HENRY.[14]

AIR—"Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch."

Can my dearest Henry leave me? Why, ah! why would he deceive me? Whence this cold and cruel change, That bids him thus forsake and grieve me?

Can he the hours of love forget, The stolen hours I 'll mind for ever, When down the burn we fondly met, And aften vow'd we ne'er should sever? Will my Henry then deceive me, Faithless laddie, can he leave me? Ne'er till now did fancy dream, My dearest laddie sae would grieve me.

And will he then me aye forsake? Must I for ever, ever lose him? And can he leave this heart to break, That swells and bursts within my bosom? Never, Henry, could I leave thee, Never could this heart deceive thee, Why then, laddie, me forsake, And sae wi' cruel absence grieve me?

[14] This song and that following are printed from the original MSS.



MARY.[15]

"In life's gay morn," when hopes beat high, And youthfu' love's endearing tie Gave rapture to the mutual sigh, Within the arms of Mary, My ain dear Mary; Nae joys beneath the vaulted sky, Could equal mine wi' Mary.

The sacred hours like moments flew, Soft transports thrill'd my bosom through, The warl' evanish'd frae my view Within the arms of Mary, My ain dear Mary; Nae gloomy cares my soul e'er knew Within the arms of Mary.

Young fancy spread her visions gay, Love fondly view'd the fair display, Hope shew'd the blissfu' nuptial day, And I was rapt with Mary, My ain dear Mary; The flowers of Eden strew'd the way That led me to my Mary.

But life is now a dreary waste, I lanely wander sair depress'd, For cold and lifeless is that breast Where throbb'd the heart of Mary, My ain dear Mary; She 's gane to seats o' blissfu' rest, And I hae lost my Mary.

[15] This song was set to music by R. A. Smith.



JOHN GRIEVE.

John Grieve, whose name is especially worthy of commemoration as the generous friend of men of genius, was born at Dunfermline on the 12th September 1781. He was the eldest son of the Rev. Walter Grieve, minister of the Cameronian or Reformed Presbyterian church in that place; his mother, Jane Ballantyne, was the daughter of Mr George Ballantyne, tenant at Craig, in the vale of Yarrow. While he was very young, his father retired from the ministerial office, and fixed his residence at the villa of Cacrabank, in Ettrick. After an ordinary education at school, young Grieve became clerk to Mr Virtue, shipowner and wood-merchant in Alloa: and, early in 1801, obtained a situation in a bank at Greenock. He soon returned to Alloa, as the partner of his friend Mr Francis Bald, who had succeeded Mr Virtue in his business as a wood-merchant. On the death of Mr Bald, in 1804, he proceeded to Edinburgh to enter into copartnership with Mr Chalmers Izzet, hat-manufacturer on the North Bridge. The firm subsequently assumed, as a third partner, Mr Henry Scott, a native of Ettrick.

Eminently successful in business, Mr Grieve found considerable leisure for the cultivation of strong literary tastes. Though without pretension as a man of letters, he became reputed as a contributor to some of the more respectable periodicals.[16] In his youth he had been a votary of the Muse, and some of his early lyrics he was prevailed on to publish anonymously in Hogg's "Forest Minstrel." The songs marked C., in the contents of that work, are from his pen. In the encouragement of men of genius he evinced a deep interest, affording them entertainment at his table, and privately contributing to the support of those whose circumstances were less fortunate. Towards the Ettrick Shepherd his beneficence was munificent. Along with his partner, Mr Scott, a man of kindred tastes and of ample generosity, he enabled Hogg to surmount the numerous difficulties which impeded his entrance into the world of letters. In different portions of his works, the Shepherd has gracefully recorded his gratitude to his benefactors. In his "Autobiography," after expressing the steadfast friendship he had experienced from Mr Grieve, he adds, "During the first six months that I resided in Edinburgh, I lived with him and his partner Mr Scott, who, on a longer acquaintance, became as firmly attached to me as Mr Grieve; and I believe as much so as to any other man alive.... In short, they would not suffer me to be obliged to any one but themselves for the value of a farthing; and without this sure support, I could never have fought my way in Edinburgh. I was fairly starved into it, and if it had not been for Messrs Grieve and Scott, would, in a very short time, have been starved out of it again." To Mr Grieve, Hogg afterwards dedicated his poem "Mador of the Moor;" and in the character of one of the competing bards in the "Queen's Wake," he has thus depicted him:—

"The bard that night who foremost came Was not enroll'd, nor known his name; A youth he was of manly mould, Gentle as lamb, as lion bold; But his fair face, and forehead high, Glow'd with intrusive modesty. 'Twas said by bank of southland stream Glided his youth in soothing dream; The harp he loved, and wont to stray Far to the wilds and woods away, And sing to brooks that gurgled by Of maiden's form and maiden's eye; That when this dream of youth was past, Deep in the shade his harp he cast; In busy life his cares beguiled, His heart was true, and fortune smiled."

