From his early years, Park had cultivated a taste for literature. The
parishioners of Westerkirk have long been commended for their
inquisitive turn of mind; many years ago they established a subscription
library, to which Mr Telford, the celebrated engineer, who was a native
of the parish, bequeathed a legacy of a thousand pounds. The rustic poet
suddenly emerged from his obscurity, when he was encouraged to publish a
volume entitled "The Vale of Esk, and other Poems," Edin., 1833, 12mo.
About the same period he became a contributor of poetry to _Blackwood's
Magazine_, and a writer of prose articles in the provincial newspapers.
On the death of Dr Brown, in 1837, he took, in conjunction with a
son-in-law, a lease of the farm of Holmains, in the parish of Dalton,
and now enjoyed greater leisure for the prosecution of his literary
tastes. In May 1843, he undertook the editorship of the _Dumfries
Standard_ newspaper; but had just commenced his duties, when he was
seized with an illness which proved fatal. He died at Holmains on the
5th June 1843. His widow still lives in Eskdalemuir; and of their
numerous family, some have emigrated to America.

Park's compositions were not strictly lyrical, but "The Patriot's Song,"
which we have selected from his volume, seems worthy of a place in the
national minstrelsy. His style is smooth and flowing, and he evinces a
passionate admiration of the beautiful in nature.

[29] William Brown, D.D., author of "Antiquities of the Jews." Lond.,
1825, 2 vols. 8vo.

THE PATRIOT'S SONG.

    Shall I leave thee, thou land to my infancy dear,
      Ere I know aught of toil or of woe,
    For the clime of the stranger, the solitude drear,
      And a thousand endearments forego?

    Shall I give my lone bosom a prey to its strife?
      Must I friendship's just claims disallow?
    No; her breathings can cool the hot fever of life,
      As the breeze fans the sea-beaten brow.

    'Tis said that the comforts of plenty abound
      In the wide-spreading plains of the west;
    That there an asylum of peace shall be found
      Where the care-stricken wanderer may rest.

    That nature uncheck'd there displays all her pride
      In the forest unfading and deep;
    That the river rolls onward its ocean-like tide,
      Encircling broad realms in its sweep.

    But is there a spot in that far distant land
      Where fancy or feeling may dwell?
    Or how shall the heart of the exile expand,
      Untouch'd by Society's spell?

    Though thy children, old Albyn! adversity bear,
      As forlorn o'er thy mountains they roam,
    Yet I 've found, what in vain I should seek for elsewhere--
      I have found 'mong these mountains a home.

    How lovely the beam on thy moorland appears,
      As it streams from the eye of the morn!
    And how comely the garment that evening wears
      When the day of its glories is shorn!

    Ah! strong are the ties that the patriot bind,
      Fair isle of the sea! to thy shore;
    The turf that he treads, by the best of their kind,
      By the bravest, was trodden before.

    Nor is there a field--not a foot of thy soil,
      In dale or in mountain-land dun,
    Unmark'd in the annals of chivalrous toil,
      Ere concord its conquest had won.

    The rill hath a voice from the rock as it pours,
      It comes from the glen on the gale,
    For the life-blood of martyrs hath hallow'd thy muirs,
      And their names are revered in the vale.

    How sacred the stone that, remote on the heath,
      O'er the bones of the righteous was laid,
    Who triumph'd in death o'er the foes of their faith,
      When the banner of truth was display'd!

    And sweet are the songs of the land of my love,
      And soothing their tones to the soul,
    Or lofty and loud, like the thunder above,
      Or the storm-cloud of passion, they roll.

    While summer, beyond the Atlantic's wide waste,
      A gaudier garb may assume,
    My country! thou boastest the verdure of taste,
      And thy glories immortally bloom.

    No! I will not forsake thee, thou land of my lay!
      The scorn of the stranger to brave;
    O'er thy lea I have revell'd in youth's sunny ray,
      And thy wild-flowers shall spangle my grave.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

Thomas Pringle was born on the 5th of January 1789 at Blaiklaw, in
Teviotdale, a farm rented by his father, and of which his progenitors
had been tenants for a succession of generations. By an accident in
infancy, he suffered dislocation of one of his limbs, which rendered the
use of crutches necessary for life. Attending the grammar school of
Kelso for three years, he entered as a student the University of
Edinburgh. From his youth he had devoted himself to extensive reading,
and during his attendance at college he formed the resolution of
adopting literature as a profession. In 1808 he accepted the appointment
of copying-clerk in the General Register House, occupying his intervals
of leisure in composition. He published, in 1811--in connexion with his
ingenious friend, Robert Story, the present minister of Roseneath--a
poem entitled, "The Institute," which obtained a considerable share of
public favour. In 1816 he became a contributor to Campbell's "Albyn's
Anthology;" and produced an excellent imitation of the poetical style of
Sir Walter Scott for Hogg's "Poetic Mirror." Concurring with Hogg in a
proposal to establish a new monthly periodical, in order to supersede
the _Scots' Magazine_, which had much sunk in the literary scale, he
united with him in submitting the scheme to Mr Blackwood, who was then
becoming known as an enterprising publisher. By Mr Blackwood the
proposal was well received; a periodical was originated under the title
of the _Edinburgh Monthly Magazine_, and Pringle relinquished his post
in the Register House to undertake the editorship. In April 1817 the
first number of the magazine appeared, adorned with contributions from
Wilson, Lockhart, the Shepherd, and others of literary reputation. An
interesting article on "Gypsies" was Pringle's own contribution, the
materials being kindly supplied to him by Sir Walter Scott. The
occurrence of serious differences between the editor and publisher,
however, soon menaced the continuance of a periodical which had
commenced so prosperously; the result was, the withdrawal of Pringle
from the concern, and an announcement in the September number that the
magazine was discontinued. The discontinuance was merely nominal: a new
series, under the title of _Blackwood's Magazine_, appeared in October,
under the literary superintendence of Wilson; while, in the August
preceding, Pringle had originated, under the publishing auspices of Mr
Constable, _The Edinburgh Magazine and Literary Miscellany_, as a new
series of the _Scots' Magazine_. In the first number of Mr Blackwood's
new series appeared the celebrated "Chaldee MS.," a humorous pasquinade,
chiefly directed against Pringle and his literary friend Cleghorn, and
which, on account of its evident personalities, was afterwards
cancelled.

Besides conducting Constable's magazine, Pringle undertook the
editorship of _The Star_, a bi-weekly newspaper; but he was led soon to
renounce both these literary appointments. He now published the
"Autumnal Excursion, and other Poems;" but finding, in spite of every
effort, that he was unable to support himself by literature, he resumed,
early in 1819, his humble situation in the Register House.

When his literary affairs were prosperous, Pringle had entered into the
married state, but his present emoluments were wholly unequal to the
comfortable maintenance of his family. He formed the resolution of
emigrating to South Africa, then a favourite colony, and a number of his
wife's relatives and his own consented to accompany him. In February
1820 he embarked for the Cape, along with his father and other
relatives, in all numbering twenty-four persons. The emigrants landed on
the 5th of June, and forthwith took possession of the territory assigned
them by the home government, extending to 20,000 acres, situate in the
upper part of the valley of Baaviars river, a tributary of the Great
Fish river. In this place, which the colonists designated Glen-lynden,
Pringle remained about two years, till his friends were comfortably
settled. He thereafter proceeded to Cape Town, in quest of literary
employment. He was appointed keeper of the Government library, with a
salary of £75, and soon after found himself at the head of a flourishing
educational establishment. He now established a periodical, which he
designated the _South African Commercial Advertiser_, and became editor
of a weekly newspaper, originated by an enterprising printer. But
misfortune continued to attend his literary adventures: in consequence
of certain interferences of the local government, he was compelled to
abandon both his periodical and newspaper, while the opposition of the
administrative officials led to his seminary being deserted. Leaving the
colony for Britain, he arrived in London in July 1826; and failing to
obtain from the home government a reparation of his losses in the
colony, he was necessitated anew to seek a precarious subsistence from
literature. An article which he had written on slavery, in the _New
Monthly Magazine_, led to his appointment as secretary to the
Anti-slavery Society. This situation, so admirably suited to his talents
and predilections, he continued to hold till the office became
unnecessary, by the legislative abolition of slavery on the 27th of June
1834. He now became desirous of returning to the Cape, but was meanwhile
seized with a pulmonary affection, which proved fatal on the 5th
December 1834, in his forty-sixth year. His remains were interred in
Bunhill-field Cemetery, where a tombstone, with an inscription by his
poetical friend William Kennedy, has been erected to his memory.

As a poet, Pringle is chiefly remarkable for elegance of versification,
perspicuity of sentiment, and deep and generous feeling. A thorough
patriot, some of his best songs on subjects connected with Scottish
scenery were written on the plains of Africa. Beneficent in disposition,
and conciliatory in private intercourse, he was especially
uncompromising in the maintenance of his political opinions; and to this
peculiarity may be traceable some of his earlier misfortunes. In person
he was under the middle height; his countenance was open and benignant,
with a well developed forehead. He was much influenced by sincere
religious convictions. His poetical works, with a memoir by Mr Leitch
Ritchie, have been published by Mr Moxon for the benefit of his widow.

FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.

    Our native land--our native vale--
      A long, a last adieu;
    Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
      And Cheviot's mountains blue!

    Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
      Ye streams renown'd in song;
    Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
      Our hearts have loved so long!

    Farewell, the blithsome broomy knowes,
      Where thyme and harebells grow;
    Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,
      O'erhung with birk and sloe!

    The mossy cave and mouldering tower,
      That skirt our native dells;
    The martyr's grave and lover's bower,
      We bid a sad farewell!

    Home of our love--our fathers' home--
      Land of the brave and free--
    The sail is flapping on the foam
      That bears us far from thee!

    We seek a wild and distant shore,
      Beyond the western main;
    We leave thee to return no more,
      Nor view thy cliffs again!

    Our native land--our native vale--
      A long, a last adieu!
    Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,
      And Scotland's mountains blue!

THE EXILE'S LAMENT.

    By the lone Mankayana's margin gray
      A Scottish maiden sung;
    And mournfully pour'd her melting lay
      In Teviot's border-tongue:
        O bonnie grows the broom on Blaiklaw knowes,
          And the birk in Clifton dale;
        And green are the hills o' the milk-white ewes,
          By the briery banks o' Cayle!

    Here bright are the skies; and these valleys of bloom
      May enchant the traveller's eye;
    But all seems dress'd in death-like gloom,
      To the exile who comes to die!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

    Far round and round spreads the howling waste,
      Where the wild beast roams at will;
    And yawning cleughs, by woods embraced,
      Where the savage lurks to kill!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

    Full oft over Cheviot's uplands green
      My dreaming fancy strays;
    But I wake to weep 'mid the desolate scene
      That scowls on my aching gaze!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

    Oh light, light is poverty's lowliest state,
      On Scotland's peaceful strand,
    Compared with the heart-sick exile's fate,
      In this wild and weary land!
        O bonnie grows the broom, &c.

LOVE AND SOLITUDE.

    I love the free ridge of the mountain,
      When dawn lifts her fresh dewy eye;
    I love the old ash by the fountain,
      When noon's summer fervours are high:
    And dearly I love when the gray-mantled gloaming
      Adown the dim valley glides slowly along,
    And finds me afar by the pine-forest roaming,
      A-list'ning the close of the gray linnet's song.

    When the moon from her fleecy cloud scatters
      Over ocean her silvery light,
    And the whisper of woodlands and waters
      Comes soft through the silence of night--
    I love by the ruin'd tower lonely to linger,
      A-dreaming to fancy's wild witchery given,
    And hear, as if swept by some seraph's pure finger,
      The harp of the winds breathing accents of heaven.

    Yet still, 'mid sweet fancies o'erflowing,
      Oft bursts from my lone breast the sigh--
    I yearn for the sympathies glowing,
      When hearts to each other reply!
    Come, friend of my bosom! with kindred devotion,
      To worship with me by wild mountain and grove;
    O come, my Eliza, with dearer emotion,
      With rapture to hallow the chaste home of love!

COME AWA', COME AWA'.

    Come awa', come awa',
      An' o'er the march wi' me, lassie;
    Leave your southren wooers a',
      My winsome bride to be, lassie!
    Lands nor gear I proffer you,
      Nor gauds to busk ye fine, lassie;
    But I 've a heart that 's leal and true,
      And a' that heart is thine, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      And see the kindly north, lassie,
    Out o'er the peaks o' Lammerlair,
      And by the Links o' Forth, lassie!
    And when we tread the heather-bell,
      Aboon Demayat lea, lassie,
    You 'll view the land o' flood and fell,
      The noble north countrie, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      And leave your southland hame, lassie;
    The kirk is near, the ring is here,
      And I 'm your Donald Græme, lassie!
    Rock and reel and spinning-wheel,
      And English cottage trig, lassie;
    Haste, leave them a', wi' me to speel
      The braes 'yont Stirling brig, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      I ken your heart is mine, lassie,
    And true love shall make up for a'
      For whilk ye might repine, lassie!
    Your father he has gi'en consent,
      Your step-dame looks na kind, lassie;
    O that our feet were on the bent,
      An' the lowlands far behind, lassie!

    Come awa', come awa',
      Ye 'll ne'er hae cause to rue, lassie;
    My cot blinks blithe beneath the shaw,
      By bonnie Avondhu, lassie!
    There 's birk and slae on ilka brae,
      And brackens waving fair, lassie,
    And gleaming lochs and mountains gray--
      Can aught wi' them compare, lassie?
        Come awa', come awa', &c.

DEAREST LOVE, BELIEVE ME!

    Dearest love, believe me,
      Though all else depart,
    Nought shall e'er deceive thee
      In this faithful heart.
    Beauty may be blighted--
      Youth must pass away;
    But the vows we plighted
      Ne'er shall know decay.

