GEORGE MACINDOE.

George Macindoe, chiefly known as the author of "A Million o' Potatoes," a humorous ballad, in the Scottish language, was born at Partick, near Glasgow, in 1771. He originally followed the occupation of a silk-weaver, in Paisley, which he early relinquished for the less irksome duties of a hotel-keeper in Glasgow. His hotel was a corner tenement, at the head of King Street, near St Giles' Church, Trongate; and here a club of young men, with which the poet Campbell was connected, were in the habit of holding weekly meetings. Campbell made a practice of retiring from the noisy society of the club to spend the remainder of the evenings in conversation with the intelligent host. After conducting the business of hotel-keeper in Glasgow, during a period of twenty-one years, Macindoe became insolvent, and was necessitated to abandon the concern. He returned to Paisley and resumed the loom, at the same time adding to his finances by keeping a small change-house, and taking part as an instrumental musician at the local concerts. He excelled in the use of the violin. Ingenious as a mechanic, and skilled in his original employment, he invented a machine for figuring on muslin, for which he received premiums from the City Corporation of Glasgow and the Board of Trustees.

Macindoe was possessed of a lively temperament, and his conversation sparkled with wit and anecdote. His person was handsome, and his open manly countenance was adorned with bushy locks, which in old age, becoming snowy white, imparted to him a singularly venerable aspect. He claimed no merit as a poet, and only professed to be the writer of "incidental rhymes." In 1805, he published, in a thin duodecimo volume, "Poems and Songs, chiefly in the Scottish Dialect," which he states, in the preface, he had laid before the public to gratify "the solicitations of friends." Of the compositions contained in this volume, the ballad entitled "A Million o' Potatoes," and the two songs which we have selected for this work, are alone worthy of preservation. In 1813, he published a second volume of poems and songs, entitled "The Wandering Muse;" and he occasionally contributed lyrics to the local periodicals. He died at Glasgow, on the 19th April 1848, in his seventy-seventh year, leaving a numerous family. His remains were interred at Anderston, Glasgow. The following remarks, regarding Macindoe's songs, have been kindly supplied by Mr Robert Chambers:—

"Amidst George Macindoe's songs are two distinguished by more clearness and less vulgarity than the rest. One of these, called 'The Burn Trout,' was composed on a real incident which it describes, namely, a supper, where the chief dish was a salmon, brought from Peebles to Glasgow by my father,[69] who, when learning his business, as a manufacturer, in the western city, about the end of the century, had formed an acquaintance with the poet. The other, entitled 'Cheese and Whisky,' which contains some very droll verses, was written in compliment to my maternal uncle, William Gibson, then also a young manufacturer, but who died about two months ago, a retired captain of the 90th regiment. The jocund hospitable disposition of Gibson—'Bachelor Willie'—and my father's social good-nature, are pleasingly recalled to me by Macindoe's verses, rough as they are.

"June 1, 1855."



[69] Mr James Chambers, of Peebles, who died in 1824.



CHEESE AND WHISKY.

TUNE—"The gude forgi' me for leein'."

Believe me or doubt me, I dinna care whilk, When Bachelor Willie I 'm seeing, I feast upon whisky, and cheese o' ewe milk, And ne'er was choked for leeing, for leeing, And ne'er was choked for leeing.

Your jams and your jellies, your sugars and teas, If e'er I thought worthy the preeing, Compared wi' gude whisky, and kebbocks o' cheese, May I sup porridge for leeing, for leeing, May I sup porridge for leeing.

When patfou's o' kale, thick wi' barley and pease, Can as weel keep a body frae deeing, As stoupfou's o' whisky, and platefou's o' cheese, I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing, for leeing, I 'll dree to be scrimpit for leeing.

Tho' the house where we 're sittin' were a' in a bleeze, I never could think about fleeing, But would guzzle the whisky, and rive at the cheese; Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing, I 'm leeing, Perhaps ye may think that I 'm leeing.



THE BURN TROUT.

TUNE—"The gude forgi' me for leein'."

Brither Jamie cam west, wi' a braw burn trout, An' speer'd how acquaintance were greeing; He brought it frae Peebles, tied up in a clout, An' said it wad just be a preeing, a preeing, An' said it wad just be a preeing.

In the burn that rins by his grandmother's door This trout had lang been a dweller, Ae night fell asleep a wee piece frae the shore, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller, the miller, An' was kill'd wi' a stane by the miller.

This trout it was gutted an' dried on a nail That grannie had reested her ham on, Weel rubbed wi' saut, frae the head to the tail, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon, a sa'mon, An' kipper'd as 't had been a sa'mon.

This trout it was boil'd an' set ben on a plate, Nae fewer than ten made a feast o't; The banes and the tail, they were gi'en to the cat, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't, the rest o't, But we lickit our lips at the rest o't.

When this trout it was eaten, we were a' like to rive, Sae ye maunna think it was a wee ane, May ilk trout in the burn grow muckle an' thrive, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing, a preeing, An' Jamie bring west aye a preeing.



ALEXANDER DOUGLAS.

Alexander Douglas was the son of Robert Douglas, a labourer in the village of Strathmiglo in Fife, where he was born on the 17th June 1771. Early discovering an aptitude for learning, he formed the intention of studying for the ministry,—a laudable aspiration, which was unfortunately checked by the indigence of his parents. Attending school during winter, his summer months were employed in tending cattle to the farmers in the vicinity; and while so occupied, he read the Bible in the fields, and with a religious sense, remarkable for his years, engaged in daily prayer in some sequestered spot, for the Divine blessing to grant him a saving acquaintance with the record. At the age of fourteen he was apprenticed to a linen weaver in his native village, with whom he afterwards proceeded to Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy. He now assiduously sought to acquaint himself with general literature, especially with the British poets; and his literary ardour was stimulated by several companions of kindred inclinations. He returned to Strathmiglo, and while busily plying the shuttle began to compose verses for his amusement. These compositions were jotted down during the periods of leisure. Happening to quote a stanza to Dr Paterson of Auchtermuchty, his medical attendant, who was struck with its originality, he was induced to submit his MSS. to the inspection of this gentleman. A cordial recommendation to publish his verses was the result; and a large number of subscribers being procured, through the exertions of his medical friend, he appeared, in 1806, as the author of an octavo volume of "Poems," chiefly in the Scottish dialect. The publication yielded a profit of one hundred pounds.

Douglas was possessed of a weakly constitution; he died on the 21st November 1821. He was twice married, and left a widow, who still survives. Three children, the issue of the first marriage, died in early life. A man of devoted piety and amiable dispositions, Douglas had few pretensions as a poet; some of his songs have however obtained a more than local celebrity, and one at least seems not undeserving of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.



FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.[70]

TUNE—"Roy's Wife o' Aldivalloch."

Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

We 'll raise the song on highest key, Through every grove till echo shout it; The sweet enchantin' theme shall be, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her braid an' lang extended vales Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow; Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills; Her woods resound wi' music mellow. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her waters pastime sweet afford To ane an' a' wha like to angle; The seats o' mony a laird an' lord, Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

In ilka town an' village gay, Hark! Thrift, her wheel an' loom are usin'; While to an' frae each port an' bay, See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

Her maids are frugal, modest, fair, As lilies by her burnies growin'; An' ilka swain may here repair, Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

In peace, her sons like lammies mild, Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin'; In war, they 're loyal, bauld, an' wild, As lions roused, an' fiercely ragin'. Fife, an' a' the land about it, &c.

May auld an' young hae meat an' claes; May wark an' wages aye be plenty; An' may the sun to latest days See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.

Fife, an' a' the land about it, Fife, an' a' the land about it; May health, an' peace, an' plenty glad, Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

[70] A song of this title was composed by Robert Fergusson.



WILLIAM M'LAREN.

William M'Laren, a poet of some merit, and an associate and biographer of Robert Tannahill, was born at Paisley about 1772. He originally followed the occupation of a handloom weaver, but was more devoted to the pursuits of literature than the business of his trade. Possessing a considerable share of poetical talent, he composed several volumes of verses, which were published by him on his own account, and very frequently to considerable pecuniary advantage. In 1817, he published, in quarto, a poetical tale, entitled, "Emma; or, The Cruel Father;" and another narrative poem in 1827, under the title of "Isabella; or, The Robbers." Many of his songs and lyrical pieces were contributed to provincial serials. His genius as a poet was exceeded by his skill as a prose writer; he composed in prose with elegance and power. In 1815, he published a memoir of Tannahill—an eloquent and affectionate tribute to the memory of his departed friend—to which is appended an eloge on Robert Burns, delivered at an anniversary of that poet's birthday. In 1818, he published, with a memoir, the posthumous poetical works of his relative, the poet Scadlock. His other prose writings consist of pamphlets on a diversity of subjects.

At one period, M'Laren established himself as a manufacturer in Ireland; but, rendering himself obnoxious by the bold expression of his political opinions, he found it necessary to make a hasty departure for Scotland. He latterly opened a change-house in Paisley, and his circumstances became considerably prosperous. He died in 1832, leaving a family. He is remembered as a person of somewhat singular manners, and of undaunted enterprise and decision of character. He was shrewd and well-informed, without much reading; he purchased no books, but was ingenious and successful in recommending his own.[71]

[71] Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, to whom we are under obligations for supplying curious and interesting information regarding several of the bards of the west, kindly furnished the particulars of the above memoir.



