had join'd to form her soul.

    Her heart was young--she loved to breathe
    The air which spins the mountain's wreath,
      To wander o'er the wild,
    To list the music of the deep,
    To see the round stars on it sleep,
      For she was Nature's child!

    Nursed where the soul imbibes the print
    Of freedom--where nought comes to taint,
      Or its warm feelings quell:
    She felt love o'er her spirit driven,
    Such as the angels felt in heaven,
      Before they sinn'd and fell.

    Her mind was tutor'd from its birth,
    From all that's beautiful on earth--
      Lights which cannot expire--
    From all their glory, she had caught
    A lustre, till each sense seem'd fraught
      With heaven's celestial fire.

    The desert streams familiar grown,
    The stars had language of their own,
      The hills contain'd a voice
    With which she could converse, and bring
    A charm from each insensate thing,
      Which bade her soul rejoice.

    She had the feeling and the fire,
    That fortune's stormiest blast could tire,
      Though delicate and young;
    Her bosom was not formed to bend--
    Adversity, that firmest friend,
      Had all its fibres strung.

    Such was my love--she scorn'd to hide
    A passion which she deem'd a pride!
      Oft have we sat and view'd
    The beauteous stars walk through the night,
    And Cynthia lift her sceptre bright,
      To curb old Ocean's mood.

    She'd clasp me as if ne'er to part,
    That I might feel her beating heart--
      Might read her living eye;
    Then pause! I've felt the pure tide roll
    Through every vein, which to my soul,
      Said--Nature could not lie.

LUCY'S GRAVE.

    My spirit could its vigil hold
      For ever at this silent spot;
    But, ah! the heart within is cold,
      The sleeper heeds me not:
    The fairy scenes of love and youth,
    The smiles of hope, the tales of truth,
      By her are all forgot:
    Her spirit with my bliss is fled--
    I only weep above the dead!

    I need not view the grassy swell,
      Nor stone escutcheon'd fair;
    I need no monument to tell
      That thou art lying there:
    I feel within, a world like this,
    A fearful blank in all my bliss--
      An agonized despair,
    Which paints the earth in cheerful bloom,
    But tells me, thou art in the tomb!

    I knew Death's fatal power, alas
      Could doom man's hopes to pine,
    But thought that many a year would pass
      Before he scatter'd mine!
    Too soon he quench'd our morning rays,
    Brief were our loves of early days--
      Brief as those bolts that shine
    With beautiful yet transient form,
    Round the dark fringes of the storm!

    I little thought, when first we met,
      A few short months would see
    Thy sun, before its noontide, set
      In dark eternity!
    While love was beaming from thy face,
    A lover's eye but ill could trace
      Aught that obscured its ray;
    So calm its pain thy bosom bore,
    I thought not death was at its core!

    The silver moon is shining now
      Upon thy lonely bed,
    Pale as thine own unblemish'd brow,
      Cold as thy virgin head;
    She seems to breathe of many a day
    Now shrouded with thee in the clay,
      Of visions that have fled,
    When we beneath her holy flame,
    Dream'd over hopes that never came!

    Hark! 'tis the solemn midnight bell,
      It mars the hallow'd scene;
    And must we bid again--farewell!
      Must life still intervene?
    Its charms are vain! my heart is laid
    E'en with thine own, celestial maid!
      A few short days have been
    An age of pain--a few may be
    A welcome passport, love! to thee.

THE FORGOTTEN BRAVE.

    'Tis finish'd, they 've died for their forefathers' land,
      As the patriot sons of the mountain should die,
    With the mail on each bosom, the sword in each hand,
      On the heath of the desert they lie.
    Like their own mountain eagles they rush'd to the fight,
      Like the oaks of their deserts they braved its rude blast;
    Their blades in the morning look'd dazzling and bright,
      But red when the battle was past.

    They rush'd on, exulting in honour, and met
      The foes of their country in battle array;
    But the sun of their glory in darkness hath set,
      And the flowers of the forest are faded away!
    Oh! far from the scenes of their childhood they sleep,
      No friend of their bosom, no loved one is near,
    To add a gray stone to their cairns on the steep,
      Or drop o'er their ashes a tear.