    Tempests may assail us
      From affliction's coast,
    Fortune's breeze may fail us
      When we need it most;
    Fairest hopes may perish,
      Firmest friends may change,
    But the love we cherish
      Nothing shall estrange.

    Dreams of fame and grandeur
      End in bitter tears;
    Love grows only fonder
      With the lapse of years;
    Time, and change, and trouble,
      Weaker ties unbind,
    But the bands redouble
      True affection twined.

WILLIAM KNOX.

William Knox, a short-lived poet of considerable merit, was born at
Firth, in the parish of Lilliesleaf, Roxburghshire, on the 17th August
1789. His father, Thomas Knox, espoused Barbara Turnbull, the widow of a
country gentleman, Mr Pott of Todrig, in Selkirkshire; and of this
marriage, William was the eldest son. He was educated at the parish
school of Lilliesleaf, and, subsequently, at the grammar school of
Musselburgh. In 1812, he became lessee of the farm of Wrae, near
Langholm, Dumfriesshire; but his habits were not those of a thriving
farmer, and, at the expiry of five years, he was led to abandon his
lease. His parents had, meanwhile, removed to the farm of Todrig, and he
returned thither to the shelter of the parental roof. In 1820, the
family, who had fallen into straitened circumstances, proceeded to
Edinburgh, where they opened a lodging-house. William now devoted his
attention to literature, contributing extensively to the public
journals. From his youth he had composed verses. In 1818, he published
"The Lonely Hearth, and other Poems," 12mo; in 1824, "The Songs of
Israel," 12mo; and in April 1825, a third duodecimo volume of lyrics,
entitled "The Harp of Zion." His poetical merits attracted the notice of
Sir Walter Scott, who afforded him kindly countenance and occasional
pecuniary assistance. He likewise enjoyed the friendly encouragement of
Professor Wilson, and other men of letters.

Of amiable and benevolent dispositions, Knox fell a victim to the undue
gratification of his social propensities; he was seized with paralysis,
and died at Edinburgh on the 12th of November 1825, at the early age of
thirty-six. His poetry, always smooth and harmonious, is largely
pervaded with pathetic and religious sentiment. Some of his Scriptural
paraphrases are exquisite specimens of sacred verse. A new edition of
his poetical works was published at London, in 1847. Besides his
poetical works, he published "A Visit to Dublin," and a Christmas tale
entitled "Marianne, or the Widower's Daughter." He left several
compositions in prose and verse, but these have not been published by
his executors.

Knox was short in stature, but handsomely formed; his complexion was
fair, and his hair of a light colour. Subject to a variation of spirits
in private, he was generally cheerful in society. He sang or repeated
his own songs with much enthusiasm, and was keenly alive to his literary
reputation. Possessing a fund of humour, he excelled in relating curious
anecdotes.

THE DEAR LAND OF CAKES.

    O brave Caledonians! my brothers, my friends,
    Now sorrow is borne on the wings of the winds;
    Care sleeps with the sun in the seas of the west,
    And courage is lull'd in the warrior's breast.
    Here social pleasure enlivens each heart,
    And friendship is ready its warmth to impart;
    The goblet is fill'd, and each worn one partakes,
    To drink plenty and peace to the dear land of cakes.

    Though the Bourbon may boast of his vine-cover'd hills,
    Through each bosom the tide of depravity thrills;
    Though the Indian may sit in his green orange bowers,
    There slavery's wail counts the wearisome hours.
    Though our island is beat by the storms of the north,
    There blaze the bright meteors of valour and worth;
    There the loveliest rose-bud of beauty awakes
    From that cradle of virtue, the dear land of cakes.

    O valour! thou guardian of freedom and truth,
    Thou stay of old age, and thou guidance of youth!
    Still, still thy enthusiast transports pervade
    The breast that is wrapt in the green tartan plaid.
    And ours are the shoulders that never shall bend
    To the rod of a tyrant, that scourge of a land;
    Ours the bosoms no terror of death ever shakes,
    When call'd in defence of the dear land of cakes.

    Shall the ghosts of our fathers, aloft on each cloud,
    When the rage of the battle is dreadful and loud,
    See us shrink from our standard with fear and dismay,
    And leave to our foemen the pride of the day?
    No, by heavens we will stand to our honour and trust!
    Till our heart's blood be shed on our ancestors' dust,
    Till we sink to the slumber no war-trumpet breaks,
    Beneath the brown heath of the dear land of cakes.

    O, peace to the ashes of those that have bled
    For the land where the proud thistle raises its head!
    O, peace to the ashes of those gave us birth,
    In a land freedom renders the boast of the earth!
    Though their lives are extinguish'd, their spirit remains,
    And swells in their blood that still runs in our veins;
    Still their deathless achievements our ardour awakes,
    For the honour and weal of the dear land of cakes.

    Ye sons of old Scotia, ye friends of my heart,
    From our word, from our trust, let us never depart;
    Nor e'er from our foe till with victory crown'd,
    And the balm of compassion is pour'd in his wound;
    And still to our bosom be honesty dear,
    And still to our loves and our friendships sincere;
    And, till heaven's last thunder the firmament shakes,
    May happiness beam on the dear land of cakes.

THE LAMENT.

    She was mine when the leaves of the forest were green,
      When the rose-blossoms hung on the tree;
    And dear, dear to me were the joys that had been,
      And I dreamt of enjoyments to be.

    But she faded more fast than the blossoms could fade,
      No human attention could save;
    And when the green leaves of the forest decay'd,
      The winds strew'd them over her grave.

TO MARY.

    Farewell! and though my steps depart
      From scenes for ever dear,
    O Mary! I must leave my heart
      And all my pleasures here;
    And I must cherish in my mind,
      Where'er my lot shall be,
    A thought of her I leave behind--
      A hopeless thought of thee.

    O Mary! I can ne'er forget
      The charm thy presence brought;
    No hour has pass'd since first we met,
      But thou hast shared my thought.
    At early morn, at sultry noon,
      Beneath the spreading tree,
    And, wandering by the evening moon,
      Still, still I think of thee.

    Yea, thou hast come to cheer my dream,
      And bid me grieve no more,
    But at the morn's returning gleam,
      I sorrow'd as before;
    Yet thou shalt still partake my care,
      And when I bend the knee,
    And pour to Heaven a fervent prayer,
      I will remember thee.

    Farewell! and when my steps depart,
      Though many a grief be mine,
    And though I may conceal my own,
      I 'll weep to hear of thine.
    Though from thy memory soon depart
      Each little trace of me,
    'Tis only in the grave this heart
      Can cease to think of thee.

WILLIAM THOM.

William Thom, commonly styled "The Inverury Poet," was born at Aberdeen
in 1789. His father, who was a shopkeeper, dying during his infancy, he
was placed by his mother at a school taught by a female, from whom he
received the greater amount of his juvenile education. At the age of
ten, he was put to a cotton-factory, where he served an apprenticeship
of four years. He was subsequently employed, during a period of nearly
twenty years, in the large weaving-factory of Gordon, Barron, & Co. In
1827, he removed to Dundee; and shortly after to the village of Newtyle,
in Strathmore, at both of these places working as a hand-loom weaver.
Thrown out of employment, in consequence of a stagnation in the
manufacturing world, he was subjected, in his person and family, to much
penury and suffering. At length, disposing of his articles of household
furniture, he purchased a few wares, and taking his wife and children
along with him, commenced the precarious life of a pedlar. In his
published "Recollections," he has supplied a heart-rending narrative of
the privations attendant on his career as a wanderer; his lodgings were
frequently in the farmer's barn, and, on one of these occasions, one of
his children perished from cold and starvation. The contents of his pack
becoming exhausted, he derived the means of subsistence by playing on
the flute, and disposing of copies of verses. After wandering over a
wide district as a pedlar, flute-player, and itinerant poet, he resumed
his original occupation of weaving in Kinross. He subsequently sought
employment as a weaver in Aberdeen, where he remained about a year. In
1840 he proceeded to Inverury; and it was while he was resident in this
place that his beautiful stanzas, entitled "The Blind Boy's Pranks,"
appeared in the columns of the _Aberdeen Herald_ newspaper. These verses
were copied into many of the public journals: they particularly arrested
the attention of Mr Gordon of Knockespock, a landed proprietor in
Aberdeenshire, who, ascertaining the indigent circumstances of the
author, transmitted to him a handsome donation, and desired to form his
personal acquaintance. The poet afterwards accompanied Mr Gordon to
London, who introduced him as a man of genius to the fashionable and
literary circles of the metropolis. In 1844 he published a small volume
of poems and songs, with a brief autobiography, under the title of
"Rhymes and Recollections of a Hand-loom Weaver." This volume was well
received; and on a second visit to London, Thom was entertained at a
public dinner by many distinguished literary persons of the metropolis.
From admirers, both in India and America, he received pecuniary
acknowledgments of his genius. He now attempted to establish himself in
London in connexion with the press, but without success. Returning to
Scotland, he took up his abode in Dundee; where, after a period of
distress and penury, he breathed his last on the 29th February 1848, in
his 59th year. His remains were interred in the public cemetery of the
town; and it is pleasing to add, that an enthusiastic admirer of his
genius has planted flowers upon his grave. Though long in publishing,
Thom early wrote verses; in Gordon, Barron, & Co.'s factory in
Aberdeen, his fellow-workmen were astonished and interested by the power
and vigour of his poems. That he did not publish sooner, is probably
attributable to his lengthened career of poverty, and his carelessness
regarding intellectual honours.

In respect of pure and simple pathos, some of his lyrics are unequalled
among the compositions of any of the national bards. Than "The
Mitherless Bairn," it may be questioned whether there is to be found in
the language any lyrical composition more delicately plaintive. It is
lamentable to think that one who could write so tenderly should, by a
dissolute life, have been the author of many of his own misfortunes, and
a constant barrier to every attempt for his permanent elevation in the
social circle. In person, he was rather below the middle stature; his
countenance was thoughtful, but marked with the effects of bodily
suffering. Owing to a club-foot, his gait was singularly awkward. He
excelled in conversation, and his manner was pleasing and conciliatory.

JEANIE'S GRAVE.

    I saw my true-love first on the banks of queenly Tay,
    Nor did I deem it yielding my trembling heart away;
    I feasted on her deep, dark eye, and loved it more and more,
    For, oh! I thought I ne'er had seen a look so kind before!

    I heard my true-love sing, and she taught me many a strain,
    But a voice so sweet, oh! never shall my cold ear hear again.
    In all our friendless wanderings--in homeless penury--
    Her gentle song and jetty eye were all unchanged to me.

    I saw my true-love fade--I heard her latest sigh;
    I wept no friv'lous weeping when I closed her lightless eye:
    Far from her native Tay she sleeps, and other waters lave
    The markless spot where Ury creeps around my Jeanie's grave.

    Move noiseless, gentle Ury! around my Jeanie's bed,
    And I 'll love thee, gentle Ury! where'er my footsteps tread;
    For sooner shall thy fairy wave return from yonder sea,
    Than I forget yon lowly grave, and all it hides from me.

THEY SPEAK O' WILES.

AIR--_"Gin a bodie meet a bodie."_

    They speak o' wiles in woman's smiles,
      An' ruin in her e'e;
    I ken they bring a pang at whiles
      That 's unco sair to dree;
    But mind ye this, the half-ta'en kiss,
      The first fond fa'in' tear,
    Is, heaven kens, fu' sweet amends,
      An' tints o' heaven here.

    When two leal hearts in fondness meet,
      Life's tempests howl in vain;
    The very tears o' love are sweet
      When paid with tears again.
    Shall hapless prudence shake its pow,
      Shall cauldrife caution fear,
    Oh, dinna, dinna droun the lowe,
      That lichts a heaven here!

    What though we 're ca'd a wee before
      The stale "three score an' ten,"
    When Joy keeks kindly at your door,
      Aye bid her welcome ben.
    About yon blissfu' bowers above
      Let doubtfu' mortals speir;
    Sae weel ken we that "heaven is love,"
      Since love makes heaven here.

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.[30]

    When a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame
    By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
    Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'?
    'Tis the puir doited loonie--the mitherless bairn!

    The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed,
    Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
    His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
    An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.

    Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover there,
    O' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark hair;
    But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
    That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

    Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly-rock'd bed
    Now rests in the mools whare her mammie is laid;
    The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn,
    An' kens na' the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

    Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour o' his birth,
    Still watches his wearisome wanderings on earth;
    Recording in heaven the blessings they earn,
    Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn!

    Oh! speak him na' harshly--he trembles the while,
    He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile;
    In their dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn
    That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn!

[30] An Inverury correspondent writes: "Thom gave me the following
narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless Bairn;' I quote his own
words--'When I was livin' in Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to
my garret, when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was thumpin' a
bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', "Ye hussie, will ye kick a
mitherless bairn!" I hobbled up the stair, and wrote the sang afore
sleepin'.'"

THE LASS O' KINTORE.

AIR--_"Oh, as I was kiss'd yestreen."_

    At hame or afield I am cheerless an' lone,
    I 'm dull on the Ury, an' droop by the Don;
    Their murmur is noisy, and fashious to hear,
    An' the lay o' the lintie fa's dead on my ear.
    I hide frae the morn, and whaur naebody sees;
    I greet to the burnie, an' sich to the breeze;
    Though I sich till I 'm silly, an' greet till I dee,
    Kintore is the spot in this world for me.
      But the lass o' Kintore, oh! the lass o' Kintore,
      Be warned awa' frae the lass o' Kintore;
      There 's a love-luring look that I ne'er kent afore
      Steals cannily hame to the heart at Kintore.

    They bid me forget her, oh! how can it be?
    In kindness or scorn she 's ever wi' me;
    I feel her fell frown in the lift's frosty blue,
    An' I weel ken her smile in the lily's saft hue.
    I try to forget her, but canna forget,
    I 've liked her lang, an' I aye like her yet;
    My poor heart may wither, may waste to its core,
    But forget her, oh never! the lass o' Kintore!
      Oh the wood o' Kintore, the holmes o' Kintore!
      The love-lichtin' e'e that I ken at Kintore;
      I 'll wander afar, an' I 'll never look more
      On the gray glance o' Peggy, or bonnie Kintore!