NOW SUMMER SHINES WITH GAUDY PRIDE.

Now summer shines with gaudy pride, By flowery vale and mountain side, And shepherds waste the sunny hours By cooling streams, and bushy bowers; While I, a victim to despair, Avoid the sun's offensive glare, And in sequester'd wilds deplore The perjured vows of Ella More.

Would Fate my injured heart provide Some cave beyond the mountain tide, Some spot where scornful Beauty's eye Ne'er waked the ardent lover's sigh; I 'd there to woods and rocks complain, To rocks that skirt the angry main; For angry main, and rocky shore, Are kinder far than Ella More.



AND DOST THOU SPEAK SINCERE, MY LOVE?

TUNE—"Lord Gregory."

And dost thou speak sincere, my love? And must we ever part? And dost thou unrelenting see The anguish of my heart? Have e'er these doating eyes of mine, One wandering wish express'd? No; thou alone hast ever been Companion of my breast.

I saw thy face, angelic fair, I thought thy form divine, I sought thy love—I gave my heart, And hoped to conquer thine. But, ah! delusive, cruel hope! Hope now for ever gone! My Mary keeps the heart I gave, But with it keeps her own.

When many smiling summer suns Their silver light has shed, And wrinkled age her hoary hairs Waves lightly o'er my head; Even then, in life's declining hour, My heart will fondly trace The beauties of thy lovely form, And sweetly smiling face.



SAY NOT THE BARD HAS TURN'D OLD.

Though the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head, And the blooming effulgence of summer has fled, Though the voice, that was sweet as the harp's softest string, Be trem'lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring, Yet say not the Bard has turn'd old.

Though the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes; Yet the gem that 's within may be lovely and bright As the smiles of the morn, or the stars of the night; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When the tapers burn clear, and the goblet shines bright, In the hall of his chief, on a festival night, I have smiled at the glance of his rapturous eye, While the brim of the goblet laugh'd back in reply; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When he sings of the valorous deeds that were done, By his clan or his chief, in the days that are gone, His strains then are various—now rapid, now slow, As he mourns for the dead or exults o'er the foe; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When summer in gaudy profusion is dress'd, And the dew-drop hangs clear on the violet's breast, I list with delight to his rapturous strain, While the borrowing echo returns it again; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

But not summer's profusion alone can inspire His soul in the song, or his hand on the lyre, But rapid his numbers and wilder they flow, When the wintry winds rave o'er his mountains of snow; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

I have seen him elate when the black clouds were riven, Terrific and wild, by the thunder of heaven, And smile at the billows that angrily rave, Incessant and deep o'er the mariner's grave; Then say not the Bard has turn'd old.

When the eye that expresses the warmth of his heart, Shall fail the benevolent wish to impart— When his blood shall be cold as the wintry wave, And silent his harp as the gloom of the grave, Then say that the Bard has turn'd old.



HAMILTON PAUL.

A man of fine intellect, a poet, and an elegant writer, Hamilton Paul has claims to remembrance. On the 10th April 1773, he was born in a small cottage on the banks of Girvan Water, in the parish of Dailly, and county of Ayr. In the same dwelling, Hugh Ainslie, another Scottish bard, was afterwards born. Receiving his elementary education at the parish school, he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Thomas Campbell, author of "The Pleasures of Hope," was a college contemporary; and their mutual love of poetry drew them closely to each other; they competed for academical rewards offered for the best compositions in verse, till frequent adjudication as to the equality of their merits, induced them to forbear contesting on the same subjects. At least on one occasion the verses of Paul were preferred to those of the Bard of Hope. The following lines, exhibiting a specimen of his poetical powers at this period, are from a translation of Claudian's "Epithalamium on the Marriage of Honorius and Maria," for which, in the Latin class, he gained a prize along with his friend:—

"Maria, now the maid of heavenly charms, Decreed to bliss the youthful monarch's arms; Inflames Augustus with unwonted fires, And in his breast awakens new desires. In love a novice, while his bosom glows With restless heat, the cause he scarcely knows; The rural pastimes suited to his age, His late delight, no more his care engage; No more he wills to give his steed the reins In eager chase, and urge him o'er the plains; No more he joys to bend the twanging bow, To hurl the javeline, or the dart to throw; His alter'd thoughts to other objects rove, To wounds inflicted by the god of love. How oft, expressive of the inward smart, Did groans convulsive issue from his heart! How oft did blushes own the sacred flame, How oft his hand unbidden wrote her name! Now presents worthy of the plighted fair, And nuptial robes his busy train prepare— Robes wherewith Livia was herself attired, And those bright dames that to the beds aspired Of emperors. Yet the celestial maid Requires no earthly ornamental aid To give her faultless form a single grace, Or add one charm to her bewitching face."

The circumstances of the young poets were far from affluent. Campbell particularly felt the pressure of poverty. He came hastily one morning to the lodgings of his friend to request his opinion of some verses; they were immediately printed, and the copies sold to his fellow-students for a halfpenny each. So Paul sometimes told his friends, quoting the following lines as all he could remember of the production:—

"Loud shriek'd afar the angry sprite, That rode upon the storm of night, And loud the waves were heard to roar That lash'd on Jura's rocky shore."

After several sessions of attendance at college, Paul became tutor to a family in Argyleshire, and Campbell obtained a similar situation in the island of Mull. They entered into a humorous correspondence in prose and verse. "Your verses on the Unfortunate Lady," writes Campbell to his friend, "I read with sweet pleasure; for there is a joy in grief, when peace dwelleth in the breast of the sad.... Morose as I am in judging of poetry, I could find nothing inelegant in the whole piece. I hope you will in your next (since you are such a master of the plaintive) send me some verses consolatory to a hermit; for my sequestered situation sometimes stamps a firm belief on my mind that I am actually an anchorite. In return for your welcome poetical effusion, I have nothing at present but a chorus of the Jepthes of Buchanan, written soon after my arrival in Mull:—

"Glassy Jordan, smooth meandering Jacob's grassy meads between, Lo! thy waters, gently wandering, Lave thy valleys rich and green.

"When the winter, keenly show'ring, Strips fair Salem's holy shade, Then thy current, broader flowing, Lingers 'mid the leafless glade.

"When, O! when shall light returning Gild the melancholy gloom, And the golden star of morning Jordan's solemn vault illume?

"When shall Freedom's holy charmer Cheer my long benighted soul? When shall Israel, proud in armour, Burst the tyrant's base control?" &c.

"The similarity of the measure with that of your last made me think of sending you this piece. I am much hurried at present with my comedy, the 'Clouds of Aristophanes.' I have already finished my translation of the Choephoroe of AEschylus. I dreamt a dream about your being before Parnassus upon your trial for sedition and contumacy. I thought Thalia, Clio, &c. addressed you. Their speeches shall be nonsensified into rhyme, and shall be part of some other scrawl from your affectionate friend,

"THOMAS THE HERMIT."

In another epistle Campbell threatens to "send a formal message to the kind nymphs of Parnassus, telling them that, whereas Hamilton Paul, their favourite and admired laureate of the north, has been heard to express his admiration of certain nymphs in a certain place; and that the said Hamilton Paul has ungratefully and feloniously neglected to speak with due reverence of the ladies of Helicon; that said Hamilton Paul shall be deprived of all aid in future from these goddesses, and be sent to draw his inspiration from the dry fountain of earthly beauty; and that, furthermore, all the favours taken from the said Hamilton Paul shall accrue to the informer and petitioner!"

After two years' residence in the Highlands, both the poets returned to Glasgow to resume their academical studies: Campbell to qualify himself as a man of letters, and Paul to prepare for the ministry of the Scottish Church. "It would have been impossible, even during the last years of their college life," writes Mr Deans,[72] "to have predicted which of the two students would ultimately arrive at the greatest eminence. They were both excellent classical scholars; they were both ingenious poets; and Campbell does not appear to have surpassed his companion either in his original pieces or his translations; they both exhibited great versatility of talent; they were both playful and witty; and seem to have been possessed of great facilities in sport. During his latter years, when detailing the history of those joyous days, Mr Paul dwelt on them with peculiar delight, and seemed animated with youthful emotion when recalling the curious frolics and innocent and singular adventures in which Campbell and he had performed a principal part."

While resident at Inverary, Mr Paul composed several poems, which were much approved by his correspondent. Among these, a ballad entitled "The Maid of Inverary," in honour of Lady Charlotte Campbell, afterwards Lady Bury, was set to music, and made the subject of elaborate criticism. On his return to the university, he composed with redoubled ardour, contributing verses on every variety of topic to the newspapers and periodicals. Several of his pieces, attracting the notice of some of the professors, received their warm commendation.