THE FIRST SHIP.

        The sky in beauty arch'd
          The wide and weltering flood,
        While the winds in triumph march'd
          Through their pathless solitude--
    Rousing up the plume on ocean's hoary crest,
        That like space in darkness slept,
        When his watch old Silence kept,
        Ere the earliest planet leapt
            From its breast.

        A speck is on the deeps,
          Like a spirit in her flight;
        How beautiful she keeps
          Her stately path in light!
    She sweeps the shining wilderness in glee--
        The sun has on her smiled,
        And the waves, no longer wild,
        Sing in glory round that child
            Of the sea.

        'Twas at the set of sun
          That she tilted o'er the flood,
        Moving like God alone
          O'er the glorious solitude--
    The billows crouch around her as her slaves.
        How exulting are her crew--
        Each sight to them is new,
        As they sweep along the blue
            Of the waves!

        Fair herald of the fleets
          That yet shall cross the wave,
        Till the earth with ocean meets
          One universal grave,
    What armaments shall follow thee in joy!
        Linking each distant land
        With trade's harmonious band,
        Or bearing havoc's brand
            To destroy!

WEEP NOT.

    Though this wild brain is aching,
      Spill not thy tears with mine;
    Come to my heart, though breaking,
      Its firmest half is thine.
    Thou wert not made for sorrow,
      Then do not weep with me;
    There is a lovely morrow,
      That yet will dawn on thee.

    When I am all forgotten--
      When in the grave I lie--
    When the heart that loved thee 's broken,
      And closed the sparkling eye;
    Love's sunshine still will cheer thee,
      Unsullied, pure, and deep;
    For the God who 's ever near thee,
      Will never see thee weep.

TO THE CLYDE.

    When cities of old days
    But meet the savage gaze,
    Stream of my early ways
            Thou wilt roll.
    Though fleets forsake thy breast,
    And millions sink to rest--
    Of the bright and glorious west
            Still the soul.

    When the porch and stately arch,
    Which now so proudly perch
    O'er thy billows, on their march
            To the sea,
    Are but ashes in the shower;
    Still the jocund summer hour,
    From his cloud will weave a bower
            Over thee.

    When the voice of human power
    Has ceased in mart and bower,
    Still the broom and mountain flower
            Will thee bless.
    And the mists that love to stray
    O'er the Highlands, far away,
    Will come down their deserts gray
            To thy kiss.

    And the stranger, brown with toil,
    From the far Atlantic soil,
    Like the pilgrim of the Nile,
            Yet may come
    To search the solemn heaps
    That moulder by thy deeps,
    Where desolation sleeps,
            Ever dumb.

    Though fetters yet should clank
    O'er the gay and princely rank
    Of cities on thy bank,
            All sublime;
    Still thou wilt wander on,
    Till eternity has gone,
    And broke the dial stone
            Of old Time.

REV. T. G. TORRY ANDERSON.

The author of the deservedly popular words and air of "The Araby Maid,"
Thomas Gordon Torry Anderson was the youngest son of Patrick Torry,
D.D., titular bishop of St Andrews, Dunkeld, and Dunblane. His mother,
Jane Young, was the daughter of Dr William Young, of Fawsyde,
Kincardineshire. Born at Peterhead on the 9th July 1805, he received his
elementary education at the parish school of that place. He subsequently
prosecuted his studies in Marischal College, Aberdeen, and the
University of Edinburgh. In 1827, he received holy orders, and was
admitted to the incumbency of St John's Episcopal Church, Portobello. He
subsequently became assistant in St George's Episcopal Church,
Edinburgh, and was latterly promoted to the pastorate of St Paul's
Episcopal Church, Dundee.