MY HAMELESS HA'.

    Oh! how can I be cheerie in this hameless ha'?
    The very sun glints eerie on the gilded wa';
        An' aye the nicht sae drearie,
          Ere the dowie morn daw,
        Whan I canna win to see you,
          My Jamie, ava'.

    Though mony miles between us, an' far, far frae me,
    The bush that wont to screen us frae the cauld warl's e'e,
        Its leaves may waste and wither,
          But its branches winna fa';
        An' hearts may haud thegither,
          Though frien's drap awa'.

    Ye promised to speak o' me to the lanesome moon,
    An' weird kind wishes to me, in the lark's saft soun';
        I doat upon that moon
          Till my very heart fills fu',
        An' aye yon birdie's tune
          Gars me greet for you.

    Then how can I be cheerie in the stranger's ha'?
    A gowden prison drearie, my luckless fa'!
        'Tween leavin' o' you, Jamie,
          An' ills that sorrow me,
        I 'm wearie o' the warl',
          An' carena though I dee.

WILLIAM GLEN.[31]

William Glen, whose name simply has hitherto been known to the lovers of
Scottish song, is entitled to an honourable place in the song-literature
of his country. His progenitors were persons of consideration in the
county of Renfrew.[32] His father, Alexander Glen, a Glasgow merchant in
the Russian trade, married Jane Burns, sister of the Rev. Dr Burns,
minister of Renfrew; and of a family of three sons, the poet was the
eldest. He was born in Queen Street, Glasgow, on the 14th of November
1789. In 1803, when the regiment of Glasgow Volunteer Sharp-shooters was
formed, he joined the corps as a lieutenant. He afterwards followed the
mercantile profession, and engaged in the West India trade. For some
time he resided in one of the West India islands. In 1814 he became one
of the managers of the "Merchants' House" of Glasgow, and also a
director of the "Chamber of Commerce and Manufactures." During the same
year, being unfortunate in merchandise, he was induced to abandon the
concerns of business. He afterwards derived the means of support from an
uncle who resided in Russia; but his circumstances were ultimately much
clouded by misfortune. During the last eight years of his career, his
summers were spent at Reinagour, in the parish of Aberfoyle, where he
resided with an uncle of his wife. After several years of delicate
health, he died in Edwin Place, Gorbals, Glasgow, in December 1826. His
widow and daughter continue to reside at Craigmuick, parish of
Aberfoyle.

William Glen was about six feet in height; his person, which was
originally slender, afterwards became portly. He was of a fair
complexion, and his countenance generally wore a smile. His manners were
pleasing, and he cherished a keen relish for congenial society. In 1815
he published a thin duodecimo volume of verses, entitled "Poems, chiefly
Lyrical;" but the majority of his metrical compositions seem to have
been confined to his repositories. A quarto volume of his MSS., numbered
"Volume Third," is now in the possession of Mr Gabriel Neil of Glasgow,
who has kindly made it available in the preparation of this work.
Interspersed with the poetry in the MS. volume, are pious reflections on
the trials and disappointments incident to human life; with some
spirited appeals to those fair ones who at different times had attracted
the poet's fancy. Of his songs inserted in the present work, seven have
been printed from the MS. volume, and the two last from the printed
volume. Four of the songs have not been previously published. The whole
are pervaded by simplicity and exquisite pathos. The song, "Waes me for
Prince Charlie," is one of the most touching and popular of modern
Jacobite ditties.

[31] To Mr James C. Roger, of Glasgow, we have to acknowledge our
obligations for much diligent inquiry on the subject of this memoir.

[32] Allanus Glen, _armiger_, is witness to an instrument conveying the
fishing of Crockat-shot to the "Monks of Pasly," in 1452. James Glen,
the successor of this person, obtained from Robert, abbot of Paisley,
the lands of Bar, Bridge-end, and Lyntehels, within the Lordship of
Paisley. James Glen of Bar joined the troops of Queen Mary at the battle
of Langside, for which act he was forfeited by the Regent, but was
restored in 1573 by the treaty of Perth. Archibald Glen, a younger son
of the proprietor of Bar, was minister of Carmunnock, and died in
February 1614. Of two sons, Robert, the eldest, succeeded him in the
living of Carmunnock; the other, named Thomas, was a prosperous trader
in the Saltmarket of Glasgow; he died in 1735. His son Alexander was the
poet's father.

WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.[33]

TUNE--_"Johnnie Faa."_

    A wee bird cam to our ha' door,
      He warbled sweet an' clearly,
    An' aye the owercome o' his sang
      Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."
    Oh! whan I heard the bonnie soun',
      The tears cam drappin' rarely;
    I took my bannet aff my head,
      For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.

    Quoth I, "My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird,
      Is that a sang ye borrow?
    Are thae some words ye 've learnt by heart,
      Or a lilt o' dule an' sorrow?"
    "Oh, no, no, no!" the wee bird sang,
      "I 've flown sin' mornin' early,
    But sic' a day o' wind and rain!--
      Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

    "On hills that are by right his ain,
      He roves a lanely stranger;
    On every side he 's press'd by want,
      On every side is danger.
    Yestreen I saw him in a glen,
      My heart maist burstit fairly,
    For sadly changed indeed was he--
      Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie.

    "Dark night cam on, the tempest roar'd
      Loud o'er the hills an' valleys;
    An' whare wast that your Prince lay down,
      Whase hame should been a palace?
    He row'd him in a Highland plaid,
      Which cover'd him but sparely,
    An' slept beneath a bush o' broom--
      Oh! waes me for Prince Charlie."

    But now the bird saw some red-coats,
      An' he shook his wings wi' anger:
    "Oh! this is no a land for me,
      I 'll tarry here nae langer."
    He hover'd on the wing a while,
      Ere he departed fairly;
    But weel I mind the farewell strain
      Was, "Waes me for Prince Charlie."

[33] This song is understood to be a favourite with her present Majesty.

MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.[34]

    The sun hadna peep'd frae behint the dark billow,
      The slow sinking moon half illumined the scene;
    As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow,
      An' wander'd to muse on the days that were gane.
    Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,
      An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile;
    But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic,
      An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    Though far frae my hame in a tropical wildwood,
      Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
    An' I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
      An' the vision was painful the brighter it grew.
    Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,
      Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile;
    Oh! the snaw wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling,
      Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    Now far in the east the sun slowly rising,
      Brightly gilded the top of the tall cabbage tree;
    And sweet was the scene such wild beauties comprising,
      As might have fill'd the sad mourner with rapture and glee.
    But my heart felt nae rapture, nae pleasant emotion,
      The saft springs o' pleasure had lang, lang been seal'd;
    I thought on my home 'cross a wide stormy ocean,
      And wept for my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    The orange was bathed in the dews o' the morning,
      An' the bright draps bespangled the clustering vine;
    White were the blossoms the lime-tree adorning,
      An' brown was the apple that grew on the pine.
    Were I as free as an Indian chieftain,
      Sic beautiful scenes might give pleasure the while;
    But the joy o' a slave is aye waverin' an' shiftin',
      An' a slave I 'm to Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

    When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,
      An' the golden shower fa's whare it ne'er fell before;
    Oh! then I 'll revisit the land of my fathers,
      An' clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.
    Hear me, ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden,
      (Like ane o' yoursels she is free frae a' guile),
    Pure as was love in the garden o' Eden,
      Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

[34] This song was composed while the author resided in the West Indies.
It is here printed for the first time.

THE BATTLE-SONG.[35]

      Raise high the battle-song
        To the heroes of our land;
      Strike the bold notes loud and long
        To Great Britain's warlike band.
    Burst away like a whirlwind of flame,
      Wild as the lightning's wing;
      Strike the boldest, sweetest string,
      And deathless glory sing--
          To their fame.

      See Corunna's bloody bed!
        'Tis a sad, yet glorious scene;
      There the imperial eagle fled,
        And there our chief was slain.
    Green be the turf upon the warrior's breast,
      High honour seal'd his doom,
      And eternal laurels bloom
      Round the poor and lowly tomb
          Of his rest.

      Strong was his arm of might,
        When the war-flag was unfurl'd;
      But his soul when peace shone bright,
        Beam'd love to all the world.
    And his name, through endless ages shall endure;
      High deeds are written fair,
      In that scroll, which time must spare,
      And thy fame 's recorded there--
          Noble Moore.

      Yonder 's Barossa's height
        Rising full upon my view,
      Where was fought the bloodiest fight
        That Iberia ever knew,
    Where Albion's bold sons to victory were led.
      With bay'nets levell'd low,
      They rush'd upon the foe,
      Like an avalanche of snow
          From its bed.

      Sons of the "Lonely Isle,"
        Your native courage rose,
      When surrounded for a while
        By the thousands of your foes.
    But dauntless was your chief, that meteor of war,
      He resistless led ye on,
      Till the bloody field was won,
      And the dying battle-groan
          Sunk afar.

      Our song Balgowan share,
        Home of the chieftain's rest;
      For thou art a lily fair
        In Caledonia's breast.
    Breathe, sweetly breathe, a soft love-soothing strain,
      For beauty there doth dwell,
      In the mountain, flood, or fell,
      And throws her witching spell
          O'er the scene.

      But not Balgowan's charms
        Could hire the chief to stay;
      For the foe were up in arms,
        In a country far away.
    He rush'd to battle, and he won his fame;
      Ages may pass by,
      Fleet as the summer's sigh,
      But thy name shall never die--
          Gallant Græme.[36]

      Strike again the boldest strings,
        To our great commander's praise;
      Who to our memory brings
        "The deeds of other days."
    Peal for a lofty spirit-stirring strain;
      The blaze of hope illumes
      Iberia's deepest glooms,
      And the eagle shakes his plumes
          There in vain.

      High is the foemen's pride,
        For they are sons of war;
      But our chieftain rolls the tide,
        Of battle back afar.
    A braver hero in the field ne'er shone;
      Let bards with loud acclaim,
      Heap laurels on his fame,
      "Singing glory" to the name
          Of Wellington.

      Could I with soul of fire
        Guide my wild unsteady hand,
      I would strike the quivering wire,
        Till it rung throughout the land.
    Of all its warlike heroes would I sing;
      Were powers to soar thus given,
      By the blast of genius driven,
      I would sweep the highest heaven
          With my wing.

      Yet still this trembling flight
        May point a bolder way,
      Ere the lonely beam of night
        Steals on my setting day.
    Till then, sweet harp, hang on the willow tree;
      And when I come again,
      Thou wilt not sound in vain,
      For I 'll strike thy highest strain--
          Bold and free.

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

[36] The "gallant Græme," Lord Lynedoch, on hearing this song at a
Glasgow theatre, was so moved by the touching reference of the poet to
his achievements, and the circumstances of his joining the army, that he
openly burst into tears.

THE MAID OF ORONSEY.[37]

    Oh! stopna, bonnie bird, that strain,
      Frae hopeless love itsel' it flows;
    Sweet bird, oh! warble it again,
      Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes;
    Oh! lull me with it to repose,
      I 'll dream of her who 's far away,
    And fancy, as my eyelids close,
      Will meet the maid of Oronsey.

    Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,
      Sweet bird, thou 'dst leave thy native grove,
    And fly to bring my soul relief,
      To where my warmest wishes rove;
    Soft as the cooings of the dove,
      Thou 'dst sing thy sweetest, saddest lay,
    And melt to pity and to love
      The bonnie maid of Oronsey.

    Well may I sigh and sairly weep,
      The song sad recollections bring;
    Oh! fly across the roaring deep,
      And to my maiden sweetly sing;
    'Twill to her faithless bosom fling
      Remembrance of a sacred day;
    But feeble is thy wee bit wing,
      And far 's the isle of Oronsey.

    Then, bonnie bird, wi' mony a tear,
      I 'll mourn beside this hoary thorn,
    And thou wilt find me sitting here,
      Ere thou canst hail the dawn o' morn;
    Then high on airy pinions borne,
      Thou 'lt chant a sang o' love an' wae,
    An' soothe me, weeping at the scorn,
      Of the sweet maid of Oronsey.

    And when around my weary head,
      Soft pillow'd where my fathers lie,
    Death shall eternal poppies spread,
      An' close for aye my tearfu' eye;
    Perch'd on some bonnie branch on high,
      Thou 'lt sing thy sweetest roundelay,
    And soothe my "spirit, passing by"
      To meet the maid of Oronsey.

[37] Printed for the first time.

JESS M'LEAN.[38]

    Her eyes were red with weeping,
      Her lover was no more,
    Beneath the billows sleeping,
      Near Ireland's rocky shore;
    She oft pray'd for her Willy,
      But it was all in vain,
    And pale as any lily
      Grew lovely Jess M'Lean.

    She sat beside some willows
      That overhung the sea,
    And as she view'd the billows,
      She moan'd most piteously;
    The storm in all its rigour
      Swept the bosom of the main,
    And shook the sylph-like figure
      Of lovely Jess M'Lean.

    Her auburn hair was waving
      In ringlets on the gale,
    And the tempest join'd its raving,
      To the hapless maiden's wail;
    Wild was the storm's commotion,
      Yet careless of the scene,
    Like the spirit of the ocean
      Sat lovely Jess M'Lean.

    She look'd upon her bosom
      Where Willy's picture hung,
    'Twas like a rosy blossom
      On a bed of lilies flung;
    She kiss'd the red cheeks over,
      And look'd, and kiss'd again;
    Then told the winds her lover
      Was true to Jess M'Lean.

    But a blast like bursting thunder
      Bent down each willow tree,
    Snapp'd the picture clasp asunder,
      And flung it in the sea;
    She started from the willows
      The image to regain,
    And low beneath the billows
      Lies lovely Jess M'Lean.