Obtaining licence to preach, the poet returned to his native county. During a probation of thirteen years, he was assistant to six parish ministers, and tutor in five different families. He became joint-proprietor and editor of the Ayr Advertiser, which he conducted for a period of three years. At Ayr he was a member of every literary circle; was connected with every club; chaplain to every society; a speaker at every meeting; the poet of every curious occurrence; and the welcome guest at every table. Besides editing his newspaper, he gave private instructions in languages, and preached on Sabbath. His metrical productions became widely known, and his songs were sung at the cottage hearths of the district. His presence at the social meeting was the sure indication of a prevalent good humour.

In 1813, Mr Paul attained the summit of his professional ambition; he was ordained to the pastoral office in the united parishes of Broughton, Glenholm, and Kilbucho, in Peeblesshire. Amidst due attention to his clerical duties, he still found leisure to engage in literary pursuits, and continued to contribute to the public journals both in prose and poetry. Of the poet Burns he was an enthusiastic admirer; he was laureate of the "Burns' Allowa' Club," and of the Glasgow Ayrshire Friendly Society, whose annual meetings were held on the Bard's anniversary; and the odes which he composed for these annual assemblages attracted wide and warm admiration. He therefore recommended himself as a suitable editor of the works of Burns, when a new edition was contemplated by Messrs Wilson and M'Cormick, booksellers in Ayr. In the performance of his editorial task, he was led, in an attempt to palliate the immoralities of Burns, to make some indiscreet allusions respecting his own clerical brethren; for this imprudence he narrowly escaped censure from the ecclesiastical courts. His memoir, though commended in Blackwood's Magazine, conducted by Professor Wilson, was severely censured by Dr Andrew Thomson in the Christian Instructor.

The pastoral parish of Broughton was in many respects suited for a person of Hamilton Paul's peculiar temperament and habits; in a more conspicuous position his talents might have shone with more brilliancy; but, after the burst of enthusiasm in his youth was past, he loved seclusion, and modestly sought the shade. No man was less conscious of his powers, or attached less value to his literary performances.[73] Of his numerous poetical compositions each was the work of a sitting, or had been uttered impromptu; and, unless secured by a friend, they were commonly laid aside never to be recollected. As a clergyman, he retained, during a lengthened incumbency, the respect and affection of his flock, chiefly, it may be remarked, from the acceptability of his private services, and the warmth and kindliness of his dispositions. His pulpit discourses were elegantly composed, and largely impressed with originality and learning; but were somewhat imperfectly pervaded with those clear and evangelical views of Divine truth which are best calculated to edify a Christian audience. In private society, he was universally beloved. "His society," writes Mr Deans, "was courted by the rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned. In every company he was alike kind, affable, and unostentatious; as a companion, he was the most engaging of men; he was the best story-teller of his day." His power of humour was unbounded; he had a joke for every occasion, a bon-mot for every adventure. He had eminent power of satire when he chose to wield it; but he generally blended the complimentary with the pungent, and lessened the keenness of censure by the good-humour of its utterance. His anecdotes are familiar over a wide district, and many of his witty sayings have become proverbial. He was abundantly hospitable, and had even suffered embarrassments from its injudicious exercise; still he was always able, as he used to say—

"To invite the wanderer to the gate, And spread the couch of rest."

It was his earnest desire that he might live to pay his liabilities, and he was spared to accomplish the wish. He died on the 28th of February 1854, in the 81st year of his age.

In appearance, Hamilton Paul presented a handsome person, tall and erect; his countenance was regular and pleasant; and his eyes, which were partially concealed by overhanging eye-lashes, beamed with humour and intelligence. In conversation he particularly excelled, evincing on every topic the fruits of extensive reading and reflection. He was readily moved by the pathetic; at the most joyous hour, a melancholy incident would move him into tears. The tenderness of his heart was frequently imparted to his verses, which are uniformly distinguished for smoothness and simplicity.

[72] We are indebted to Mr W. Deans, author of a "History of the Ottoman Empire," for much of the information contained in this memoir. Mr Deans was personally acquainted with Mr Hamilton Paul.

[73] "He never took any credit to himself," communicates his friend, Mr H. S. Riddell, "from the widely-known circumstance of his having carried off the prize from Campbell. He said that Campbell was at that period a very young man, much younger than he, and had much less experience in composition than himself."



HELEN GRAY.

Fair are the fleecy flocks that feed On yonder heath-clad hills, Where wild meandering crystal Tweed Collects his glassy rills. And sweet the buds that scent the air, And deck the breast of May; But none of these are sweet or fair, Compared to Helen Gray.

You see in Helen's face so mild, And in her bashful mien, The winning softness of the child, The blushes of fifteen. The witching smile, when prone to go, Arrests me, bids me stay; Nor joy, nor comfort can I know, When 'reft of Helen Gray.

I little thought the dark-brown moors, The dusky mountain's shade, Down which the wasting torrent pours, Conceal'd so sweet a maid; When sudden started from the plain A sylvan scene and gay, Where, pride of all the virgin train, I first saw Helen Gray.

* * * * *

May never Envy's venom'd breath, Blight thee, thou tender flower! And may thy head ne'er droop beneath Affliction's chilling shower! Though I, the victim of distress, Must wander far away; Yet, till my dying hour, I 'll bless The name of Helen Gray.



THE BONNIE LASS OF BARR.

Of streams that down the valley run, Or through the meadow glide, Or glitter to the summer sun, The Stinshar[74] is the pride. 'Tis not his banks of verdant hue, Though famed they be afar; Nor grassy hill, nor mountain blue, Nor flower bedropt with diamond dew; 'Tis she that chiefly charms the view, The bonnie lass of Barr.

When rose the lark on early wing, The vernal tide to hail; When daisies deck'd the breast of spring, I sought her native vale. The beam that gilds the evening sky, And brighter morning star, That tells the king of day is nigh, With mimic splendour vainly try To reach the lustre of thine eye, Thou bonnie lass of Barr.

The sun behind yon misty isle, Did sweetly set yestreen; But not his parting dewy smile Could match the smile of Jean. Her bosom swell'd with gentle woe, Mine strove with tender war. On Stinshar's banks, while wild-woods grow, While rivers to the ocean flow, With love of thee my heart shall glow, Thou bonnie lass of Barr.

[74] The English pronouncing the name of this river Stinkar, induced the poet Burns to change it to Lugar.



ROBERT TANNAHILL.

Robert Tannahill was born at Paisley on the 3d of June 1774. His father, James Tannahill, a silk-gauze weaver, espoused Janet Pollock, daughter of Matthew Pollock, owner of the small property of Boghall, near Beith; their family consisted of six sons and one daughter, of whom the future poet was the fourth child. On his mother's side he inherited a poetical temperament; she was herself endowed with strong natural sagacity, and her maternal uncle Hugh Brodie of Langcroft, a small landowner in Lochwinnoch, evidenced poetic powers by composing "A Speech in Verse upon Husbandry."[75] When a mere youth, Tannahill wrote verses; and being unable, from a weakness in one of his limbs to join in the active sports of his school-fellows, he occasionally sought amusement by composing riddles in rhyme for their solution. As a specimen of these early compositions, we submit the following, which has been communicated to us by Mr Matthew Tannahill, the poet's surviving brother. It was composed on old grumbling Peter Anderson, the gardener of King's Street, a character still remembered in Paisley:—

"Wi' girnin' and chirmin', His days they hae been spent; When ither folk right thankfu' spoke, He never was content."

Along with poetry Tannahill early cultivated the kindred arts of music and song; a mere youth, he occasionally earned the payment of ten shillings for playing on the fife at the Greenock parades; he afterwards became eminent for his skill in the use of the flute. Having completed his education at school, which consisted of instruction in the elementary branches, he became apprenticed to a cotton-weaver. Collecting old or obscure airs, he began to adapt to them suitable words, which he jotted down as they occurred, upon a rude writing-desk he had attached to his loom. His spare hours were spent in the general improvement of his mind. For a period of two years at the commencement of the century, he prosecuted his handicraft occupation at Bolton in England. Returning to Paisley in the spring of 1802, he was offered the situation of overseer of a manufacturing establishment, but he preferred to resume the labours of the loom.

Hitherto Tannahill had not dreamt of becoming known as a song-writer; he cultivated his gift to relieve the monotony of an unintellectual occupation, and the usual auditor of his lays was his younger brother Matthew, who for some years was his companion in the workshop. The acquaintance of Robert Archibald Smith, the celebrated musical composer, which he was now fortunate in forming, was the means of stimulating his Muse to higher efforts and of awakening his ambition. Smith was at this period resident in Paisley; and along with one Ross, a teacher of music from Aberdeen, he set several of Tannahill's best songs to music. In 1805 he was invited to become a poetical contributor to a leading metropolitan periodical; and two years afterwards he published a volume of "Poems and Songs." Of this work a large impression was sold, and a number of the songs soon obtained celebrity. Encouraged by R. A. Smith and others, who, attracted by his fame, came to visit him, Tannahill began to feel concerned in respect of his reputation as a song-writer; he diligently composed new songs and re-wrote with attention those which he had already published. Some of these compositions he hoped would be accepted by his correspondent, Mr George Thomson, for his collection, and the others he expected would find a publisher in the famous bookselling firm of Constable & Co. The failure of both these schemes—for Constable's hands were full, and Thomson exhibited his wonted "fastidiousness"—preyed deeply on the mind of the sensitive bard. A temporary relief to his disappointed expectations was occasioned by a visit which, in the spring of 1810, he received from James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, who made a journey to Paisley expressly to form his acquaintance. The visit is remembered by Mr Matthew Tannahill, who describes the enthusiasm with which his brother received such homage to his genius. The poets spent a night together; and in the morning Tannahill accompanied the Shepherd half-way to Glasgow. Their parting was memorable: "Farewell," said Tannahill, as he grasped the Shepherd's hand, "we shall never meet again! Farewell, I shall never see you more!"