Devoted to the important duties of the clerical office, Mr Torry
Anderson experienced congenial recreation in the cultivation of music
and song, and in the occasional composition of both. He composed, in
1833, the words and air of "The Araby Maid," which speedily obtained a
wide popularity. The music and words of the songs, entitled "The
Maiden's Vow," and "I Love the Sea," were composed in 1837 and 1854,
respectively. To a work, entitled "Poetical Illustrations of the
Achievements of the Duke of Wellington and his Companions in Arms,"
published in 1852, he extensively contributed. During the summer of
1855, he fell into bad health, and was obliged to resign his incumbency.
He afterwards resided on his estate of Fawsyde, to which he had
succeeded, in 1850, on the death of his uncle, Dr Young. He died at
Aberdeen on the 20th of June 1856, in his fifty-first year. He was three
times married--first, in 1828, to Mrs Gaskin Anderson of Tushielaw,
whose name he adopted to suit the requirements of an entail; secondly,
he espoused, in 1838, Elizabeth Jane, daughter of Dr Thomas Sutter,
R.N.; and lastly, Mrs Hill, widow of Mr William Hill, R.N., whom he
married in 1854. He has left a widow and six children.

THE ARABY MAID.

    Away on the wings of the wind she flies,
      Like a thing of life and light--
    And she bounds beneath the eastern skies,
      And the beauty of eastern night.

    Why so fast flies the bark through the ocean's foam,
      Why wings it so speedy a flight?
    'Tis an Araby maid who hath left her home,
      To fly with her Christian knight.

    She hath left her sire and her native land,
      The land which from childhood she trode,
    And hath sworn, by the pledge of her beautiful hand,
      To worship the Christian's God.

    Then away, away, oh swift be thy flight,
      It were death one moment's delay;
    For behind there is many a blade glancing bright--
      Then away--away--away!

    They are safe in the land where love is divine,
      In the land of the free and the brave--
    They have knelt at the foot of the holy shrine,
      Nought can sever them now but the grave.

THE MAIDEN'S VOW.

    The maid is at the altar kneeling,
    Hark the chant is loudly pealing--
      Now it dies away!

    Her prayers are said at the holy shrine,
    No other thought but thought divine
      Doth her sad bosom fill.

    The world to her is nothing now,
    For she hath ta'en a solemn vow
      To do her father's will.

    But why hath one so fair, so young,
    The joys of life thus from her flung--
      Why hath she ta'en the veil?

    Her lover fell where the brave should fall,
    Amidst the fight, when the trumpet's call
      Proclaim'd the victory.

    He fought, he fell, a hero brave--
    And though he fill a lowly grave,
      His name can never die.

    The victory's news to the maiden came--
    They loudly breathed her lover's name,
      Who for his country fell.

    But vain the loudest trumpet tone
    Of fame to her, when he was gone
      To whom the praise was given!

    Her sun of life had set in gloom--
    Its joys were withered in his tomb--
      She vow'd herself to Heaven.

I LOVE THE SEA.

    I love the sea, I love the sea,
      My childhood's home, my manhood's rest,
    My cradle in my infancy--
      The only bosom I have press'd.
    I cannot breathe upon the land,
      Its manners are as bonds to me,
    Till on the deck again I stand,
      I cannot feel that I am free.

    Then tell me not of stormy graves--
      Though winds be high, there let them roar;
    I 'd rather perish on the waves
      Than pine by inches on the shore.
    I ask no willow where I lie,
      My mourner let the mermaid be,
    My only knell the sea-bird's cry,
      My winding-sheet the boundless sea!

GEORGE ALLAN.

George Allan was the youngest son of John Allan, farmer at Paradykes,
near Edinburgh, where he was born on the 2d February 1806. Ere he had
completed his fourteenth year, he became an orphan by the death of both
his parents. Intending to prosecute his studies as a lawyer, he served
an apprenticeship in the office of a Writer to the Signet. He became a
member of that honourable body, but almost immediately relinquished
legal pursuits, and proceeded to London, resolved to commence the career
of a man of letters. In the metropolis his literary aspirations were
encouraged by Allan Cunningham and Mr and Mrs S. C. Hall. In 1829, he
accepted an appointment in Jamaica; but, his health suffering from the
climate of the West Indies, he returned in the following year. Shortly
after his arrival in Britain, he was fortunate in obtaining the
editorship of the _Dumfries Journal_, a respectable Conservative
newspaper. This he conducted with distinguished ability and success for
three years, when certain new arrangements, consequent on a change in
the proprietary, rendered his services unnecessary. A letter of Allan
Cunningham, congratulating him on his appointment as a newspaper editor,
is worthy of quotation, from its shrewd and sagacious counsels:--