    Her bones are changed to coral
      Of the purest virgin white,
    Her teeth are finest pearl,
      And her eyes are diamonds bright;
    The breeze oft sweeps the willows
      In a sad and mournful strain,
    And moaning o'er the billows
      Sings the dirge of Jess M'Lean.

[38] Printed for the first time.

HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY.

    How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,
    When my love 's in a foreign land, far frae thae arms o' mine;
    Three years hae come an' gane, sin' first he said to me,
    That he wad stay at hame wi' Jean, wi' her to live an' dee;
    The day comes in wi' sorrow now, the night is wild an' drear,
    An' every hour that passes by I water wi' a tear.

    I kiss my bonnie baby, I clasp it to my breast,
    Ah! aft wi' sic a warm embrace, it's father hath me press'd!
    An' whan I gaze upon its face, as it lies on my knee,
    The crystal draps upon its cheeks will fa' frae ilka ee;
    Oh! mony a, mony a burning tear upon its cheeks will fa',
    For oh! its like my bonnie love, and he is far awa'.

    Whan the spring time had gane by, an' the rose began to blaw,
    An' the harebell an' the violet adorn'd ilk bonnie shaw;
    'Twas then my love cam courtin' me, and wan my youthfu' heart,
    An' mony a tear it cost my love ere he could frae me part;
    But though he 's in a foreign land far, far across the sea,
    I ken my Jamie's guileless heart is faithfu' unto me.

    Ye wastlin win's upon the main blaw wi' a steady breeze,
    And waft my Jamie hame again across the roaring seas;
    Oh! whan he clasps me in his arms in a' his manly pride,
    I 'll ne'er exchange that ae embrace for a' the warl' beside;
    Then blaw a steady gale, ye win's, waft him across the sea,
    And bring my Jamie hame again to his wee bairn an' me.

THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.[39]

AIR--_"Whistle o'er the lave o 't."_

    Sing a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
    High glory gie to gallant Graham,
    Heap laurels on our marshal's fame
      Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
    Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,
    An' raised her stately form again,
    Whan the British lion shook his mane
      On the mountains of Vittoria.

    Let blustering Suchet crousely crack,
    Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
    An' Jourdan wish his baton back
      He left upon Vittoria.
    If e'er they meet their worthy king,
    Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
    An' some Scots piper play the spring
      He blew them at Vittoria.

    Gie truth and honour to the Dane,
    Gie German's monarch heart and brain,
    But aye in sic a cause as Spain
      Gie Britain a Vittoria.
    The English rose was ne'er sae red,
    The shamrock waved whare glory led,
    An' the Scottish thistle rear'd its head
      In joy upon Vittoria.

    Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
    Whare thousands fought an' many fell,
    But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell
      At the battle of Vittoria.
    The Paris maids may ban them a',
    Their lads are maistly wede awa',
    An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw
      They lie upon Vittoria.

    Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave,
    Let all their trophies for them wave,
    And green be our Cadogan's grave
      Upon thy fields, Vittoria.
    Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain,
    And fill a bumper up again,
    Pledge to the leading star o' Spain,
      The hero of Vittoria.

[39] At the battle of Vittoria, the 71st, or Glasgow Regiment, bore a
distinguished part. On this song, celebrating their achievements, being
produced at the Glasgow theatre, it was received with rapturous
applause; it was nightly called for during the season.

BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY.

AIR--_"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty."_

    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      Blink over the burn to me;
    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee;
    Though father and mither forbade it,
      Forbidden I wadna be;
    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.

    The cheek o' my love 's like the rose-bud,
      Blushing red wi' the mornin' dew,
    Her hair 's o' the loveliest auburn,
      Her ee 's o' the bonniest blue;
    Her lips are like threads o' the scarlet,
      Disclosing a pearly row;
    Her high-swelling, love-heaving bosom
      Is white as the mountain snow.

    But it isna her beauty that hauds me,
      A glitterin' chain winna lang bind;
    'Tis her heavenly seraph-like sweetness,
      An' the graces adornin' her mind;
    She 's dear to my soul as the sunbeam
      Is dear to the summer's morn,
    An' she says, though her father forbade it,
      She 'll ne'er break the vows she has sworn.

    Her father's a canker'd auld carle,
      He swears he will ne'er gie consent;
    Such carles should never get daughters,
      Unless they can mak them content;
    But she says, though her father forbade it,
      Forbidden she winna be;
    Blink over the burn, sweet Betty,
      An' I 'll gang alang wi' thee.

FAREWEEL TO ABERFOYLE.

AIR--_"Highland Plaid."_

    My tortured bosom long shall feel
    The pangs o' this last sad fareweel;
    Far, far to foreign lands I stray,
    To spend my hours in deepest wae;
    Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,
    Fareweel, the braes o' Aberfoyle!

    An' fare-ye-weel, my winsome love,
    Into whatever lands I rove,
    Thou 'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
    The warmest tear ere wet my eye;
    An' when I 'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
    I 'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.

    When far upon the raging sea,
    As thunders roar, and lightnings flee,
    When sweepin' storms the ship assail,
    I 'll bless the music o' the gale,
    An' think, while listenin' a' the while,
    I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.

    Kitty, my only love, fareweel;
    What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel,
    While straying through the Indian groves,
    Weepin' our woes or early loves;
    I 'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
    Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Aberfoyle!

DAVID VEDDER.

David Vedder was the son of a small landowner in the parish of Burness,
Orkney, where he was born in 1790. He had the misfortune to lose both
his parents ere he had completed his twelfth year, and was led to choose
the nautical profession. At the age of twenty-two, he obtained the rank
of captain of a vessel, in which he performed several voyages to
Greenland. In 1815, he entered the revenue service as first officer of
an armed cruiser, and in five years afterwards was raised to the post of
tide-surveyor. He first discharged the duties of this office at
Montrose, and subsequently at the ports of Kirkcaldy, Dundee, and Leith.

A writer of verses from his boyhood, Vedder experienced agreeable
relaxation from his arduous duties as a seaman, in the invocation of the
muse. He sung of the grandeur and terrors of the ocean. His earlier
compositions were contributed to some of the northern newspapers; but
before he attained his majority, his productions found admission into
the periodicals. In 1826, he published "The Covenanter's Communion, and
other Poems," a work which was very favourably received. His reputation
as a poet was extended by the publication, in 1832, of a second volume,
under the title of "Orcadian Sketches." This work, a _melange_ of prose
and poetry, contains some of his best compositions in verse; and several
of the prose sketches are remarkable for fine and forcible description.
In 1839, he edited the "Poetical Remains of Robert Fraser," prefaced
with an interesting memoir.

Immediately on the death of Sir Walter Scott, Vedder published a memoir
of that illustrious person, which commanded a ready and wide
circulation. In 1842, he gave to the world an edition of his collected
poems, in an elegant duodecimo volume. In 1848, he supplied the
letterpress for a splendid volume, entitled "Lays and Lithographs,"
published by his son-in-law, Mr Frederick Schenck of Edinburgh, the
distinguished lithographer. His last work was a new English version of
the quaint old story of "Reynard the Fox," which was published with
elegant illustrations. To many of the more popular magazines and serials
he was in the habit of contributing; articles from his pen adorned the
pages of _Constable's Edinburgh Magazine_, the _Edinburgh Literary
Journal_, the _Edinburgh Literary Gazette_, the _Christian Herald_,
_Tait's Magazine_, and _Chambers's Journal_. He wrote the letterpress
for Geikie's volume of "Etchings," and furnished songs for George
Thomson's "Musical Miscellany," Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and
Robertson's "Whistlebinkie." At the time of his death, he was engaged in
the preparation of a ballad on the subject of the persecutions of the
Covenanters. In 1852, he was placed upon the retired list of revenue
officers, and thereafter established his residence in Edinburgh. He died
at Newington, in that city, on the 11th February 1854, in his 64th year.
His remains were interred in the Southern Cemetery.

Considerably above the middle height, Vedder was otherwise of massive
proportions, while his full open countenance was much bronzed by
exposure to the weather. Of beneficent dispositions and social habits,
he enjoyed the friendship of many of his gifted contemporaries.
Thoroughly earnest, his writings partake of the bold and straightforward
nature of his character. Some of his prose productions are admirable
specimens of vigorous composition; and his poetry, if not characterised
by uniformity of power, never descends into weakness. Triumphant in
humour, he is eminently a master of the plaintive; his tender pieces
breathe a deep-toned cadence, and his sacred lyrics are replete with
devotional fervour. His Norse ballads are resonant with the echoes of
his birth-land, and his songs are to be remarked for their deep pathos
and genuine simplicity.

JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.

    Let wrapt musicians strike the lyre,
      While plaudits shake the vaulted fane;
    Let warriors rush through flood and fire,
      A never-dying name to gain;
    Let bards, on fancy's fervid wing,
      Pursue some high or holy theme:
    Be 't mine, in simple strains, to sing
      My darling Jeanie 's welcome hame!

    Sweet is the morn of flowery May,
      When incense breathes from heath and wold--
    When laverocks hymn the matin lay,
      And mountain peaks are bathed in gold--
    And swallows, frae some foreign strand,
      Are wheeling o'er the winding stream;
    But sweeter to extend my hand,
      And bid my Jeanie welcome hame!

    Poor collie, our auld-farrant dog,
      Will bark wi' joy whene'er she comes;
    And baudrons, on the ingle rug,
      Will blithely churm at "auld gray-thrums."
    The mavis, frae our apple-tree,
      Shall warble forth a joyous strain;
    The blackbird's mellow minstrelsy
      Shall welcome Jeanie hame again!

    Like dew-drops on a fading rose,
      Maternal tears shall start for thee,
    And low-breathed blessings rise like those
      Which soothed thy slumb'ring infancy.
    Come to my arms, my timid dove!
      I 'll kiss thy beauteous brow once more;
    The fountain of thy father's love
      Is welling all its banks out o'er!

I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER.

AIR--_"Todlin' hame."_

    I neither got promise of siller nor land
    With the bonnie wee darling who gave me her hand;
    But I got a kind heart with my sweet blushing bride,
    And that 's proved the bliss of my ain fireside.
        My ain fireside, my dear fireside,
        There 's happiness aye at my ain fireside!

    Ambition once pointed my view towards rank,
    To meadows and manors, and gold in the bank:
    'Twas but for an hour; and I cherish with pride
    My sweet lovely flower at my ain fireside.
        My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
        My Jeanie 's the charm of my ain fireside!

    Her accents are music; there 's grace in her air;
    And purity reigns in her bosom so fair;
    She 's lovelier now than in maidenly pride,
    Though she 's long been the joy of my ain fireside.
        My ain fireside, my happy fireside,
        There 's harmony still at my ain fireside!

    Let the minions of fortune and fashion go roam,
    I 'm content with the sweet, simple pleasures of home;
    Though their wine, wit, and humour flow like a spring-tide,
    What are these to the bliss of my dear fireside?
        My ain fireside, my cheerie fireside,
        There are pleasures untold at my ain fireside!

THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.

AIR--_"Gramachree."_

    There is a pang for every heart,
      A tear for every eye;
    There is a knell for every ear,
      For every breast a sigh.
    There 's anguish in the happiest state,
      Humanity can prove;
    But oh! the torture of the soul
      Is unrequited love!

    The reptile haunts the sweetest bower,
      The rose blooms on the thorn;
    There 's poison in the fairest flower
      That greets the opening morn.
    The hemlock and the night-shade spring
      In garden and in grove;
    But oh! the upas of the soul
      Is unrequited love!

    Ah! lady, thine inconstancy
      Hath made my peace depart;
    The unwonted coldness of thine eye
      Hath froze thy lover's heart.
    Yet with the fibres of that heart
      Thine image dear is wove;
    Nor can they sever till I die
      Of unrequited love!

THE FIRST OF MAY.

AIR--_"The Braes of Balquhidder."_

    Now the beams of May morn
      On the mountains are streaming,
    And the dews on the corn
      Are like diamond-drops gleaming;
    And the birds from the bowers
      Are in gladness ascending;
    And the breath of sweet flowers
      With the zephyrs is blending.

    And the rose-linnet's thrill,
      Overflowing with gladness,
    And the wood-pigeon's bill,
      Though their notes seem of sadness;
    And the jessamine rich
      Its soft tendrils is shooting,
    From pear and from peach
      The bright blossoms are sprouting.

    And the lambs on the lea
      Are in playfulness bounding,
    And the voice of the sea
      Is in harmony sounding;
    And the streamlet on high
      In the morning beam dances,
    For all Nature is joy
      As sweet summer advances.

    Then, my Mary, let 's stray
      Where the wild-flowers are glowing,
    By the banks of the Tay
      In its melody flowing;
    Thou shalt bathe in May-dew,
      Like a sweet mountain blossom,
    For 'tis bright like thy brow,
      And 'tis pure as thy bosom!

SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.

    Oh! the sunny peaches glow,
      And the grapes in clusters blush;
    And the cooling silver streams
      From their sylvan fountains rush;
    There is music in the grove,
      And there 's fragrance on the gale;
    But there 's nought so dear to me
      As my own Highland vale.

    Oh! the queen-like virgin rose,
      Of the dew and sunlight born,
    And the azure violet,
      Spread their beauties to the morn;
    So does the hyacinth,
      And the lily pure and pale;
    But I love the daisy best
      In my own Highland vale.

    Hark! hark! those thrilling notes!
      'Tis the nightingale complains;
    Oh! the soul of music breathes
      In those more than plaintive strains;
    But they 're not so dear to me
      As the murmur of the rill,
    And the bleating of the lambs
      On my own Highland hill.

    Oh! the flow'rets fair may glow,
      And the juicy fruits may blush,
    And the beauteous birds may sing,
      And the crystal streamlets rush;
    And the verdant meads may smile,
      And the cloudless sun may beam,
    But there 's nought beneath the skies
      Like my own Highland home.

THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.

AIR--_"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."_

    The tempest is raging
      And rending the shrouds;
    The ocean is waging
      A war with the clouds;
    The cordage is breaking,
      The canvas is torn,
    The timbers are creaking--
      The seamen forlorn.

    The water is gushing
      Through hatches and seams;
    'Tis roaring and rushing
      O'er keelson and beams;
    And nought save the lightning
      On mainmast or boom,
    At intervals brightening
      The palpable gloom.

    Though horrors beset me,
      And hurricanes howl,
    I may not forget thee,
      Beloved of my soul!
    Though soon I must perish
      In ocean beneath,
    Thine image I 'll cherish,
      Adored one! in death.

THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]

    Talk not of temples--there is one
      Built without hands, to mankind given;
    Its lamps are the meridian sun,
      And all the stars of heaven;
    Its walls are the cerulean sky,
      Its floor the earth so green and fair;
    The dome is vast immensity--
      All nature worships there!

    The Alps array'd in stainless snow,
      The Andean ranges yet untrod,
    At sunrise and at sunset glow
      Like altar-fires to God.
    A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
      As if with hallow'd victims rare;
    And thunder lifts its voice in praise--
      All nature worships there!

    The ocean heaves resistlessly,
      And pours his glittering treasure forth;
    His waves--the priesthood of the sea--
      Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,
    And there emit a hollow sound,
      As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;
    On every side 'tis holy ground--
      All nature worships there!

    The grateful earth her odours yield
      In homage, Mighty One! to thee;
    From herbs and flowers in every field,
      From fruit on every tree,
    The balmy dew at morn and even
      Seems like the penitential tear,
    Shed only in the sight of heaven--
      All nature worships there!

    The cedar and the mountain pine,
      The willow on the fountain's brim,
    The tulip and the eglantine,
      In reverence bend to Him;
    The song-birds pour their sweetest lays,
      From tower, and tree, and middle air;
    The rushing river murmurs praise--
      All nature worships there!

    Then talk not of a fane, save one
      Built without hands, to mankind given;
    Its lamps are the meridian sun,
      And all the stars of heaven.
    Its walls are the cerulean sky,
      Its floor the earth so green and fair,
    The dome is vast immensity--
      All nature worships there!

[40] This admirable composition was an especial favourite of Dr Thomas
Chalmers, who was in the habit of quoting it to his students in the
course of his theological prelections.

JOHN M'DIARMID.

The son of the Rev. Hugh M'Diarmid, minister of the Gaelic church,
Glasgow, John M'Diarmid was born in 1790. He received in Edinburgh a
respectable elementary education; but, deprived of his father at an
early age, he was left unaided to push his fortune in life. For some
time he acted as clerk in connexion with a bleachfield at Roslin, and
subsequently held a situation in the Commercial Bank in Edinburgh. He
now attended some classes in the University, while his other spare time
was devoted to reading and composition. During two years he was employed
in the evenings as amanuensis to Professor Playfair. At one of the
College debating societies he improved himself as a public speaker, and
subsequently took an active part in the discussions of the "Forum." Fond
of verse-making, he composed some spirited lines on the battle of
Waterloo, when the first tidings of the victory inspired a thrilling
interest in the public mind; the consequence was, the immediate
establishment of his reputation. His services were sought by several of
the leading publishers, and the accomplished editor of the _Edinburgh
Review_ offered to receive contributions from his pen. In 1816 he
compiled some works for the bookselling firm of Oliver and Boyd, and
towards the end of the same year, in concert with his friends Charles
Maclaren and William Ritchie, originated the _Scotsman_ newspaper. In
January 1817, he accepted the editorship of the _Dumfries and Galloway
Courier_--a journal which, established in 1809 by Dr Duncan of Ruthwell,
chiefly with the view of advocating his scheme of savings' banks, had
hitherto been conducted by that ingenious and philanthropic individual.

As editor of a provincial newspaper, M'Diarmid was possessed of the
promptitude and business-habits which, in connexion with literary
ability, are essential for such an office. The _Dumfries Courier_, which
had formerly occupied a neutrality in politics, became, under his
management, a powerful organ of the liberal party. But the editor was
more than a politician; the columns of his journal were enriched with
illustrations of the natural history of the district, and sent forth
stirring appeals on subjects of social reformation and agricultural
improvement. Devoted to his duties as a journalist, he continued to
cherish his literary enthusiasm. In 1817 he published an edition of
Cowper, with an elegant memoir of the poet's life. "The Scrap-Book," a
work of selections and original contributions in prose and verse,
appeared in 1820, and was speedily followed by a second volume. In 1823
he composed a memoir of Goldsmith for an edition of the "Vicar of
Wakefield," which was published in Edinburgh. The _Dumfries Magazine_
was originated under his auspices in 1825, and during the three years of
its existence was adorned with contributions from his pen. In 1830 he
published "Sketches from Nature," a volume chiefly devoted to the
illustration of scenery and character in the districts of Dumfries and
Galloway. "The Picture of Dumfries," an illustrated work, appeared in
1832. A description of Moffat, and a life of Nicholson, the Galloway
poet, complete the catalogue of his publications. In 1820 he was offered
the editorship of the _Caledonian Mercury_, the first established of
the Scottish newspapers, but preferred to remain in Dumfries. He
ultimately became sole proprietor of the _Courier_, which, under his
superintendence, acquired a celebrity rarely attained by a provincial
newspaper. In 1847 he was entertained at a public dinner by his
fellow-townsmen. His death took place at Dumfries, on the 18th November
1852, in his sixty-third year.

A man of social and generous dispositions, M'Diarmid was esteemed among
a wide circle of friends; he was in habits of intimacy with Sir Walter
Scott, Jeffrey, Wilson, Lockhart, the Ettrick Shepherd, Dr Thomas
Gillespie, and many others of his distinguished contemporaries. To his
kindly patronage, many young men of genius were indebted for positions
of honour and emolument. An elegant prose-writer, his compositions in
verse are pervaded by a graceful smoothness and lively fancy.

NITHSIDE.

AIR--_"There 's a bonnie brier bush in our kail-yard."_

    When the lark is in the air, the leaf upon the tree,
    The butterfly disporting beside the hummel bee;
    The scented hedges white, the fragrant meadows pied,
    How sweet it is to wander by bonnie Nithside!

    When the blackbird piping loud the mavis strives to drown,
    And schoolboys seeking nests find each nursling fledged or flown,
    To hop 'mong plots and borders, array'd in all their pride,
    How sweet at dewy morn to roam by bonnie Nithside!

    When the flies are on the stream, 'neath a sky of azure hue,
    And anglers take their stand by the waters bright and blue;
    While the coble circles pools, where the monarch salmon glide,
    Surpassing sweet on summer days is bonnie Nithside!

    When the corncraik's voice is mute, as her young begin to flee,
    And seek with swifts and martins some home beyond the sea;
    And reapers crowd the harvest-field, in man and maiden pride,
    How exquisite the golden hours on bonnie Nithside!

    When stubbles yield to tilth, and woodlands brown and sear,
    The falling leaf and crispy pool proclaim the waning year;
    And sounds of sylvan pastime ring through our valley wide,
    Vicissitude itself is sweet by bonnie Nithside!

    And when winter comes at last, capping every hill with snow,
    And freezing into icy plains the struggling streams below,
    You still may share the curler's joys, and find at even-tide,
    Maids sweet and fair, in spence and ha', at bonnie Nithside!

EVENING.

    Hush, ye songsters! day is done,
    See how sweet the setting sun
    Gilds the welkin's boundless breast,
    Smiling as he sinks to rest;
    Now the swallow down the dell,
    Issuing from her noontide cell,
    Mocks the deftest marksman's aim
    Jumbling in fantastic game:
    Sweet inhabitant of air,
    Sure thy bosom holds no care;
    Not the fowler full of wrath,
    Skilful in the deeds of death--
    Not the darting hawk on high
    (Ruthless tyrant of the sky!)
    Owns one art of cruelty
    Fit to fell or fetter thee,
    Gayest, freest of the free!

    Ruling, whistling shrill on high,
    Where yon turrets kiss the sky,
    Teasing with thy idle din
    Drowsy daws at rest within;
    Long thou lov'st to sport and spring
    On thy never-wearying wing.
    Lower now 'midst foliage cool
    Swift thou skimm'st the peaceful pool,
    Where the speckled trout at play,
    Rising, shares thy dancing prey,
    While the treach'rous circles swell
    Wide and wider where it fell,
    Guiding sure the angler's arm
    Where to find the puny swarm;
    And with artificial fly,
    Best to lure the victim's eye,
    Till, emerging from the brook,
    Brisk it bites the barbed hook;
    Struggling in the unequal strife,
    With its death, disguised as life,
    Till it breathless beats the shore
    Ne'er to cleave the current more!

    Peace! creation's gloomy queen,
    Darkest Night, invests the scene!
    Silence, Evening's handmaid mild,
    Leaves her home amid the wild,
    Tripping soft with dewy feet,
    Summer's flowery carpet sweet,
    Morpheus--drowsy power--to meet.
    Ruler of the midnight hour,
    In thy plenitude of power,
    From this burthen'd bosom throw
    Half its leaden load of woe.
    Since thy envied art supplies
    What reality denies,
    Let thy cheerless suppliant see
    Dreams of bliss inspired by thee--
    Let before his wond'ring eyes
    Fancy's brightest visions rise--
    Long lost happiness restore,
    None can need thy bounty more.

PETER BUCHAN.

The indefatigable collector of the elder national minstrelsy, Peter
Buchan, was born in Peterhead in the year 1790. Of a somewhat
distinguished descent, he was on the father's side remotely connected
with the noble house of Buchan, and his mother was a lineal descendant
of the Irvines of Drum, an old powerful family in Aberdeenshire. Though
he was disposed to follow a seafaring life, and had obtained a
commission in the Navy, he abandoned his early intentions at the urgent
solicitation of his parents, and thereafter employed himself as a
copperplate engraver, and was the inventor of an ingenious revolving
press for copperplate printing. At Edinburgh and Stirling, he afterwards
qualified himself for the business of a letterpress printer, and in 1816
opened a printing-office in his native town. In 1819, he compiled the
"Annals of Peterhead," a duodecimo volume, which he printed at a press
of his own contrivance. His next publication appeared shortly after,
under the title, "An Historical Account of the Ancient and Noble Family
of Keith, Earls-Marischal of Scotland."

After a period of residence in London, where he held for some time a
remunerative situation, Buchan returned to his native town. In the
metropolis, he had been painfully impressed by the harsh treatment
frequently inflicted on the inferior animals, and as a corrective for
the evil, he published at Peterhead, in 1824, a treatise, dedicated to
his son, in which he endeavoured to prove that brutes are possessed of
souls, and are immortal. His succeeding publication, which appeared in
1828, proved the most successful effort of his life; it was entitled,
"Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland, hitherto
Unpublished, with Explanatory Notes," Edinburgh, two vols. 8vo. This
work occupied upwards of ten years in preparation. Among his other
publications may be enumerated, a volume of "Poems and Songs," printed
in 1814; "The Peterhead Smugglers, an original Melodrama," published in
1834; "The Eglinton Tournament, &c.;" "Gleanings of Scarce Old Ballads;"
and the "Wanderings of Prince Charles Stuart and Miss Flora Macdonald,"
the latter being published from an old MS.

At different periods Buchan resided in Aberdeen, Edinburgh, and Glasgow.
For a short period he owned the small property of Buchanstone, near
Dennyloanhead, Stirlingshire, which being sold, he proceeded to Ireland
in 1852, where he resided for some time at Strandhill, county of
Leitrim. In the early part of 1854, he went to London, with the view of
effecting arrangements for the publication of another volume of "Ancient
Scottish Ballads;" he was there seized with illness, of which he died on
the 19th September of the same year. His remains were interred in the
beautiful cemetery of Norwood, near London.

Mr Buchan was justly esteemed as a zealous and industrious collector of
the elder Scottish minstrelsy. His labours received the special
commendation of Sir Walter Scott, and he was a frequent guest at
Abbotsford. He was also honoured with diplomas of membership from some
of the leading literary societies of Scotland and England. Two
unpublished volumes of his "Ballad Collections" are now in the
possession of Dr Charles Mackay of London, and may at a future period be
submitted to the public. His son, the Rev. Dr Charles Forbes Buchan,
minister of Fordoun, is the author of several theological publications.

THOU GLOOMY FEBERWAR.[41]

    Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,
      Oh! gin thou wert awa'!
    I 'm wae to hear thy soughin' winds,
      I 'm wae to see thy snaw;
    For my bonnie, braw, young Hielandman,
      The lad I lo'e sae dear,
    Has vow'd to come and see me
      In the spring o' the year.

    A silken ban' he gae me,
      To bin' my gowden hair;
    A siller brooch and tartan plaid,
      A' for his sake to wear;
    And oh! my heart was like to break,
      (For partin' sorrow 's sair)
    As he vow'd to come and see me
      In the spring o' the year.

    Aft, aft as gloamin' dims the sky,
      I wander out alane,
    Whare bud the bonnie yellow whins,
      Around the trystin' stane;
    'Twas there he press'd me to his heart,
      And kiss'd awa' the tear,
    As he vow'd to come and see me
      In the spring o' the year.

    Ye gentle breezes, saftly blaw,
      And cleed anew the wuds;
    Ye laverocks lilt your cheerie sangs,
      Amang the fleecy cluds;
    Till Feberwar and a' his train,
      Affrighted disappear,
    I 'll hail wi' you the blithesome change,
      The spring-time o' the year.

[41] The first stanza of this song is the composition of Robert
Tannahill.

WILLIAM FINLAY.