The visit of the Ettrick Bard proved only an interlude amidst the depression which had permanently settled on the mind of poor Tannahill. The intercourse of admiring friends even became burdensome to him; and he stated to his brother Matthew his determination either to leave Paisley for a sequestered locality, or to canvass the country for subscribers to a new edition of his poems. Meanwhile, his person became emaciated, and he complained to his brother that he experienced a prickling sensation in the head. During a visit to a friend in Glasgow, he exhibited decided symptoms of insanity. On his return home, he complained of illness, and took to bed in his mother's house. He was visited by three of his brothers on the evening of the same day, and they left him about ten o'clock, when he appeared sufficiently composed. Returning about two hours afterwards to inquire for him, and for their mother, who lay sick in the next apartment, they found their brother's bed empty, and discovered that he had gone out. Arousing the neighbours, they made an immediate search, and at length they discovered the poet's lifeless body at a deep spot of the neighbouring brook. Tannahill terminated his own life on the 17th May 1810, at the age of thirty-six.

The victim of disappointments which his sensitive temperament could not endure, Tannahill was naturally of an easy and cheerful disposition. "He was happy himself," states his surviving brother, "and he wished to see every one happy around him." As a child, his brother informs us, his exemplary behaviour was so conspicuous, that mothers were satisfied of their children's safety, if they learned that they were in company with "Bob Tannahill." Inoffensive in his own dispositions, he entertained every respect for the feelings of others. He enjoyed the intercourse of particular friends, but avoided general society; in company, he seldom talked, and only with a neighbour; he shunned the acquaintance of persons of rank, because he disliked patronage, and dreaded the superciliousness of pride. His conversation was simple; he possessed, but seldom used, considerable powers of satire; but he applied his keenest shafts of declamation against the votaries of cruelty. In performing acts of kindness he took delight, but he was scrupulous of accepting favours; he was strong in the love of independence, and he had saved twenty pounds at the period of his death. His general appearance did not indicate intellectual superiority; his countenance was calm and meditative, his eyes were gray, and his hair a light-brown. In person, he was under the middle size. Not ambitious of general learning, he confined his reading chiefly to poetry. His poems are much inferior to his songs; of the latter will be found admirers while the Scottish language is sung or understood. Abounding in genuine sweetness and graceful simplicity, they are pervaded by the gentlest pathos. Rich in description of beautiful landscapes, they softly tell the tale of man's affection and woman's love.[76]

[75] See Semple's "Continuation of Crawford's History of Renfrewshire," p. 116.

[76] Tannahill was believed never to have entertained particular affection towards any of the fair sex. We have ascertained that, at different periods, he paid court to two females of his own rank. The first of these was Jean King, sister of his friend John King, one of the minor poets of Paisley; she afterwards married a person of the name of Pinkerton; and her son, Mr James Pinkerton, printer, Paisley, has frequently heard her refer to the fear she had entertained lest "Rob would write a song about her." His next sweetheart was Mary Allan, sister of the poet Robert Allan. This estimable woman was a sad mourner on the poet's death, and for many years wept aloud when her deceased lover was made the subject of conversation in her presence. She still survives, and a few years since, to join some relations, she emigrated to America. Some verses addressed to her by the poet she continues to retain with the fondest affection.



JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.[77]

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she 's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha 'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I 'd languish in pain; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

[77] "Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane" was published in 1808, and has since received an uncommon measure of popularity. The music, so suitable to the words, was composed by R. A. Smith. In the "Harp of Renfrewshire" (p. xxxvi), Mr Smith remarks that the song was at first composed in two stanzas, the third being subsequently added. "The Promethean fire," says Mr Smith, "must have been burning but lownly, when such commonplace ideas could be written, after the song had been so finely wound up with the beautiful apostrophe to the mavis, 'Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening.'" The heroine of the song was formerly a matter of speculation; many a "Jessie" had the credit assigned to her; and passengers by the old stage-coaches between Perth and the south, on passing through Dunblane, had pointed out to them, by the drivers, the house of Jessie's birth. One writer (in the Musical Magazine, for May 1835) records that he had actually been introduced at Dunblane to the individual Jessie, then an elderly female, of an appearance the reverse of prepossessing! Unfortunately for the curious in such inquiries, the heroine only existed in the imagination of the poet; he never was in Dunblane, which, if he had been, he would have discovered that the sun could not there be seen setting "o'er the lofty Benlomond." Mr Matthew Tannahill states that the song was composed to supplant an old one, entitled, "Bob o' Dumblane." Mr James Bowie, of Paisley, supplies the information, that in consequence of improvements suggested from time to time by R. A. Smith and William Maclaren, Tannahill wrote eighteen different versions of this song.



LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES.[78]

AIR—"Lord Moira's Welcome to Scotland."

Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes, I maun lea' them a', lassie; Wha can thole when Britain's faes Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha would shun the field of danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca', lassie? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Hae seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie.

"Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love, and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou 'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie."

O! resume thy wonted smile! O! suppress thy fears, lassie! Glorious honour crowns the toil That the soldier shares, lassie; Heaven will shield thy faithful lover, Till the vengeful strife is over, Then we 'll meet nae mair to sever, Till the day we die, lassie; 'Midst our bonnie woods and braes, We 'll spend our peaceful, happy days, As blithe 's yon lightsome lamb that plays On Loudoun's flowery lea, lassie.

[78] Tannahill wrote this song in honour of the Earl of Moira, afterwards Marquis of Hastings, and the Countess of Loudoun, to whom his Lordship had been shortly espoused, when he was called abroad in the service of his country.



THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.[79]

Far lone amang the Highland hills, 'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens, With weary steps I wander. The langsome way, the darksome day, The mountain mist sae rainy, Are nought to me when gaun to thee, Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rosebud down the howe, Just op'ning fresh and bonny, Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough, And 's scarcely seen by ony; Sae, sweet amidst her native hills, Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Mair fair and gay than rosy May, The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow, I view the distant ocean, There Av'rice guides the bounding prow, Ambition courts promotion:— Let Fortune pour her golden store, Her laurell'd favours many; Give me but this, my soul's first wish, The lass o' Arranteenie.



[79] This song was written on a young lady, whom a friend of the author met at Ardentinny, a retired spot on the margin of Loch Long.



YON BURN SIDE.[80]

AIR—"The Brier-bush."

We 'll meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side, Where the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side; Though the broomy knowes be green, And there we may be seen, Yet we 'll meet—we 'll meet at e'en down by yon burn side.

I 'll lead you to the birken bower, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side; There the busy prying eye, Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side, Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side; There fancy smoothes her theme, By the sweetly murm'ring stream, And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin' taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side; Far frae the noisy scene, I 'll through the fields alane, There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.

[80] The poet and one of his particular friends, Charles Marshall (whose son, the Rev. Charles Marshall, of Dunfermline, is author of a respectable volume, entitled "Lays and Lectures"), had met one evening in a tavern, kept by Tom Buchanan, near the cross of Paisley. The evening was enlivened by song-singing; and the landlord, who was present, sung the old song, beginning, "There grows a bonny brier-bush," which he did with effect. On their way home together, Marshall remarked that the words of the landlord's song were vastly inferior to the tune, and humorously suggested the following burlesque parody of the first stanza:—

"There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard, They were set by Charlie Marshall, And pu'd by Nannie Laird, Yet there 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard."

He added that Tannahill would do well to compose suitable words for the music. The hint sufficed; the friends met after a fortnight's interval, when the poet produced and read the song of "Yon burn side." It immediately became popular. Marshall used to relate this anecdote with much feeling. He died in March 1851, at the age of fourscore.



THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.[81]

AIR—"Bonny Dundee."

Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover, Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw: The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie, The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie, And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery, Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie, They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie, 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae; While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain, That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.

'Tis no its loud roar on the wintry winds swellin', 'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tears i' my e'e, For, O, gin I saw but my bonny Scots callan', The dark days o' winter were summer to me!

[81] The Braes of Gleniffer are a tract of hilly ground, to the south of Paisley. They are otherwise known as Stanley Braes.



THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S LANELY WA'S.[82]

AIR—"Crockston Castle."