     "Study to fill your paper," writes Cunningham, "with
     such agreeable and diversified matter as will allure
     readers; correct intelligence, sprightly and elegant
     paragraphs, remarks on men and manners at once free
     and generous; and local intelligence pertaining to the
     district, such as please men of the Nith in a far land.
     These are the staple commodity of a newspaper, and
     these you can easily have. A few literary paragraphs
     you can easily scatter about; these attract
     booksellers, and booksellers will give advertisements
     where they find their works are noticed. Above all
     things, write cautiously concerning all localities; if
     you praise much, a hundred will grumble; if you are
     severe, one only may complain, but twenty will shake
     the head. You will have friends on one side of the
     water desiring one thing, friends on the other side
     desiring the reverse, and in seeking to please one you
     vex ten. An honest heart, a clear head, and a good
     conscience, will enable you to get well through all."

On terminating his connexion with the _Dumfries Journal_, Allan
proceeded to Edinburgh, where he was immediately employed by the Messrs
Chambers as a literary assistant. In a letter addressed to a friend,
about this period, he thus expresses himself regarding his enterprising
employers:--

   "They are never idle. Their very recreations are made conducive
   to their business, and they go through their labours with a
   spirit and cheerfulness, which shew how consonant these are with
   their dispositions." "Mr Robert Chambers," he adds, "is the most
   mild, unassuming, kind-hearted man I ever knew, and is perfectly
   uneasy if he thinks there is any one uncomfortable about him. The
   interest which he has shewn in my welfare has been beyond
   everything I ever experienced, and the friendly yet delicate way
   in which he is every other day asking me if I am all comfortable
   at home, and bidding me apply to him when I am in want of
   anything, equally puzzles me to understand or express due thanks
   for."

Besides contributing many interesting articles to _Chambers's Edinburgh
Journal_, and furnishing numerous communications to the _Scotsman_
newspaper, Allan wrote a "Life of Sir Walter Scott," in an octavo
volume, which commanded a wide sale, and was much commended by the
public press. In preparing that elegant work, the "Original National
Melodies of Scotland," the ingenious editor, Mr Peter M'Leod, was
favoured by him with several songs, which he set forth in that
publication, with suitable music. In 1834, some of his relatives
succeeded, by political influence, in obtaining for him a subordinate
situation in the Stamp Office,--one which at once afforded him a certain
subsistence, and did not necessarily preclude the exercise of his
literary talents. But a constitutional weakness of the nervous system
did not permit of his long enjoying the smiles of fortune. He died
suddenly at Janefield, near Leith, on the 15th August 1835, in his
thirtieth year. In October 1831, he had espoused Mrs Mary Hill, a widow,
eldest daughter of Mr William Pagan, of Curriestanes, and niece of Allan
Cunningham, who, with one of their two sons, still survives. Allan was a
man of singularly gentle and amiable dispositions, a pleasant companion,
and devoted friend. In person he was tall and rather thin, with a
handsome, intelligent countenance. An enthusiast in the concerns of
literature, it is to be feared that he cut short his career by
overstrained application. His verses are animated and vigorous, and are
largely imbued with the national spirit.[20]

FOOTNOTES:

[20] We are indebted to William Pagan, Esq. of Clayton, author of "Road
Reform," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Pagan
kindly procured for our use the whole of Mr Allan's papers and MSS.