Affected with a disorder in the spine, Mr Grieve became incapacitated for business in his thirty-seventh year. In this condition he found an appropriate solace in literature; he made himself familiar with the modern languages, that he might form an acquaintance with the more esteemed continental authors. Retaining his usual cheerfulness, he still experienced satisfaction in intercourse with his friends; and to the close of his life, his pleasant cottage at Newington was the daily resort of the savans of the capital. Mr Grieve died unmarried on the 4th April 1836, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were interred in the sequestered cemetery of St Mary's, in Yarrow. The few songs which he has written are composed in a vigorous style, and entitle him to rank among those whom he delighted to honour.[17]

[16] In the "Key to the Chaldee MS.," he is described as the author of "The White Cottage, a Tale;" this was not written by him, but was the production of one More, a native of Berwickshire, whose literary aspirations he had promoted.

[17] For a number of particulars in this memoir, we are indebted to our venerated friend Mr Alexander Bald, of Alloa.



CULLODEN; OR, LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.

AIR—"Fingal's Lament."

Culloden, on thy swarthy brow Spring no wild flowers nor verdure fair; Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow, More than the freezing wintry air. For once thou drank'st the hero's blood, And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore; Thy deeds unholy, nature view'd, Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.

From Beauly's wild and woodland glens, How proudly Lovat's banners soar! How fierce the plaided Highland clans Rush onward with the broad claymore! Those hearts that high with honour heave, The volleying thunder there laid low; Or scatter'd like the forest leaves, When wintry winds begin to blow!

Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel? The braided plumes torn from thy brow, What must thy haughty spirit feel, When skulking like the mountain roe! While wild birds chant from Locky's bowers, On April eve, their loves and joys, The Lord of Locky's loftiest towers To foreign lands an exile flies.

To his blue hills that rose in view, As o'er the deep his galley bore, He often look'd and cried, "Adieu! I 'll never see Lochaber more! Though now thy wounds I cannot feel, My dear, my injured native land, In other climes thy foe shall feel The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.

"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray, Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung! Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day, That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung. Where once they ruled and roam'd at will, Free as their own dark mountain game, Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel A longing for their father's fame.

"Shades of the mighty and the brave, Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell! No trophies mark your common grave, Nor dirges to your memory swell. But generous hearts will weep your fate, When far has roll'd the tide of time; And bards unborn shall renovate Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."



LOVELY MARY.[18]

AIR—"Gowd in gowpens."

I 've seen the lily of the wold, I 've seen the opening marigold, Their fairest hues at morn unfold, But fairer is my Mary. How sweet the fringe of mountain burn, With opening flowers at spring's return! How sweet the scent of flowery thorn! But sweeter is my Mary.

Her heart is gentle, warm, and kind; Her form 's not fairer than her mind; Two sister beauties rarely join'd, But join'd in lovely Mary. As music from the distant steep, As starlight on the silent deep, So are my passions lull'd asleep By love for bonnie Mary.

[18] This song was written during the author's first residence at Alloa. The heroine was Miss Mary Douglas, a young lady of great personal attractions, daughter of Captain Douglas, of the East India Company's Marine Service, who resided in the village of Sauchie, in the vicinity. She became the wife of a Mr Rhind, an Edinburgh gentleman, but died soon after her marriage. Her remains were brought for interment to the churchyard of Alloa.



HER BLUE ROLLIN' E'E.

AIR—"Banks of the Devon."

My lassie is lovely, as May day adorning Wi' gowans an' primroses ilka green lee; Though sweet is the violet, new blown i' the morning, As tender an' sweet is her blue rollin' e'e. O, say what is whiter than snaw on the mountain? Or what wi' the red rose in beauty can vie? Yes, whiter her bosom than snaw on the mountain, An' bonnie her face as the red rose can be.

See yon lowly cottage that stands by the wild-wood, Hedged round wi' the sweetbriar and green willow-tree, 'Twas yonder I spent the sweet hours of my childhood, An' first felt the power of a love-rollin' e'e. Though soon frae my hame an' my lassie I wander'd; Though lang I 've been tossing on fortune's rough sea; Aye dear was the valley where Ettrick meander'd; Aye dear was the blink o' her blue-rollin' e'e.

Oh! for the evening, and oh! for the hour, When down by yon greenwood she promised to be; When quick as the summer-dew dries on the flower, A' earthly affections and wishes wad flee. Let Art and let Nature display their proud treasures; Let Paradise boast o' what ance it could gie; As high is my bliss, an' as sweet are my pleasures, In the heart-melting blink o' my lassie's blue e'e.



CHARLES GRAY.