Through Crockston Castle's lanely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary; Though mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's, Yet I hae vow'd to meet my Mary. Yes, Mary, though the winds should rave Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure; But I will ford the whirling deep, That roars between me and my treasure. Yes, Mary, though the torrent rave, Wi' jealous spite, to keep me frae thee, Its deepest flood I 'd bauldly brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie; But when the lonesome way is past, I 'll to this bosom clasp my Mary! Yes, Mary, though stern winter rave, With a' his storms, to keep me frae thee, The wildest dreary night I 'd brave, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

[82] The ruin of Crockston Castle is situated on the brow of a gentle eminence, about three miles south-east of Paisley. The Castle, in the twelfth century, was possessed by a Norman family, of the name of Croc; it passed, in the following century, by the marriage of the heiress, into a younger branch of the House of Stewart, who were afterwards ennobled as Earls of Lennox. According to tradition, Queen Mary and Lord Darnley occasionally resided in the castle; and it is reported that the unfortunate princess witnessed from its walls the fall of her fortunes at the battle of Langside. Crockston Castle is now the possession of Sir John Maxwell, Bart., of Pollock.



THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.[83]

AIR—"The Three Carls o' Buchanan."

Let us go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I 'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling; So merrily we 'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

[83] A clerical friend has communicated to us the following stanza, which he heard sung by an old Highlander, as an addition to the "Braes o' Balquhither:"—

"While the lads of the south Toil for bare worldly treasure— To the lads of the north Every day brings its pleasure: Oh, blithe are the joys That the Highlandman possesses, He feels no annoys, For he fears no distresses."



GLOOMY WINTER 'S NOW AWA'.

AIR—"Lord Balgonie's Favourite."

Gloomy winter 's now awa' Saft the westling breezes blaw, 'Mang the birks of Stanley-shaw, The mavis sings fu' cheery, O! Sweet the crawflower's early bell Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell, Blooming like thy bonny sel', My young, my artless dearie, O!

Come, my lassie, let us stray O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae, Blithely spend the gowden day, 'Midst joys that never weary, O! Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds, Siller saughs, wi' downy buds, Adorn the banks sae briery, O!

Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Feath'ry breckans fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks, And ilka thing is cheery, O! Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring, Joy to me they canna bring, Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!



O! ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

AIR—"Sleepy Maggie."

O! Are ye sleeping, Maggie? O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? Let me in, for loud the linn Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.

Mirk and rainy is the night, No a starn in a' the carry;[84] Lightnings gleam athwart the lift, And winds drive wi' winter's fury. O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

Fearful soughs the bourtree bank, The rifted wood roars wild and dreary, Loud the iron yate does clank, And cry of howlets makes me eerie. O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

Aboon my breath I daurna' speak, For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie, Cauld 's the blast upon my cheek, O rise, rise, my bonny lady! O! are ye sleeping, Maggie? &c.

She opt the door, she let him in, He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie: "Blaw your warst, ye rain and win', Since, Maggie, now I 'm in aside ye."

Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie! Now, since ye 're waking, Maggie! What care I for howlet's cry, For bourtree bank, or warlock craigie?

[84] This expression commonly means, the direction in which the clouds are carried by the wind, but it is here used to denote the firmament.



NOW WINTER, WI' HIS CLOUDY BROW.

AIR—"Forneth House."

Now Winter, wi' his cloudy brow, Is far ayont yon mountains; And Spring beholds her azure sky Reflected in the fountains: Now, on the budding slaethorn bank, She spreads her early blossom, And wooes the mirly-breasted birds To nestle in her bosom.

But lately a' was clad wi' snaw, Sae darksome, dull, and dreary; Now laverocks sing to hail the spring, And Nature all is cheery. Then let us leave the town, my love, And seek our country dwelling, Where waving woods, and spreading flowers, On every side are smiling.

We 'll tread again the daisied green, Where first your beauty moved me; We 'll trace again the woodland scene, Where first ye own'd ye loved me; We soon will view the roses blaw In a' the charms of fancy, For doubly dear these pleasures a', When shared with thee, my Nancy.



THE DEAR HIGHLAND LADDIE, O!

GAELIC AIR—"Mor nian a Ghibarlan."

Blithe was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, O! Happy were the days when we herded thegither, O! Sweet were the hours when he row'd me in his plaidie, O! And vow'd to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O!

But, ah! waes me! wi' their sodgering sae gaudy, O! The laird's wys'd awa my braw Highland laddie, O! Misty are the glens, and the dark hills sae cloudy, O! That aye seem'd sae blythe wi' my dear Highland laddie, O!

The blaeberry banks now are lonesome and dreary, O! Muddy are the streams that gush'd down sae clearly, O! Silent are the rocks that echoed sae gladly, O! The wild melting strains o' my dear Highland laddie, O!

He pu'd me the crawberry, ripe frae the boggy fen: He pu'd me the strawberry, red frae the foggy glen; He pu'd me the row'n frae the wild steeps sae giddy, O! Sae loving and kind was my dear Highland laddie, O!

Fareweel, my ewes, and fareweel, my doggie, O! Fareweel, ye knowes, now sae cheerless and scroggie, O! Fareweel, Glenfeoch, my mammy and my daddie, O! I will leave you a' for my dear Highland laddie, O!



THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN.

AIR—"The Shepherd's Son."

The midges dance aboon the burn, The dews begin to fa'; The pairtricks down the rushy holm, Set up their e'ening ca'. Now loud and clear the blackbirds' sang Rings through the briery shaw, While flitting, gay, the swallows play Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky, The mavis mends her lay, The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day. While weary yeldrins seem to wail, Their little nestlings torn; The merry wren, frae den to den, Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves, The foxglove shuts its bell, The honeysuckle and the birk Spread fragrance through the dell Let others crowd the giddy court Of mirth and revelry— The simple joys that Nature yields Are dearer far to me.



BARROCHAN JEAN.[85]

AIR—"Johnnie M'Gill."

'Tis haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? And haena ye heard, man, o' Barrochan Jean? How death and starvation came o'er the hail nation, She wrought sic mischief wi' her twa pawky e'en.

The lads and the lasses were deeing in dizzins, The tane kill'd wi' love and the tither wi' spleen; The ploughing, the sawing, the shearing, the mawing, A' wark was forgotten for Barrochan Jean!

Frae the south and the north, o'er the Tweed and the Forth, Sic coming and ganging there never was seen; The comers were cheerie, the gangers were blearie, Despairing or hoping for Barrochan Jean!

The carlines at hame were a' girning and graning, The bairns were a' greeting frae morning till e'en; They gat naething for crowdy, but runts boil'd to sowdie, For naething gat growing for Barrochan Jean!

The doctors declared it was past their descriving, The ministers said 'twas a judgment for sin; But they lookit sae blae, and their hearts were sae wae, I was sure they were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

The burns on road-sides were a' dry wi' their drinking, Yet a' wadna slockin' the drouth i' their skin; A' around the peat-stacks, and alangst the dyke-backs, E'en the winds were a' sighing, "Sweet Barrochan Jean!"

The timmer ran done wi' the making o' coffins, Kirkyards o' their sward were a' howkit fu' clean; Dead lovers were packit like herring in barrels, Sic thousands were deeing for Barrochan Jean!

But mony braw thanks to the Laird o' Glen Brodie, The grass owre their graffs is now bonnie and green, He sta' the proud heart of our wanton young lady, And spoil'd a' the charm o' her twa pawky e'en.

[85] Writing to his friend Barr, on the 24th December 1809, Tannahill remarks:—"You will, no doubt, have frequently observed how much some old people are given to magnify the occurrences of their young days. 'Barrochan Jean' was written on hearing an old grannie, in Lochwinnoch parish, relating a story something similar to the subject of the song; perhaps I have heightened her colouring a little."



O, ROW THEE IN MY HIGHLAND PLAID!

Lowland lassie, wilt thou go Where the hills are clad with snow; Where, beneath the icy steep, The hardy shepherd tends his sheep? Ill nor wae shall thee betide, When row'd within my Highland plaid.

Soon the voice of cheery spring Will gar a' our plantin's ring, Soon our bonny heather braes Will put on their summer claes; On the mountain's sunny side, We 'll lean us on my Highland plaid.

When the summer spreads the flowers, Busks the glens in leafy bowers, Then we 'll seek the caller shade, Lean us on the primrose bed; While the burning hours preside, I 'll screen thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Then we 'll leave the sheep and goat, I will launch the bonny boat, Skim the loch in canty glee, Rest the oars to pleasure thee; When chilly breezes sweep the tide, I 'll hap thee wi' my Highland plaid.

Lowland lads may dress mair fine, Woo in words mair saft than mine; Lowland lads hae mair of art, A' my boast 's an honest heart, Whilk shall ever be my pride;— O, row thee in my Highland plaid!

"Bonny lad, ye 've been sae leal, My heart would break at our fareweel; Lang your love has made me fain; Take me—take me for your ain!" Across the Firth, away they glide, Young Donald and his Lowland bride.



BONNY WOOD OF CRAIGIE LEA.[86]

Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Thou bonny wood of Craigie lea! Near thee I pass'd life's early day, And won my Mary's heart in thee.

The broom, the brier, the birken bush, Bloom bonny o'er thy flowery lea, And a' the sweets that ane can wish Frae Nature's hand, are strew'd on thee.

Far ben thy dark green plantin's shade, The cooshat croodles am'rously, The mavis, down thy bughted glade, Gars echo ring frae every tree. Thou bonny wood, &c.

Awa, ye thoughtless, murd'ring gang, Wha tear the nestlings ere they flee! They 'll sing you yet a canty sang, Then, O, in pity, let them be! Thou bonny woods, &c.