IS YOUR WAR-PIPE ASLEEP?[21]

    Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever, M'Crimman?
    Is your war-pipe asleep, and for ever?
    Shall the pibroch, that welcom'd the foe to Benaer,
    Be hush'd when we seek the dark wolf in his lair,
    To give back our wrongs to the giver?
    To the raid and the onslaught our chieftains have gone,
    Like the course of the fire-flaught the clansmen pass'd on,
    With the lance and the shield 'gainst the foe they have boon'd them,
    And have ta'en to the field with their vassals around them;
    Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
    Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen,
    Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
    Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

II.--(M'CRIMMAN.)

    Youth of the daring heart! bright be thy doom
    As the bodings which light up thy bold spirit now,
    But the fate of M'Crimman is closing in gloom,
    And the breath of the gray wraith hath pass'd o'er his brow;
    Victorious, in joy, thou'lt return to Benaer,
    And be clasp'd to the hearts of thy best beloved there,
    But M'Crimman, M'Crimman, M'Crimman, never--
                Never! Never! Never!

III.--(CLANSMEN.)

    Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not, M'Crimman?
    Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
    If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
    That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
    Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
    Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
    And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
    There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
    'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,
    Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
    Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;
    Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
    Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to
the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the
Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is
accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the
Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical
talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This
song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National
Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.

I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

    I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
    In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
    Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
    And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
    I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
    Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
    And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
    A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

    I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
    O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
    And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
    While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
    Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
    'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
    But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
    And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

    I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
    The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
    'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
    Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
    But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
    Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;
    And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,
    A light to my soul when no other is seen.

LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.

    Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,
    And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',
    But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,
    Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!

    I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,
    And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;
    But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover
    Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!

    The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,
    And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,
    Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!
    But warm as the sun-blink that thaw'd it to weepin'!

    Then come to my arms, and the bosom thou 'rt pressing
    Will tell by its throbs a' there's joy in confessing,
    For my lips could repeat it a thousand times over,
    And the tale still seem new to thy fond-hearted lover.

WHEN I LOOK FAR DOWN ON THE VALLEY BELOW ME.[22]

    When I look far down on the valley below me,
      Where lowly the lot of the cottager's cast,
    While the hues of the evening seem ling'ring to shew me
      How calmly the sun of this life may be pass'd,
    How oft have I wish'd that kind Heaven had granted
      My hours in such spot to have peacefully run,
    Where, if pleasures were few, they were all that I wanted,
      And Contentment 's a blessing which wealth never won.

    I have mingled with mankind, and far I have wander'd,
      Have shared all the joys youth so madly pursues;
    I have been where the bounties of Nature were squander'd
      Till man became thankless and learn'd to refuse!
    Yet _there_ I still found that man's innocence perish'd,
      As the senses might sway or the passions command;
    That the scenes where alone the soul's treasures were cherish'd,
      Were the peaceful abodes of my own native land.

    Then why should I leave this dear vale of my choice
      And the friends of my bosom, so faithful and true,
    To mix in the great world, whose jarring and noise
      Must make my soul cheerless though sorrows were few?
    Ah! too sweet would this life of probation be render'd,
      Our feelings ebb back from Eternity's strand,
    And the hopes of Elysium in vain would be tender'd,
      Could we have all we wish'd in our dear native land.

FOOTNOTES:

[22] Printed, for the first time, from the author's MS.

I WILL WAKE MY HARP WHEN THE SHADES OF EVEN.[23]

    I will wake my harp when the shades of even
      Are closing around the dying day,
    When thoughts that wear the hues of Heaven
      Are weaning my heart from the world away;
    And my strain will tell of a land and home
      Which my wand'ring steps have left behind,
    Where the hearts that throb and the feet that roam
      Are free as the breath of their mountain wind.

    I will wake my harp when the star of Vesper
      Hath open'd its eye on the peaceful earth,
    When not a leaf is heard to whisper
      That a dew-drop falls, or a breeze hath birth.
    And you, dear friends of my youthful years,
      Will oft be the theme of my lonely lay,
    And a smile for the past will gild the tears
      That tell how my heart is far away.

    I will wake my harp when the moon is holding
      Her star-tent court in the midnight sky,
    When the spirits of love, their wings unfolding,
      Bring down sweet dreams to each fond one's eye.