William Finlay was the son of an operative shawl manufacturer in
Paisley, where he was born in 1792. He received a classical education at
the Grammar-school, and was afterwards apprenticed to his father's
trade. For a period of twenty years he prosecuted the labours of the
loom; but finding the occupation injurious to his health, he accepted
employment in the cotton mills of Duntocher. He afterwards obtained a
situation in a printing-office in Paisley, where he remained during
eight years. Ultimately, he was employed at Nethercraigs' bleachfield,
at the base of Gleniffer braes, about two miles to the south of Paisley.
He died of fever on the 5th November 1847, leaving a family of five
children.

Finlay was in the practice of contributing verses to the local prints.
In 1846, he published a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Poems, Humorous and
Sentimental." His poetical characteristics are simplicity and pathos,
combined with considerable power of satirical drollery. Delighting in
music, and fond of society, he was occasionally led to indulge in
excesses, of which, at other times, he was heartily ashamed, and which
he has feelingly lamented in some of his poems. Few Scottish poets have
more touchingly depicted the evils of intemperance.

THE BREAKING HEART.

    I mark'd her look of agony,
      I heard her broken sigh,
    I saw the colour leave her cheek,
      The lustre leave her eye;
    I saw the radiant ray of hope
      Her sadden'd soul forsaking;
    And, by these tokens, well I knew
      The maiden's heart was breaking.

    It is not from the hand of Heaven
      Her bitter grief proceeds;
    'Tis not for sins that she hath done,
      Her bosom inly bleeds;
    'Tis not death's terrors wrap her soul
      In shades of dark despair,
    But man--deceitful man--whose hand
      A thorn hath planted there.

THE AULD EMIGRANT'S FAREWEEL TO SCOTLAND.

    Land of my fathers! night's dark gloom
      Now shades thee from my view--
    Land of my birth! my hearth, my home,
      A long, a last adieu!
    Thy sparkling streams, thy plantin's green,
      That ring with melodie,
    Thy flowery vales, thy hills and dales,
      Again I 'll never see.

    How aft have I thy heathy hills
      Climb'd in life's early day!
    Or pierced the dark depths of thy woods
      To pu' the nit or slae;
    Or lain beneath the spreading thorn,
      Hid frae the sun's bright beams,
    While on my raptured ear was borne
      The music of thy streams!

    And aft, when frae the schule set free,
      I 've join'd a merry ban',
    Whase hearts were loupin' licht wi' glee,
      Fresh as the morning's dawn,
    And waunert, Cruikston, by thy tower,
      Or through thy leafy shaw,
    The livelang day, nor thocht o' hame
      Till nicht began to fa'.

    But now the buoyancy o' youth,
      And a' its joys are gane--
    My children scatter'd far and wide,
      And I am left alane;
    For she who was my hope and stay,
      And soothed me when distress'd,
    Within the narrow house of death
      Has lang been laid at rest.

    And puirtith's cloud doth me enshroud;
      Sae, after a' my toil,
    I 'm gaun to lay my puir auld clay
      Within a foreign soil.
    Fareweel, fareweel, auld Scotia dear!
      A last fareweel to thee!
    Thy tinkling rills, thy heath-clad hills,
      Again I 'll never see!

O'ER MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY.

    O'er mountain and valley
      Morn gladly did gleam;
    The streamlets danced gaily
      Beneath its bright beam;
    The daisies were springing
      To life at my feet;
    The woodlands were ringing
      With melody sweet.

    But the sky became low'ring,
      And clouds big with rain,
    Their treasures outpouring,
      Soon deluged the plain.
    The late merry woodlands
      Grew silent and lone;
    And red from the muirlands
      The river rush'd down.

    Thus life, too, is chequer'd
      With sunshine and gloom;
    Of change 'tis the record--
      Now blight and now bloom.
    Oft morn rises brightly,
      With promise to last,
    But long, long ere noontide
      The sky is o'ercast.

    Yet much of the trouble
      'Neath which mortals groan,
    They contrive to make double
      By whims of their own.
    Oh! it makes the heart tingle
      With anguish to think,
    That our own hands oft mingle
      The bitters we drink.

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

John Gibson Lockhart, the distinguished editor of the _Quarterly
Review_, and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was born in the Manse of
Cambusnethan, on the 14th of June 1794. From both his parents he
inherited an honourable descent. His father, John Lockhart, D.D., was
the second son of William Lockhart of Birkhill, the head of an old
family in Lanarkshire, lineally descended from Sir Stephen Lockhart of
Cleghorn, a member of the Privy Council, and armour-bearer to James III.
His mother was Elizabeth Gibson, daughter of the Rev. John Gibson,
senior minister of St Cuthbert's, Edinburgh; her maternal grandmother
was the Honourable Mary Erskine, second daughter of Henry, third Lord
Cardross, and sister of David, ninth Earl of Buchan. In 1796, Dr
Lockhart was translated from Cambusnethan to the College church,
Glasgow; and the early education of his son was consequently conducted
in that city.

During the third year of his attendance at the Grammar-school, young
Lockhart, though naturally possessed of a sound constitution, was seized
with a severe illness, which, it was feared, might terminate in
pulmonary consumption. After a period of physical prostration, he
satisfactorily rallied, when it was found by his teacher that he had
attained such proficiency in classical learning, during his confinement,
as to be qualified for the University, without the usual attendance of
a fourth session at the Grammar-school. At the University of Glasgow,
his progress fully realised his excellent promise in the academy. The
youngest member of his various classes, he was uniformly a successful
competitor for honours. He gave indication of poetical ability in a
metrical translation of a part of Lucan's "Pharsalia," which was
rewarded with a prize, and received warm encomiums from the professors.
On one of the Snell Exhibitions to Baliol College, Oxford, becoming
vacant, during the session of 1808-9, it was unanimously conferred on
him by the faculty. Entering Baliol College in 1809, his classical
attainments were such, that Dr Jenkins, the master of the college, was
led to predict that he would reflect honour on that institution, and on
the University of Glasgow. At his graduation, on the completion of his
attendance at Baliol, he realised the expectations of his admiring
preceptor; the youngest of all who graduated on the occasion, being in
his eighteenth year, he was numbered in the _first class_,--an honour
rarely attained by the most accomplished Oxonians. In the choice of a
profession he evinced considerable hesitation; but was at length induced
by a relative, a member of the legal faculty, to qualify himself for
practice at the Scottish Bar. Besides affording a suitable scope for his
talents and acquirements, it was deemed that the Parliament House of
Edinburgh had certain hereditary claims on his services. Through his
paternal grandmother, he was descended from Sir James Lockhart of Lee,
Lord Justice-Clerk in the reign of Charles II., and father of the
celebrated Sir George Lockhart of Carnwath, Lord President of the Court
of Session; and of another judge, Sir John Lockhart, Lord Castlehill.

Having completed a curriculum of classical and philosophical study at
Oxford, and made a tour on the Continent, Lockhart proceeded to
Edinburgh, to prosecute the study of Scottish law. In 1816 he passed
advocate. Well-skilled in the details of legal knowledge, and in the
preparation of written pleadings, he lacked a fluency of utterance, so
entirely essential to success as a pleader at the Bar. He felt his
deficiency, but did not strive to surmount it. Joining himself to a
literary circle, of which John Wilson and the Ettrick Shepherd were the
more conspicuous members, he resolved to follow the career of a man of
letters. In 1817, he became one of the original contributors to
_Blackwood's Magazine_; and by his learned and ingenious articles
essentially promoted the early reputation of that subsequently popular
periodical. In 1819 appeared his first separate publication, entitled,
"Peter's Letters to his Kinsfolk,"--a work of three octavo volumes, in
which an imaginary Doctor Morris humorously and pungently delineates the
manners and characteristics of the more distinguished literary Scotsmen
of the period; and which, by exciting some angry criticism, attracted
general attention to the real author.[42] In May of the previous year,
at the residence in Edinburgh of Mr Home Drummond of Blair-Drummond, he
was introduced to the personal acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. Their
acquaintance ripened into a speedy intimacy; and on the 29th April 1820,
Lockhart became the son-in-law of his illustrious friend, by espousing
his eldest daughter, Sophia. Continuing to furnish sparkling
contributions to _Blackwood's Magazine_, Lockhart now began to exhibit
powers of prolific authorship. In the course of a few years he produced
"Valerius," a tale descriptive of ancient Rome; "Reginald Dalton," a
novel founded on his personal experiences at Oxford; the interesting
romance of "Matthew Wald," and "Adam Blair," a Scottish story. The last
of these works, it may be interesting to notice, took origin in the
following manner. During a visit to his parents at Glasgow, his father
had incidentally mentioned, after dinner, that Mr Adam, a former
minister of Cathcart, had been deprived for certain immoralities, and
afterwards reponed, at the entreaty of his parishioners, on the death of
the individual who had succeeded him after his deposition. On hearing
the narrative, Lockhart retired to his apartment and drew up the plan of
his tale, which was ready for the press within the short space of three
weeks. In 1823, he became known as an elegant versifier, by the
publication of his translations from the "Spanish Ballads." He
subsequently published a "Life of Napoleon Bonaparte," in "Murray's
Family Library;" and produced a "Life of Robert Burns," for "Constable's
Miscellany." At this period he chiefly resided in Edinburgh, spending
some of the summer months at Chiefswood, a cottage about two miles from
Abbotsford. But Lockhart's growing reputation ere long secured him a
more advantageous and lucrative position. In 1825, he was appointed to
the editorship of the _Quarterly Review_; and thus, at the age of
thirty-one, became the successor of Gifford, in conducting one of the
most powerful literary organs of the age. He now removed to London. On
the 15th of June 1834, the degree of Doctor of Civil Law was conferred
on him by the University of Oxford.

During the last illness of Sir Walter Scott, Lockhart was eminently
dutiful in his attendance on the illustrious sufferer. As the literary
executor of the deceased, he was zealous even to indiscretion; his
"Life of Scott," notwithstanding its ill-judged personalities, is one of
the most interesting biographical works in the language. His own latter
history affords few materials for observation; he frequented the higher
literary circles of the metropolis, and well sustained the reputation of
the _Quarterly Review_. He retired from his editorial duties in 1853,
having suffered previously from impaired health. The progress of his
malady was accelerated by a succession of family trials and
bereavements, which preyed heavily on his mind. His eldest son, John
Hugh Lockhart (the Hugh Littlejohn of Scott's "Tales of a Grandfather,")
died in 1831; his amiable wife in 1837; and of his two remaining
children, a son and a daughter, the former, Walter Scott Lockhart Scott,
Lieutenant, 16th Lancers, who had succeeded to the estate of Abbotsford
on the death of his uncle, the second Sir Walter Scott, died in 1853. In
1847, his daughter and only surviving child was married to James Robert
Hope, Esquire, Q.C., son of General the Honourable Sir Alexander Hope,
and nephew of the late Earl of Hopetoun, of peninsular fame; and shortly
before her father's death, this lady, along with her husband, abjured
the Protestant faith.

In the autumn of 1853, in accordance with the advice of his medical
advisers, Lockhart proceeded to Italy; but on his return the following
summer, he appeared rather to have lost than gained strength. Arranging
his affairs in London, he took up his abode with his elder brother, Mr
Lockhart, M.P., at Milton-Lockhart, on the banks of the Clyde, and in
the parish adjoining that of his birth. Here he suffered an attack of
cholera, which much debilitated his already wasted strength. In October
he was visited by Dr Ferguson of London, who conveyed him to Abbotsford
to be tended by his daughter; there he breathed his last on the 25th
November 1854, in his 61st year. His remains were interred in Dryburgh
Abbey, beside those of his illustrious father-in-law, with whom his name
will continue to be associated. The estate of Abbotsford is now in the
possession of his daughter and her husband, who, in terms of the
Abbotsford entail, have assumed the name of Scott. Their infant
daughter, Mary Monica, along with her mother, are the only surviving
lineal representatives of the Author of "Waverley."

Possessed of a vigorous intellect, varied talents, and accurate
scholarship, Lockhart was impatient of contradiction, and was prone to
censure keenly those who had offended him. To strangers his manners were
somewhat uninviting, and in society he was liable to periods of
taciturnity. He loved the ironical and facetious; and did not scruple to
indulge in ridicule even at the expense of his intimate associates. With
many peculiarities of manner, and a temper somewhat fretful and
impulsive, we have good authority for recording, that many unfortunate
men of genius derived support from his bounty. Ardent in temperament, he
was severe in resenting a real or fancied wrong; but among those to whom
he gave his confidence, he was found to be possessed of affectionate and
generous dispositions. He has complained, in a testamentary document,
that his course of procedure was often misunderstood, and the complaint
is probably well-founded. He was personally of a handsome and agreeable
presence, and his countenance wore the aspect of intelligence.

[42] In his Life of Scott, Lockhart states that "Peter's Letters" "were
not wholly the work of one hand."

BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND.[43]

TUNE--_"Oh, the roast beef of Old England."_

    Now there 's peace on the shore, now there 's calm on the sea,
    Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
    Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
      Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
      And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.

    Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave--
    Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,
    Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.
      Oh, the broadswords, &c.

    Though he died not like him amid victory's roar,
    Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore;
    Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore.
      Oh, the broadswords, &c.

    Yea a place with the fallen, the living shall claim,
    We 'll entwine in one wreath every glorious name,
    The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.
      All the broadswords, &c.

    Count the rocks of the Spey, count the groves of the Forth--
    Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven of the north;
    Then go blazon their numbers, their names and their worth.
      All the broadswords, &c.

    The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,
    Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;
    For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
      Oh, the broadswords, &c.

    Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
    Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,
    Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.
      Oh, the broadswords of old Scotland!
      And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.

[43] This song, with several others of ephemeral interest, was composed
by Lockhart, to be sung at the mess of the Mid-Lothian Yeomanry, of
which he was a member. Of the songs produced for these festive
occasions, a collection for private circulation was printed in 1825, at
the Ballantyne press, with the title, "Songs of the Edinburgh Troop,"
pp. 28. In this collection, the "Broadswords" song bears date July 1821;
it was published with music in 1822, in the third volume of Thomson's
Collection.

CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.[44]

      Touch once more a sober measure,
        And let punch and tears be shed,
      For a prince of good old fellows,
        That, alack-a-day! is dead;
      For a prince of worthy fellows,
        And a pretty man also,
      That has left the Saltmarket,
        In sorrow, grief, and woe.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      His waistcoat, coat, and breeches
        Were all cut off the same web,
      Of a beautiful snuff-colour,
        Of a modest genty drab;
      The blue stripe in his stocking,
        Round his neat slim leg did go,
      And his ruffles of the cambric fine,
        They were whiter than the snow.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      His hair was curled in order,
        At the rising of the sun,
      In comely rows and buckles smart,
        That about his ears did run;
      And before there was a toupee,
        That some inches up did grow,
      And behind there was a long queue,
        That did o'er his shoulders flow.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      And whenever we forgather'd,
        He took off his wee three-cockit;
      And he proffer'd you his snuff-box,
        Which he drew from his side-pocket;
      And on Burdett or Bonaparte
        He would make a remark or so,
      And then along the plainstones
        Like a provost he would go.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      In dirty days he picked well
        His footsteps with his rattan;
      Oh! you ne'er could see the least speck
        On the shoes of Captain Paton.
      And on entering the coffee-room
        About two, all men did know
      They would see him with his _Courier_
        In the middle of the row.
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Now and then, upon a Sunday,
        He invited me to dine
      On a herring and a mutton chop,
        Which his maid dress'd very fine.
      There was also a little Malmsay,
        And a bottle of Bordeaux,
      Which, between me and the captain,
        Pass'd nimbly to and fro!
    Oh! I ne'er shall take potluck with Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Or, if a bowl was mentioned,
        The captain he would ring,
      And bid Nelly run to the Westport,
        And a stoup of water bring.
      Then would he mix the genuine stuff,
        As they made it long ago,
      With limes that on his property
        In Trinidad did grow!
    Oh! we ne'er shall taste the like of Captain Paton's punch no mo'e!

      And then all the time he would discourse
        So sensible and courteous,
      Perhaps talking of last sermon
        He had heard from Dr Porteous;
      Of some little bit of scandal
        About Mrs So-and-So,
      Which he scarce could credit, having heard
        The _con._ but not the _pro._!
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Or when the candles were brought forth,
        And the night was fairly setting in,
      He would tell some fine old stories
        About Minden-field or Dettingen;
      How he fought with a French major,
        And dispatch'd him at a blow,
      While his blood ran out like water
        On the soft grass below!
    Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!

      But at last the captain sickened,
        And grew worse from day to day,
      And all miss'd him in the coffee-room,
        From which now he staid away;
      On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd kirk
        Made a melancholy show,
      All for wanting of the presence
        Of our venerable beau!
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      And in spite of all that Cleghorn
        And Corkindale could do,
      It was plain, from twenty symptoms,
        That death was in his view;
      So the captain made his test'ment,
        And submitted to his foe,
      And we laid him by the Ram's-horn kirk--
        'Tis the way we all must go!
    Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

      Join all in chorus, jolly boys,
        And let punch and tears be shed,
      For this prince of good old fellows
        That, alack-a-day! is dead;
      For this prince of worthy fellows--
        And a pretty man also--
      That has left the Saltmarket
        In sorrow, grief, and woe!
    For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

[44] This humorous elegy was first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_
for September 1819. Captain Paton was a well-known character in Glasgow.
The son of Dr David Paton, a physician in that city, he obtained a
commission in a regiment raised in Scotland for the Dutch service. He
afterwards resided with his two maiden sisters, and an old servant
Nelly, in a tenement opposite the Old Exchange at the Cross, which had
been left him by his father. The following graphic account of the
Captain, we transcribe from Dr Strang's interesting work, "Glasgow and
its Clubs," recently published:--"Every sunshine day, and sometimes even
amid shower and storm, about the close of the past and the commencement
of the present century, was the worthy Captain in the Dutch service seen
parading the _plainstanes_, opposite his own residence in the Trongate,
donned in a suit of snuff-coloured brown or 'genty drab,' his long spare
limbs encased in blue striped stockings, with shoes and buckles, and
sporting ruffles of the finest cambric at his wrists, while adown his
back hung a long queue, and on his head was perched a small three-cocked
hat, which, with a _politesse tout à fait Francais_, he invariably took
off when saluting a friend. Captain Paton, while a denizen of the camp,
had studied well the noble art of fence, and was looked upon as a most
accomplished swordsman, which might easily be discovered from his happy
but threatening manner of holding his cane, when sallying from his own
domicile towards the coffee-room, which he usually entered about two
o'clock, to study the news of the day in the pages of the _Courier_. The
gallant Captain frequently indulged, like Othello, in speaking--

'Of moving incidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the
imminent deadly breach.'

And of his own brave doings on the tented field, 'at Minden and at
Dettingen,' particularly when seated round a bowl of his favourite cold
punch, made with limes from his own estate in Trinidad, and with water
newly drawn from the Westport well." It remains to be added, that this
"prince of worthy fellows" died in July 1807, at the age of sixty-eight.

CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.[45]

_From the Gaelic._

    Listen to me, as when ye heard our father
      Sing, long ago, the song of other shores;
    Listen to me, and then in chorus gather
      All your deep voices, as ye pull your oars:
        Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand;
        But we are exiles from our fathers' land!

    From the lone shieling of the misty island
      Mountains divide us, and the waste of seas;
    Yet still the blood is strong, the heart is Highland,
      And we in dreams behold the Hebrides.

    We ne'er shall tread the fancy-haunted valley,
      Where, 'tween the dark hills, creeps the small clear stream,
    In arms around the patriach-banner rally,
      Nor see the moon on royal tombstones gleam.

    Come, foreign rage!--let discord burst in slaughter!
      Oh then for clansman true, and stern claymore!
    The hearts that would have given their blood like water
      Beat heavily beyond the Atlantic roar!
        Fair these broad meads--these hoary woods are grand;
        But we are exiles from our fathers' land!

[45] This simple and interesting lyric appears in No. XLVI. of the
"Noctes Ambrosianæ," and has, we believe, on sufficient grounds, been
attributed to Lockhart.

THOMAS MATHERS.

Thomas Mathers, the fisherman poet, was born at St Monance, Fifeshire,
in 1794. Receiving an education at school confined to the simplest
branches, he chose the seafaring life, and connected himself with the
merchant service. At Venice, he had a casual rencounter with Lord
Byron,--a circumstance which he was in the habit of narrating with
enthusiasm. Leaving the merchant service, he married, and became a
fisherman and pilot, fixing his residence in his native village. His
future life was a career of incessant toil and frequent penury, much
alleviated, however, by the invocation of the muse. He contributed
verses for a series of years to several of the public journals; and his
compositions gained him a wide circle of admirers. He long cherished the
ambition of publishing a volume of poems; and the desire at length was
gratified through the subscriptions of his friends. In 1851, he printed
a duodecimo volume, entitled, "Musings in Verse, by Sea and Shore,"
which, however, had only been put into shape when the author was called
to his rest. He died of a short illness, at St Monance, on the 25th
September 1851, leaving a widow and several young children. His poetry
is chiefly remarkable for depth of feeling. Of his powers as a
song-writer, the following lyric, entitled "Early Love," is a favourable
specimen.

EARLY LOVE.

    There 's nae love like early love,
      Sae lasting an' sae leal;
    It wins upon the youthfu' heart,
      An' sets its magic seal.
    The die that 's cast in early life,
      Is nae vain airy dream;
    But makes thee still in after years
      The subject of my theme.

    But years o' shade an' sunshine
      Have flung alternately
    Their fleeting shadows as they pass'd
      Athwart life's changing sky.
    Like troubled waters, too, the mind
      'S been ruffled an' distress'd;
    But with the placid calm return'd
      Thine image to my breast.

    Still I hae seen a fairer face,
      Though fairer anes are few,
    An' I hae marked kinder smiles
      Than e'er I gat frae you.
    But smiles, like blinks o' simmer sheen,
      Leave not a trace behind;
    While early love has forged chains
      The freest heart to bind.

    The mind from tyrant fetters
      Is free as air to rove;
    But powerful are the links that chain
      The heart to early love.
    Affections, like the ivy
      In nature's leafy screen,
    Entwine the boughs o' early love
      Wi' foliage "ever green."

JAMES BROWN.

James Brown was born at Libberton, a village in the upper ward of
Lanarkshire, on the 1st of July 1796. His father, the miller of
Libberton-mill, was a person of superior intelligence, and his mother,
Grizzel Anderson, was esteemed for her amiable dispositions. Deprived of
his father while only six years old, he was early apprenticed to a
hand-loom weaver. On the completion of his indenture, he removed to
Symington, a village situate at the base of Tintock hill. His leisure
hours were devoted to reading and an extensive correspondence with his
friends. He formed a club for literary discussion, which assembled
periodically at his house. Enthusiastic in his love of nature, he
rejoiced in solitary rambles on the heights of Tintock and Dungavel; he
made a pilgrimage to the Border and Ettrick Forest. In 1823 he removed
to Glasgow, where he was employed in the warehouse of a manufacturing
firm; he afterwards became agent of the house at Biggar, where he died
on the 12th September 1836. Though the writer of much poetry of merit,
Brown was indifferent to literary reputation; and chiefly intrusted his
compositions to the keeping of his friends. His songs in the present
work have been recovered by his early friend, Mr Scott Riddell, who has
supplied these particulars of his life. Austere in manner, he was
possessed of genial and benevolent dispositions; he became ultimately
impressed with earnest religious convictions.

MY PEGGY 'S FAR AWAY.

    Yestreen as I stray'd on the banks o' the Clyde,
    A laddie beneath the gay greenwood I spied,
    Who sang o' his Peggy, and oh! he seem'd wae,
    For Peggy, sweet Peggy, was far, far away.

    Though fair burns the taper in yon lofty ha',
    Yet nought now shines bright where her shade doesna fa';
    My Peggy was pure as the dew-drops o' May,
    But Peggy, sweet Peggy, is far, far away.

    Ye breezes that curve the blue waves o' the Clyde,
    And sigh 'mang the dark firs on yon mountain side,
    How dreary your murmurs throughout the lang day,
    Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    The sable-wing'd blackbird yon birk-trees amang,
    And mavis sing notes that accord wi' my sang,
    A' nature is dowie, by bank and by brae,
    Since Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    Ye dew-dripping daisies that bloom by the burn,
    Though scathed by rude winter in spring ye return;
    I mark'd, but I minded no whit your decay,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    I mourn'd not the absence o' summer or spring,
    Nor aught o' the beauties the seasons may bring,
    E'en 'mid the dark winter this heart still was gay,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    The bleak blawing winter, wi' a' its alarms,
    Might add to, but tak not away from her charms,
    The snaws seem'd as welcome as summer-won hay,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    Our Henry lo'es Mary, Jock dotes upon Jean,
    And Willie ca's Nancy o' beauty the queen,
    But Peggy was mine, and far lovelier than they,
    Ere Peggy, sweet Peggy, gaed far, far away.

    Oh, when will the days o' this sadness be o'er,
    And Heaven, in pity, my Peggie restore?
    It kens she 's the loveliest it ere made o' clay,
    And ill I may thole that she 's far, far away.

LOVE BROUGHT ME A BOUGH.

    Love brought me a bough o' the willow sae green
    That waves by yon brook where the wild-flowers grow sheen;
    And braiding my harp wi' the sweet budding rue,
    It mellow'd its tones 'mang the saft falling dew;
    It whisper'd a strain that I wist na to hear,
    That false was the lassie my bosom held dear;
    Pride stirr'd me to sing, as I tore off the rue--
    If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!

    Yet aft when reflection brings back to my mind
    The days that are gane, when my lassie was kind,
    A sigh says I felt then as ne'er I feel now,
    My soul was enraptured--I canna tell how.
    Yet what need I sing o' the joys that hae been,
    And why should I start at the glance o' her een,
    Or think o' the dark locks that wave o'er her brow?--
    If she 's got ae sweetheart, sure I can get two!

    Yestreen when the sun glinted blithe on the hill,
    I met her alane by the flower-border'd rill,
    I speer'd for her weelfare, but cauld was her air,
    And I soughtna' to change it by foul words or fair;
    She says I deceived her, how can it be sae?
    The heart, ere deceived some affection maun hae,
    And that hers had nane, I the sairer may rue,
    Though she 's got ae sweetheart, an' I can get two.

    She left me for ane wha o' mailins could sing,
    Sae gie her the pleasures that riches can bring.
    Gae fame to the hero, and gowd to the Jew,
    And me the enjoyment that 's prized by the few;
    A friend o' warm feeling, and frank and refined,
    And a lassie that 's modest, true hearted, and kind,
    I 'll woo her, I 'll lo'e her, and best it will do,
    For love brings nae bliss when it tampers wi' two.

HOW 'S A' WI' YE.

AIR--_"Jenny's Bawbee."_

    Ere foreign fashions cross'd the Tweed,
    A bannet happ'd my daddie's head,
    Our daintiest fare was milk-and-bread,
      Folk scunner'd a' at tea;
    When cronies met they didna stand,
    To rule their words by manners grand,
    But warmly clasping hand in hand,
      Said, How 's a' wi' ye.

    But now there 's nought but shy finesse,
    And mim and prim 'bout mess and dress,
    That scarce a hand a hand will press
      Wi' ought o' feeling free;
    A cauldrife pride aside has laid
    The hodden gray, and hame-spun plaid,
    And a' is changed since neebors said
      Just, How 's a' wi' ye.

    Our auld guidwife wore cloak and hood,
    The maiden's gown was worset guid,
    And kept her ringlets in a snood
      Aboon her pawkie e'e;
    Now set wi' gaudy gumflowers roun',
    She flaunts it in her silken gown,
    That scarce ane dare by glen or town
      Say, How 's a' wi' ye.