When winter blaws in sleety showers, Frae aff the norlan' hills sae hie, He lightly skiffs thy bonny bowers, As laith to harm a flower in thee. Thou bonny wood, &c.

Though Fate should drag me south the line, Or o'er the wide Atlantic sea; The happy hours I 'll ever mind, That I, in youth, hae spent in thee. Thou bonny wood, &c.

[86] Craigie Lea is situated to the north-west of Paisley.



GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY.[87]

AIR—"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'."

The weary sun 's gaen down the west, The birds sit nodding on the tree; All nature now prepares for rest, But rest prepared there 's none for me. The trumpet sounds to war's alarms, The drums they beat, the fifes they play,— Come, Mary, cheer me wi' thy charms, For the morn I will be far away.

Good night, and joy—good night, and joy, Good night, and joy be wi' you a'; For since its so that I must go, Good night, and joy be wi' you a'!

I grieve to leave my comrades dear, I mourn to leave my native shore; To leave my aged parents here, And the bonnie lass whom I adore. But tender thoughts maun now be hush'd, When danger calls I must obey. The transport waits us on the coast, And the morn I will be far away. Good night, and joy, &c.

Adieu, dear Scotia's sea-beat coast! Though bleak and drear thy mountains be, When on the heaving ocean tost, I 'll cast a wishful look to thee! And now, dear Mary, fare thee well, May Providence thy guardian be! Or in the camp, or on the field, I 'll heave a sigh, and think on thee! Good night, and joy, &c.

[87] We have been favoured, by Mr Matthew Tannahill, with a copy of the above song of his late gifted brother. It is not included in any edition of his poems, but has been printed, through the favour of Mr M. Tannahill, in the "Book of Scottish Song."



HENRY DUNCAN, D.D.

Dr Henry Duncan the distinguished founder of Savings' Banks, and the promoter of various schemes of social economy, we are enabled to record among the contributors to Caledonian minstrelsy. He was descended through both parents from a succession of respectable clergymen of the Scottish Church. His father George Duncan, was minister of Lochrutton in the stewartry of Kircudbright, and the subject of this memoir was born in the manse of that parish, on the 8th October 1774. After a period of training at home under a private tutor, he was sent to the Academy of Dumfries to complete his preparation for the University. At the age of fourteen, he entered as a student the United College of St Andrews, but after an attendance of two years at that seat of learning, he was induced, on the invitation of his relative Dr Currie, to proceed to Liverpool, there to prepare himself for a mercantile profession, by occupying a situation in the banking office of Messrs Heywood. After a trial of three years, he found the avocations of business decidedly uncongenial, and firmly resolved to follow the profession of his progenitors, by studying for the ministry of the Church of Scotland. He had already afforded evidence of ability to grapple with questions of controversial theology, by printing a tract against the errors of Socinianism, which, published anonymously, attracted in the city of Liverpool much attention from the originality with which the usual arguments were illustrated and enforced. Of the concluding five years of his academical course, the first and two last were spent at the University of Edinburgh, the other two at that of Glasgow. In 1797, he was enrolled as a member of the Speculative Society of the University of Edinburgh, and there took his turn in debate with Henry Brougham, Francis Horner, Lord Henry Petty afterwards Marquis of Lansdowne, and other young men of genius, who then adorned the academic halls of the Scottish capital. With John Leyden, W. Gillespie afterwards minister of Kells, and Robert Lundie the future minister of Kelso, he formed habits of particular intimacy. From the Presbytery of Dumfries, he obtained licence as a probationer in the spring of 1798, and he thereafter accepted the situation of tutor in the family of Colonel Erskine afterwards Earl of Mar, who then resided at Dalhonzie, near Crieff. In this post he distinguished himself by inducing the inhabitants of the district to take up arms in the defence of the country, during the excitement, which then prevailed respecting an invasion. In the spring of 1799, the parishes of Lochmaben and Ruthwell, both in the gift of the Earl of Mansfield, became simultaneously vacant, and the choice of them was accorded to Mr Duncan by the noble patron. He preferred Ruthwell, and was ordained to the charge of that parish, on the 19th September.

In preferring the parish of Ruthwell to the better position and wider field of ministerial usefulness presented at Lochmaben, Mr Duncan was influenced by the consideration, that the population of the former parish was such as would enable him to extend the pastoral superintendence to every individual of his flock. In this respect he realised his wishes; but not content with efficiently discharging the more sacred duties of a parochial clergyman, he sought with devoted assiduity, the amelioration of the physical condition of his people. Relieving an immediate destitution in the parish, by a supply of Indian corn brought on his own adventure, he was led to devise means of preventing the recurrence of any similar period of depression. With this intention, he established two friendly societies in the place, and afterwards a local bank for the savings of the industrious. The latter proved the parent of those admirable institutions for the working classes, known as Savings' Banks, which have since become so numerous throughout Europe and the United States of America. The Ruthwell Savings' Bank was established in 1810. Numerous difficulties attended the early operation of the system, on its general adoption throughout the country, but these were obviated and removed by the skill and promptitude of the ingenious projector. At one period his correspondence on the subject cost him in postages an annual expenditure of one hundred pounds, a sum nearly equal to half the yearly emoluments of his parochial cure. The Act of Parliament establishing Savings' Banks in Scotland, which was passed in July 1819, was procured through his indomitable exertions, and likewise the Act of 1835, providing for the better regulation of these institutions.

At Ruthwell, Dr Duncan introduced the system of popular lectures on science, which has since been adopted by Mechanics' Institutes. Further to extend the benefits of popular instruction and entertainment, he edited a series of tracts entitled "The Scottish Cheap Repository," one of the first of those periodicals devoted to the moral improvement of the people. A narrative designated "The Cottager's Fireside," which he originally contributed to this series, was afterwards published separately, and commanded a wide circulation. In 1809, Dr Duncan originated the Dumfries and Galloway Courier, a weekly newspaper which he conducted during the first seven years of its existence. He was a frequent contributor to "The Christian Instructor," and wrote the articles "Blair" and "Blacklock" for the Edinburgh Encyclopaedia. At the request of Lord Brougham, he composed two treatises on Savings' Banks and Friendly Societies, for publication by the "Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge." In 1819, he published the "Young Country Weaver," a tale calculated to disseminate just political views among the manufacturing classes; and in 1826 a tale of the times of the Covenant in three volumes, with the title of "William Douglas, or the Scottish Exiles." Deeply interested in the question of Slave Emancipation, he contributed a series of letters on the subject to the Dumfries Courier, which, afterwards published in the form of a pamphlet, excited no inconsiderable attention. His most valuable and successful publication, the "Sacred Philosophy of the Seasons" appeared in 1836-7 in four duodecimo volumes.

As a man of science, the name of Dr Duncan is associated with the discovery of footprints of four-footed animals in the New Red-Sandstone. He made this curious geological discovery in a quarry at Corncocklemuir, about fifteen miles distant from his parochial manse. In 1823, he received the degree of D.D. from the University of St Andrews. In 1839, he was raised to the Moderator's chair in the General Assembly. In church politics, he had early espoused liberal opinions; at the Disruption in 1843, he resigned his charge and united himself to the Free Church. He continued to minister in the parish of Ruthwell, till the appointment of an assistant and successor a short time before his decease. Revisiting the scene of his ministerial labours after a brief absence, he was struck with paralysis while conducting service at a prayer-meeting, and two days afterwards expired. He died at Comlongon, the residence of his brother-in-law Mr Phillips, on the 12th February 1846, and his remains were committed to the church-yard of Ruthwell, in which he had ministered during an incumbency of upwards of forty-six years.

Dr Duncan was twice married; first in 1804, to Miss Craig, the only surviving daughter of his predecessor, and secondly in 1836, to Mrs Lundie, the relict of his friend Mr Lundie, minister of Kelso. His memoirs have been published by his son, the Rev. George John C. Duncan, minister of the Free Church, Greenwich. A man of fine intellect, extensive and varied scholarship, and highly benevolent dispositions, Dr Duncan was much cherished and beloved alike by his parishioners and his gifted contemporaries. Pious and exemplary as became his profession, he was expert in business, and was largely endowed with an inventive genius. Though hitherto scarcely known as a poet, he wrote verses so early as his eleventh year, which are described by his biographer as having "evinced a maturity of taste, a refinement of thought, and an ease of diction which astonished and delighted his friends," and the specimens of his more mature lyrical compositions, which we have been privileged to publish from his MSS. are such as to induce some regret that they were not sooner given to the public.



CURLING SONG.

The music o' the year is hush'd, In bonny glen and shaw, man; And winter spreads o'er nature dead A winding sheet o' snaw, man. O'er burn and loch, the warlike frost, A crystal brig has laid, man; The wild geese screaming wi' surprise, The ice-bound wave ha'e fled, man.

Up, curler, frae your bed sae warm, And leave your coaxing wife, man; Gae get your besom, tramps and stane, And join the friendly strife, man. For on the water's face are met, Wi' mony a merry joke, man; The tenant and his jolly laird, The pastor and his flock, man.

The rink is swept, the tees are mark'd, The bonspiel is begun, man; The ice is true, the stanes are keen, Huzza for glorious fun, man! The skips are standing at the tee, To guide the eager game, man; Hush, not a word, but mark the broom, And tak' a steady aim, man.

There draw a shot, there lay a guard, And here beside him lie, man; Now let him feel a gamester's hand, Now in his bosom die, man; Then fill the port, and block the ice, We sit upon the tee, man; Now tak' this in-ring, sharp and neat, And mak' their winner flee, man.

How stands the game? Its eight and eight, Now for the winning shot, man; Draw slow and sure, and tak' your aim, I 'll sweep you to the spot, man. The stane is thrown, it glides along, The besoms ply it in, man; Wi' twisting back the player stands, And eager breathless grin, man.

A moment's silence, still as death, Pervades the anxious thrang, man; When sudden bursts the victor's shout, With holla's loud and lang, man. Triumphant besom's wave in air, And friendly banters fly, man; Whilst, cold and hungry, to the inn, Wi' eager steps they hie, man.

Now fill ae bumper, fill but ane, And drink wi' social glee, man, May curlers on life's slippery rink, Frae cruel rubs be free, man; Or should a treacherous bias lead Their erring course ajee, man, Some friendly in-ring may they meet, To guide them to the tee, man.



ON THE GREEN SWARD.[88]

TUNE—"Arniston House."

On the green sward lay William, in anguish extended, To soothe and to cheer him his Mary stood near him; But despair in the cup of his sorrows was blended, And, inwardly groaning, he wildly exclaim'd—

"Ah! look not so fondly, thou peerless in beauty, Away, I beseech thee, no comfort can reach me; A martyr to love, or a traitor to duty, My pleasure is sorrow, my hope is despair.

"Once the visions of fancy shone bright and attractive, Like distant scenes blooming which sunbeams illumine; Love pointed to wealth, and, no longer inactive, I labour'd till midnight, and rose with the dawn.

"But the day-dreams of pleasure have fled me for ever, Misfortune surrounds me, oppression confounds me; No hope to support, and no friend to deliver, Poor and wretched, alas! I must ever remain.

"And thou, my soul's treasure, whilst pitying my anguish, New poison does mix in my cup of affliction, For honour forbids (though without thee I languish) To make thee a partner of sorrow and want."

"Dear William," she cried, "I 'll no longer deceive thee, I honour thy merit, I love thy proud spirit; Too well thou art tried, and if wealth can relieve thee, My portion is ample—that portion is thine."

[88] Composed in 1804. This song and those following, by Dr Duncan, are here published for the first time.



THE RUTHWELL VOLUNTEERS.[89]

Hark! the martial drums resound, Valiant brothers, welcome all, Crowd the royal standard round, 'Tis your injured country's call. See, see, the robbers come, Ruin seize the ruthless foe; For your altars, for your homes, Heroes lay the tyrants low!

He whom dastard fears abash, He was born to be a slave— Let him feel the despot's lash, And sink inglorious to the grave. See, see, &c.

He who spurns a coward's life, He whose bosom freedom warms, Let him share the glorious strife, We 'll take the hero to our arms. See, see, &c.

Spirits of the valiant dead, Who fought and bled at Freedom's call, In the path you dared to tread, We, your sons, will stand or fall. See, see, &c.

Bending from your airy halls, Turn on us a guardian eye— Lead where Fame or Honour calls, And teach to conquer or to die! See, see, &c.

[89] Written in 1805, when the nation was in apprehension of the French invasion.



EXILED FAR FROM SCENES OF PLEASURE.[90]

TUNE—"Blythe, Blythe and Merry was she."

Exiled far from scenes of pleasure, Love sincere and friendship true, Sad I mark the moon's pale radiance, Trembling in the midnight dew.

Sad and lonely, sad and lonely, Musing on the tints decay, On the maid I love so dearly, And on pleasure's fleeting day.

Bright the moonbeams, when we parted, Mark'd the solemn midnight hour, Clothing with a robe of silver Hill, and dale, and shady bower.

Then our mutual faith we plighted, Vows of true love to repeat, Lonely oft the pale orb watching, At this hour to lovers sweet.

On thy silent face, with fondness, Let me gaze, fair queen of night, For my Annie's tears of sorrow Sparkle in thy soften'd light.

When I think my Annie views thee, Dearly do I love thy rays, For the distance that divides us Seems to vanish as I gaze.

[90] Composed in 1807.



THE ROOF OF STRAW.

I ask no lordling's titled name, Nor miser's hoarded store; I ask to live with those I love, Contented though I 'm poor. From joyless pomp and heartless mirth I gladly will withdraw, And hide me in this lowly vale, Beneath my roof of straw.

To hear my Nancy's lips pronounce A husband's cherish'd name, To press my children to my heart Are titles, wealth and fame. Let kings and conquerors delight To hold the world in awe, Be mine to find content and peace Beneath my roof of straw.

When round the winters' warm fireside We meet with social joy, The glance of love to every heart Shall speak from every eye. More lovely far such such scenes of bliss Than monarch ever saw, Even angels might delight to dwell Beneath my roof of straw.



THOU KEN'ST, MARY HAY.[91]

TUNE—"Bonny Mary Hay."

Thou ken'st, Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel, My ain auld wife, sae canty and leal, Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e, And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?

Dost thou miss, Mary Hay, the saft bloom o' my cheek, And the hair curling round it, sae gentie and sleek? For the snaw 's on my head, and the roses are gane, Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.

But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim, An age, wi' its frost, maks cauld every limb, My heart, thou kens weel, has nae cauldness for thee, For simmer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.

The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold, The ivy sticks close to the tree, when its old, And still thou grows't dearer to me, Mary Hay, As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.

We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done, But I 'll meet thee again in the bricht world aboon, Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e, And look aye sae wae when thou look'st at me?

[91] Composed in 1830.



ROBERT ALLAN.

Robert Allan was the son of a respectable flax-dresser in the village of Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire. The third of a family of ten children, he was born on the 4th of November 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of Tannahill and Robert Archibald Smith. With Tannahill he lived on terms of the most cordial friendship. He followed the occupation of a muslin weaver in his native place, and composed many of his best verses at the loom. He was an extensive contributor to the "Scottish Minstrel," published by R. A. Smith, his songs being set to music by the editor. In 1820, a number of his songs appeared in the "Harp of Renfrewshire." His only separate volume was published in 1836, under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy, teacher of elocution in Glasgow.

In his more advanced years, Allan, who was naturally of good and benevolent dispositions, became peculiarly irritable; he fancied that his merits as a poet had been overlooked, and the feeling preyed deeply upon his mind. He entertained extreme political opinions, and conceived a dislike to his native country, which he deemed had not sufficiently estimated his genius. Much in opposition to the wishes of his friends, he sailed for New York in his 67th year. He survived the passage only six days; he died at New York on the 1st June 1841.

Robert Allan is entitled to an honourable position as a writer of Scottish song; all his lyrics evince a correct appreciation of the beautiful in nature, and of the pure and elevated in sentiment. Several of his lays are unsurpassed in genuine pathos.[92]

[92] We have to acknowledge our obligations to Mr John Macgregor, of Paisley, son-in-law of Mr Allan, for most of the particulars contained in this short memoir. Mr Macgregor prepared an extended life of the poet for our use, which, however, was scarcely suited for our purpose. A number of Mr Allan's songs, transcribed from his manuscripts, in the possession of his son in New York, were likewise communicated by Mr Macgregor. These being, in point of merit, unequal to the other productions of the bard, we have not ventured on their publication.



BLINK OVER THE BURN, MY SWEET BETTY.

Blink over the burn, my sweet Betty, Blink over the burn, love, to me; O, lang hae I look'd, my dear Betty, To get but a blink o' thine e'e. The birds are a' sporting around us, And sweetly they sing on the tree; But the voice o' my bonny sweet Betty, I trow, is far dearer to me.

The ringlets, my lovely young Betty, That wave o'er thy bonnie e'ebree, I 'll twine wi' the flowers o' the mountain, That blossom sae sweetly, like thee. Then come o'er the burn, my sweet Betty, Come over the burn, love, to me; O, sweet is the bliss, my dear Betty, To live in the blink o' thine e'e.



COME AWA, HIE AWA.

AIR—"Haud awa frae me, Donald."

Come awa, hie awa, Come and be mine ain, lassie; Row thee in my tartan plaid, An' fear nae wintry rain, lassie. A gowden brooch, an' siller belt, Wi' faithfu' heart I 'll gie, lassie, Gin ye will lea' your Lawland hame, For Highland hills wi' me, lassie. Come awa, &c.

A bonnie bower shall be thy hame, And drest in silken sheen, lassie. Ye 'll be the fairest in the ha', And gayest on the green, lassie. Come awa, &c.

ANSWER.

Haud awa, bide awa, Haud awa frae me, Donald; What care I for a' your wealth, And a' that ye can gie, Donald?

I wadna lea' my Lowland lad For a' your gowd and gear, Donald; Sae tak' your plaid, an' o'er the hill, An' stay nae langer here, Donald. Haud awa, &c.