    I watna how they manage now
    Their brides in lighted ha's to woo,
    But it is caulder wark, I trow,
      Than e'er it was wi' me;
    Aye true unto the trysts we set,
    When we among the hawthorns met,
    Love-warm, true love wad scarce us let
      Say, How 's a' wi' ye.

    Wae-worth their haughty state and style,
    That drive true feeling frae our isle!
    In saxty years o' care and toil,
      What ferlies do we see!
    The lowliest heart a pride displays,
    Unkent in our ain early days,
    Ilk kind and canty thing decays,
      Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.

    When back we look on bygane years,
    Weel may the cheek be wet wi' tears,
    The cauld mool mony a bosom bears,
      Ance dear to you and me;
    Yet I will neither chafe nor chide,
    While ane comes to my ingle side,
    Whose bosom glows wi' honest pride
      At, How 's a' wi' ye.

    Newfangled guffs may things arrange
    For further and still further change,
    But strange things shall to me be strange,
      While I can hear and see.
    And when I gang, as I 'll do soon,
    To join the leal in hames aboon,
    I 'll greet them just as aye I 've doon,
      Wi', How 's a' wi' ye.

OH! SAIR I FEEL THE WITCHING POWER.

TUNE--_"Miller of Dron," improved set._

    Oh, sair I feel the witching power
      O' that sweet pawkie e'e,
    And sair I 'll rue the luckless hour
      That e'er it shone on me;
    Unless sic love as wounds this heart
      Come frae that heart again,
    And teach for aye the kindly ray
      To blink on me alane.
    Thy modest cheek aye mantling glows
      Whene'er I talk o' love,
    As rainbow rays upon the rose
      Its native sweets improve;
    Yet when the sunbeams leave yon tower,
      And gloamin' vails the glen,
    Will ye gang to the birken bower
      When nane on earth can ken?
    Oh, scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
      Heartfelt pleasures len',
    And oh! how fain to meet alane,
      When nane on earth can ken!

    Amang the lave I manna speak,
      And when I look the while,
    The mair I 'm seen, the mair I seek
      Their watching to beguile;
    But leave, dear lassie, leave them a',
      And frae this heart sae leal
    Thou 'lt hear the love, by glen and shaw,
      It canna mair conceal.
    My plaid shall shield thy peerless charms
      Frae evening's fanning gale,
    And saft shall be my circling arms,
      And true my simple tale;
    And seated by the murmuring brook,
      Within the flowery den,
    If love 's reveal'd in word or look,
      There 's nane on earth can ken.
    Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
      Heartfelt pleasures len',
    And oh! how fain to meet alane,
      When nane on earth can ken.

    There 's music in the lighted ha',
      And looks in laughing een,
    That seem affection forth to show,
      That less is felt than seen.
    But silent in the faithfu' heart
      The charm o' love shall reign,
    Or words shall but its power impart
      To make it mair our ain.
    Let worldlings doat upon their wealth,
      And spendthrifts hae their glee,
    Not a' the state o' a' the great,
      Shall draw a wish frae me;
    Away wi' thee by glen an' bower,
      Far frae the haunts o' men,
    Oh! a' the bliss o' hour like this,
      The world can never ken.
    Oh! scenes delighting, smiles inviting,
      Heartfelt pleasures len',
    And aye how fain we 'll meet again,
      When nane on earth can ken.

DANIEL WEIR.

Daniel Weir was born at Greenock, on the 31st of March 1796. His father,
John Weir, was a shoemaker, and at one period a small shopkeeper in that
town. From his mother, Sarah Wright, he inherited a delicate
constitution. His education was conducted at a private school; and in
1809, he became apprentice to Mr Scott, a respectable bookseller in
Greenock. In 1815, he commenced business as a bookseller on his own
account.

Imbued with the love of learning, and especially of poetry, Weir devoted
his hours of leisure to extensive reading and the composition of verses.
To the "Scottish Minstrel" of R. A. Smith, he contributed several
respectable songs; and edited for Messrs Griffin & Co., booksellers in
Glasgow, three volumes of lyric poems, which appeared under the title of
"The National Minstrel," "The Sacred Lyre," and "Lyrical Gems." These
collections are adorned with many compositions of his own. In 1829, he
published a "History of the Town of Greenock," in a thin octavo volume,
illustrated with engravings. He died on the 11th November 1831, in his
thirty-fifth year.

Possessed of a fine genius, a brilliant fancy, and much gracefulness of
expression, Weir has decided claims to remembrance. His conversational
talents were of a remarkable description, and attracted to his shop many
persons of taste, to whom his poetical talents were unknown. He was
familiar with the whole of the British poets, and had committed their
best passages to memory. Possessing a keen relish for the ludicrous, he
had at command a store of delightful anecdote, which he gave forth with
a quaintness of look and utterance, so as to render the force of the
humour totally irresistible. His sarcastic wit was an object of dread to
his opponents in burgh politics. His appearance was striking. Rather
mal-formed, he was under the middle size; his head seemed large for his
person, and his shoulders were of unusual breadth. His complexion was
dark, and his eyes hazel; and when his countenance was lit upon the
recitation of some witty tale, he looked the impersonation of
mirthfulness. Eccentric as were some of his habits and modes of action,
he was seriously impressed by religious principle; some of his
devotional compositions are admirable specimens of sacred poetry. He
left an unpublished MS. poem, entitled "The Pleasures of Religion."

SEE THE MOON.

    See the moon o'er cloudless Jura
      Shining in the lake below;
    See the distant mountain tow'ring
      Like a pyramid of snow.
    Scenes of grandeur--scenes of childhood--
      Scenes so dear to love and me!
    Let us roam by bower and wildwood--
      All is lovelier when with thee.

    On Leman's breast the winds are sighing;
      All is silent in the grove;
    And the flow'rs, with dew-drops glist'ning,
      Sparkle like the eye of love.
    Night so calm, so clear, so cloudless;
      Blessed night to love and me!
    Let us roam by bower and fountain--
      All is lovelier when with thee.

LOVE IS TIMID.

        Love is timid, love is shy,
        Can you tell me, tell me why?
    Ah! tell me why true love should be
      Afraid to meet the kindly smile
    Of him she loves, from him would flee,
      Yet thinks upon him all the while?
        Can you tell me, tell me why
        Love is timid, love is shy?

        Love is timid, love is shy,
        Can you tell me, tell me why?
    True love, they say, delights to dwell
      In some sequester'd, lonely bow'r,
    With him she loves, where none can tell
      Her tender look in passion's hour.
        Can you tell me, tell me why
        Love is timid, love is shy?

        Love is timid, love is shy,
        Can you tell me, tell me why?
    Love, like the lonely nightingale,
      Will pour her heart, when all is lone;
    Nor will repeat, amidst the vale,
      Her notes to any, but to one.
        Can you tell me, tell me why
        Love is timid, love is shy?

RAVEN'S STREAM.

    My love, come let us wander
    Where Raven's streams meander,
    And where, in simple grandeur,
      The daisy decks the plain.
    Peace and joy our hours shall measure;
    Come, oh! come, my soul's best treasure!
    Then how sweet, and then how cheerie,
    Raven's braes will be, my dearie.

    The silver moon is beaming,
    On Clyde her light is streaming;
    And, while the world is dreaming,
      We 'll talk of love, my dear.
    None, my Jean, will share this bosom,
    Where thine image loves to blossom;
    And no storm will ever sever
    That dear flow'r, or part us ever.

OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.

AIR--_"Oh! the days are past when beauty bright."_

    Oh! our childhood's once delightful hours
        Ne'er come again--
    Their sunny glens, their blooming bowers,
        And primrose plain!
        With other days,
        Ambitious rays
      May flash upon our mind;
    But give me back the morn of life,
      With fond thoughts twined;
    As it sweetly broke on bower and hill,
      And youth's gay mind!

    Oh! our childhood's days are ne'er forgot
        On life's dark sea,
    And memory hails that sacred spot
        Where'er we be;
        It leaves all joys,
        And fondly sighs
      As youth comes on the mind,
    And looks upon the morn of life
      With fond thoughts, &c.

    When age will come, with locks of gray,
        To quench youth's spark,
    And its stream runs cold along the way
        Where all seems dark,
        'Twill smiling gaze,
        As memory's blaze
      Breaks on its wavering mind;
    But 'twill never bring the morn of life,
      With fond thoughts, &c.

COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.

    Could we but look beyond our sphere,
      And trace, along the azure sky,
    The myriads that were inmates here
      Since Abel's spirit soar'd on high--
    Then might we tell of those who see
    Our wand'rings from eternity!

    But human frailty cannot gaze
      On such a cloud of splendid light
    As heaven's sacred court displays,
      Of blessed spirits clothed in white,
    Who from the fears of death are free,
    And look from an eternity.

    They look, but ne'er return again
      To tell the secrets of their home;
    And kindliest tears for them are vain--
      For never, never shall they come,
    Till Time's pale light begin to flee
    Before a bright eternity!

    Could we but gaze beyond our sphere,
      Within the golden porch of heaven,
    And see those spirits which appear
      Like stars upon the robe of even!
    But no! unseen to us they see
    Our wanderings from eternity!

    The crimes of men which Heaven saw,
      And pitied with a parent's eye,
    Could ne'er a kindred spirit draw
      In mercy from its home on high;
    They look, but all they know or see
    Is silent as eternity!

    At noonday hour, or midnight deep,
      No bright inhabitant draws nigh;
    And though a parent's offspring weep,
      No whisper echoes from the sky;
    Though friends may gaze, yet all they see
    Is known but in eternity!

    Yet we may look beyond our sphere
      On One who shines among the throng;
    And we by faith may also hear
      The triumphs of a glorious song;
    And while we gaze on Him, we see
    The path to this eternity!

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

    In the morning of life, when its sweet sunny smile
      Shines bright on our path, we may dream we are blest;
    We may look on the world as a gay fairy isle,
      Where sorrow 's unknown, and the weary have rest!

    But the brightness that shone, and the hopes we enjoy'd,
      Are clouded ere noon, and soon vanish away;
    While the dark beating tempest, on life's stormy tide,
      Obscures all the sweets of the morning's bright ray!

    Then where are those bowers, in some gay, happy plain,
      Where hope ne'er deceives, and where love is aye true;
    Where the brightness of morning shines on but to gain
      A sunshine as bright and as promising too?

    Oh! ask for it not in this valley of sighs,
      Where we smile but to weep, and we ne'er can find rest;
    For the world we would wish shines afar in the skies,
      Where sorrow 's unknown--'tis the home of the blest!

ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.

    Oh! weep not thus, though the child thou hast loved,
      Still, still as the grave, in silence sleeps on;
    'Midst the tears that are shed, his eye is unmoved,
      And the beat of that bosom for ever is gone:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    The world to him, with its sorrows and sighs,
      Has fled like a dream when the morn appears;
    While the spirit awakes in the light of the skies,
      No more to revisit this valley of tears:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    Few, few were his years; but, had they been more,
      The sunshine which smiled might have vanish'd away,
    And he might have fallen on some far friendless shore,
      Or been wreck'd amidst storms in some desolate bay:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    Like a rosebud of promise, when fresh in the morn,
      Was the child of thy heart while he lingered here;
    But now from thy love, from thine arms he is torn,
      Yet to bloom in a lovelier, happier sphere:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    How happy the pilgrim whose journey is o'er,
      Who, musing, looks back on its dangers and woes;
    Then rejoice at his rest, for sorrow no more
      Can start on his dreams, or disturb his repose:
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

    Who would not recline on the breast of a friend,
      When the night-cloud has lower'd o'er a sorrowful day?
    Who would not rejoice at his journey's end,
      When perils and toils encompass'd his way?
    Then weep not thus, for the moment is blest
    When the wand'rer sleeps on his couch of rest!

THE DYING HOUR.

    Why does the day, whose date is brief,
      Smile sadly o'er the western sea?
    Why does the brown autumnal leaf
      Hang restless on its parent tree?
    Why does the rose, with drooping head,
      Send richer fragrance from the bow'r?
    Their golden time of life had fled--
      It was their dying hour!

    Why does the swan's melodious song
      Come thrilling on the gentle gale?
    Why does the lamb, which stray'd along,
      Lie down to tell its mournful tale?
    Why does the deer, when wounded, fly
      To the lone vale, where night-clouds low'r?
    Their time was past--they lived to die--
      It was their dying hour!

    Why does the dolphin change its hues,
      Like that aërial child of light?
    Why does the cloud of night refuse
      To meet the morn with beams so bright?
    Why does the man we saw to-day,
      To-morrow fade like some sweet flow'r?
    All earth can give must pass away--
      It was their dying hour!

THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      Which seem'd, to fancy's ear,
    The mournful music of the mind,
      The echo of a tear;
    And still methought the hollow sound
      Which, melting, swept along,
    The voice of other days had found,
      With all the powers of song.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And thought of friends untrue--
    Of hearts that seem'd so fondly twined,
      That nought could e'er undo;
    Of cherish'd hopes, once fondly bright--
      Of joys which fancy gave--
    Of youthful eyes, whose lovely light
      Were darken'd in the grave.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind
      When all was still as death;
    When nought was heard before, behind--
      Not e'en the sleeper's breath.
    And I have sat at such an hour
      And heard the sick man's sigh;
    Or seen the babe, like some sweet flow'r,
      At that lone moment die.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And wept for others' woe;
    Nor could the heart such music find
      To bid its tear-drops flow.
    The melting voice of one we loved,
      Whose voice was heard no more,
    Seem'd, when those fancied chords were moved,
      Still breathing as before.

    I 've listen'd to the midnight wind,
      And sat beside the dead,
    And felt those movings of the mind
      Which own a secret dread.
    The ticking clock, which told the hour,