My Jamie is a gallant youth, I lo'e but him alane, Donald, And in bonnie Scotland's isle, Like him there is nane, Donald; Haud awa, &c.

He wears nae plaid, or tartan hose, Nor garters at his knee, Donald; But oh, he wears a faithfu' heart, And love blinks in his e'e, Donald.

Sae haud awa, bide awa, Come nae mair at e'en, Donald; I wadna break my Jamie's heart, To be a Highland Queen, Donald.



ON THEE, ELIZA, DWELL MY THOUGHTS.

AIR—"In yon garden fine and gay."

On thee, Eliza, dwell my thoughts, While straying was the moon's pale beam; At midnight, in my wand'ring sleep, I see thy form in fancy's dream.

I see thee in the rosy morn, Approach as loose-robed beauty's queen; The morning smiles, but thou art lost, Too soon is fled the sylvan scene.

Still fancy fondly dwells on thee, And adds another day of care; What bliss were mine could fancy paint Thee true, as she can paint thee fair!

O fly, ye dear deceitful dreams! Ye silken cords that bind the heart;— Canst thou, Eliza, these entwine, And smile and triumph in the smart?



TO A LINNET.

AIR—"M'Gilchrist's Lament."

Chaunt no more thy roundelay, Lovely minstrel of the grove, Charm no more the hours away, With thine artless tale of love; Chaunt no more thy roundelay, Sad it steals upon mine ear; Leave, O leave thy leafy spray, Till the smiling morn appear.

Light of heart, thou quitt'st thy song, As the welkin's shadows low'r; Whilst the beetle wheels along, Humming to the twilight hour. Not like thee I quit the scene, To enjoy night's balmy dream; Not like thee I wake again, Smiling with the morning beam.



THE PRIMROSE IS BONNY IN SPRING.

AIR—"The Banks of Eswal."

The primrose is bonnie in spring, And the rose it is sweet in June; It 's bonnie where leaves are green, I' the sunny afternoon. It 's bonny when the sun gaes down, An' glints on the hoary knowe; It 's bonnie to see the cloud Sae red in the dazzling lowe.

When the night is a' sae calm, An' comes the sweet twilight gloom, Oh! it cheers my heart to meet My lassie amang the broom, When the birds in bush and brake, Do quit their blythe e'enin' sang; Oh! what an hour to sit The gay gowden links amang.



THE BONNIE LASS O' WOODHOUSELEE.

AIR—"Hey the rantin' Murray's Ha'."

The sun blinks sweetly on yon shaw, But sweeter far on Woodhouselee, And dear I like his setting beam For sake o' ane sae dear to me. It was na simmer's fairy scenes, In a' their charming luxury, But Beauty's sel' that won my heart, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

Sae winnin', was her witchin' smile, Sae piercin', was her coal-black e'e, Sae sairly wounded was my heart, That had na wist sic ills to dree; In vain I strave in beauty's chains, I cou'd na keep my fancy free, She gat my heart sae in her thrall, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.

The bonnie knowes, sae yellow a', Where aft is heard the hum of bee, The meadow green, and breezy hill, Where lambkins sport sae merrilie, May charm the weary, wand'rin' swain, When e'enin' sun dips in the sea, But a' my heart, baith e'en and morn, Is wi' the lass o' Woodhouselee.

The flowers that kiss the wimplin' burn, And dew-clad gowans on the lea, The water-lily on the lake, Are but sweet emblems a' of thee; And while in simmer smiles they bloom, Sae lovely, and sae fair to see, I 'll woo their sweets, e'en for thy sake, The bonnie lass o' Woodhouselee.



THE SUN IS SETTING ON SWEET GLENGARRY.

The sun is setting on sweet Glengarry, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; O bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

Doun yon glen ye never will weary, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Bonnie lassie, ye maun be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

Birds are singing fu' blythe and cheery, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Bonnie lassie, on bank sae briery, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

In yonder glen there 's naething to fear ye, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Ye canna be sad, ye canna be eerie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.

The water is wimpling by fu' clearly, The flow'rs are fair and the leaves are green; Oh! ye sall ever be my dearie, And the rose is sweet in the dew at e'en.



HER HAIR WAS LIKE THE CROMLA MIST.

Gaelic Air.

Her hair was like the Cromla mist, When evening sun beams from the west, Bright was the eye of Morna; When beauty wept the warrior's fall, Then low and dark was Fingal's hall, Sad was the lovely Morna.

O! lovely was the blue-eyed maid That sung peace to the warrior's shade, But none so fair as Morna. The hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake, That waved beside dark Orna's lake, Where wander'd lovely Morna.

Sad was the hoary minstrel's song, That died the rustling heath among, Where sat the lovely Morna; It slumber'd on the placid wave, It echoed through the warrior's cave, And sigh'd again to Morna.

The hero's plumes were lowly laid; In Fingal's hall each blue-eyed maid Sang peace and rest to Morna; The harp's wild strain was past and gone, No more it whisper'd to the moan Of lovely, dying Morna.



O LEEZE ME ON THE BONNIE LASS.

AIR—"Hodgart's Delight."

O leeze me on the bonnie lass That I lo'e best o' a'; O leeze me on my Marion, The pride o' Lockershaw. O weel I like my Marion, For love blinks in her e'e, And she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me.

The flowers grow bonnie on the bank, Where doun the waters fa'; The birds sing bonnie in the bower, Where red, red roses blaw. An' there, wi' blythe and lightsome heart, When day has closed his e'e, I wander wi' my Marion, Wha lo'es na ane but me.

Sic luve as mine an' Marion's, O, may it never fa'! But blume aye like the fairest flower, That grows in Lockershaw. My Marion I will ne'er forget Until the day I dee, For she has vow'd a solemn vow, She lo'es na ane but me.



QUEEN MARY'S ESCAPE FROM LOCHLEVEN CASTLE.

Highland Boat-air.

Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now 's the time, and the hour of need! To oars, to oars, and trim the bark, Nor Scotland's queen be a warder's mark! Yon light that plays round the castle's moat Is only the warder's random shot! Put off, put off, and row with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Those pond'rous keys[93] shall the kelpies keep, And lodge in their caverns dark and deep; Nor shall Lochleven's towers or hall, Hold thee, our lovely lady, in thrall; Or be the haunt of traitors, sold, While Scotland has hands and hearts so bold; Then, steersmen, steersmen, on with speed, For now is the time, and the hour of need!

Hark! the alarum-bell hath rung, And the warder's voice hath treason sung; The echoes to the falconet's roar, Chime swiftly to the dashing oar. Let town, and hall, and battlements gleam, We steer by the light of the tapers' beam; For Scotland and Mary, on with speed, Now, now is the time, and the hour of need!

[93] The keys here alluded to were, at a recent period, found in the lake.



WHEN CHARLIE TO THE HIGHLANDS CAME.

AIR—"The bonnie Mill-dams o' Balgonie."

When Charlie to the Highlands came, It was a' joy and gladness, We trow'd na that our hearts sae soon Wad broken be wi' sadness.

Oh! why did Heaven sae on us frown, And break our hearts wi' sorrow; Oh! it will never smile again, And bring a gladsome morrow!

Our dwellings, and our outlay gear, Lie smoking, and in ruin; Our bravest youths, like mountain deer, The foe is oft pursuing.

Our home is now the barren rock, As if by Heaven forsaken; Our shelter and our canopy, The heather and the bracken.

Oh! we maun wander far and near, And foreign lands maun hide in; Our bonnie glens, we lo'ed sae dear, We daurna langer bide in.



LORD RONALD CAME TO HIS LADY'S BOWER.

Lord Ronald came to his lady's bower, When the moon was in her wane; Lord Ronald came at a late, late hour, And to her bower is gane. He saftly stept in his sandal shoon, And saftly laid him doun; "It 's late, it 's late," quoth Ellenore, "Sin ye maun wauken soon.

"Lord Ronald, stay till the early cock Shall flap his siller wing, An' saftly ye maun ope the gate, An' loose the silken string." "O Ellenore, my fairest fair, O Ellenore, my bride! How can ye fear when my merry men a' Are on the mountain side."

The moon was hid, the night was sped, But Ellenore's heart was wae; She heard the cock flap his siller wing, An' she watched the morning ray: "Rise up, rise up, Lord Ronald, dear, The mornin' opes its e'e; Oh, speed thee to thy father's tower, And safe, safe may thou be."

But there was a page, a little fause page, Lord Ronald did espy, An' he has told his baron all, Where the hind and hart did lie. "It is na for thee, but thine, Lord Ronald, Thy father's deeds o' weir; But since the hind has come to my faul', His blood shall dim my spear."

Lord Ronald kiss'd fair Ellenore, And press'd her lily hand; Sic a comely knight and comely dame Ne'er met in wedlock's band: But the baron watch'd, as he raised the latch, And kiss'd again his bride; And with his spear, in deadly ire, He pierced Lord Ronald's side.

The life-blood fled frae fair Ellenore's cheek, She look'd all wan and ghast; She lean'd her down by Lord Ronald's side, An' the blood was rinnin' fast: She kiss'd his lip o' the deadlie hue, But his life she cou'dna stay; Her bosom throbb'd ae deadlie throb, An' their spirits baith fled away.