Charles Gray was born at Anstruther-wester, on the 10th March 1782. He was the schoolfellow and early associate of Dr Thomas Chalmers, and Dr William Tennant, the author of "Anster Fair," who were both natives of Anstruther. He engaged for some years in a handicraft occupation; but in 1805, through the influence of Major-General Burn,[19] his maternal uncle, was fortunate in procuring a commission in the Woolwich division of the Royal Marines. In 1811 he published an octavo volume of "Poems and Songs," of which a second edition was called for at the end of three years. In 1813 he joined Tennant and some other local poets in establishing the "Musomanik Society of Anstruther,"—an association which existed about four years, and gave to the world a collection of respectable verses.[20] After thirty-six years' active service in the Royal Marines, he was enabled to retire in 1841, on a Captain's full pay. He now established his head-quarters in Edinburgh, where he cultivated the society of lovers of Scottish song. In 1841, in compliance with the wishes of numerous friends, expressed in the form of a Round Robin, he published a second volume of verses, with the title of "Lays and Lyrics." This work appeared in elegant duodecimo, illustrated with engravings of the author's portrait and of his birthplace. In the Glasgow Citizen newspaper, he subsequently published "Cursory Remarks on Scottish Song," which have been copiously quoted by Mr Farquhar Graham, in his edition of the "Songs of Scotland."

Of cheerful and amiable dispositions, Captain Gray was much cherished by his friends. Intimately acquainted with the productions of the modern Scottish poets, he took delight in discussing their merits; and he enlivened the social circle by singing his favourite songs. Of his lyrical compositions, those selected for this work have deservedly attained popularity. An ardent admirer of Burns, he was led to imitate the style of the great national bard. In person he was of low stature; his gray weather-beaten countenance wore a constant smile. He died, after a period of declining health, on the 13th April 1851. He married early in life, and his only son is now a Captain of Marines.

[19] A memoir of this estimable individual, chiefly from materials found in his Diary, has been published by the London Tract Society.

[20] This volume of the merry Anstruther rhymers is entitled "Bouts-Rimes, or Poetical Pastimes of a few Hobblers round the base of Parnassus;" it is dedicated "To the Lovers of Rhyme, Fun, and Good-Fellowship throughout the British Empire."



MAGGIE LAUDER.[21]

The cantie Spring scarce rear'd her head, And Winter yet did blaud her, When the Ranter came to Anster fair, And speir'd for Maggie Lauder; A snug wee house in the East Green,[22] Its shelter kindly lent her; Wi' canty ingle, clean hearth-stane, Meg welcomed Rob the Ranter!

Then Rob made bonnie Meg his bride, And to the kirk they ranted; He play'd the auld "East Nook o' Fife;" And merry Maggie vaunted, That Hab himsel' ne'er play'd a spring, Nor blew sae weel his chanter, For he made Anster town to ring— And wha 's like Rob the Ranter?

For a' the talk and loud reports, That ever gaed against her, Meg proves a true and carefu' wife, As ever was in Anster; And since the marriage-knot was tied, Rob swears he coudna want her; For he loves Maggie as his life, And Meg loves Rob the Ranter.

[21] These stanzas are an appropriate addition to the well-known song of "Maggie Lauder," composed by Francis Semple, about 1660.

[22] The East Green of Anstruther is now a low street connecting the town with the adjoining village of Cellardyke. The site of Maggie Lauder's house,—which is said to have been a cot of one storey,—is pointed out in a small garden opposite a tannery, and on the north side of the street. Maggie Lauder is the heroine of Dr Tennant's poem of "Anster Fair."



CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.

O Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; O Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier!

When first his standard caught the eye, His pibroch met the ear, Our hearts were light, our hopes were high For the young Chevalier. O Charlie is my darling, &c.

The plaided chiefs cam frae afar, Nae doubts their bosoms steir; They nobly drew the sword for war And the young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, &c.

But he wha trusts to fortune's smile Has meikle cause to fear; She blinket blithe but to beguile The young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, &c.

O dark Culloden—fatal field! Fell source o' mony a tear; There Albyn tint her sword and shield, And the young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, &c.

Now Scotland's "flowers are wede away;" Her forest trees are sere; Her Royal Oak is gane for aye, The young Chevalier! O Charlie is my darling, My darling, my darling; O Charlie is my darling, The young Chevalier.



THE BLACK-E'ED LASSIE.[23]

AIR—"My only Jo and Dearie O!"

Wi' heart sincere I love thee, Bell, But dinna ye be saucy, O! Or a' my love I winna tell To thee, my black-e'ed lassie, O! It 's no thy cheek o' rosy hue, It 's no thy little cherrie mou'; Its a' because thy heart 's sae true, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

It 's no the witch-glance o' thy e'e, Though few for that surpass ye, O! That maks ye aye sae dear to me, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O! It 's no the whiteness o' thy skin, It 's no love's dimple on thy chin; Its a' thy modest worth within, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind, That a' wish to caress ye, O! But O! how I admire thy mind, My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O! I 've seen thine e'en like crystal clear, Shine dimly through soft pity's tear; These are the charms that mak thee dear, To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!

[23] The heroine of this song subsequently became the author's wife.



GRIM WINTER WAS HOWLIN'.

AIR—"Bonnie Dundee."

Grim winter was howlin' owre muir and owre mountain, And bleak blew the wind on the wild stormy sea; The cauld frost had lock'd up each riv'let and fountain, As I took the dreich road that leads north to Dundee. Though a' round was dreary, my heart was fu' cheerie, And cantie I sung as the bird on the tree; For when the heart 's light, the feet winna soon weary, Though ane should gang further than bonnie Dundee!

Arrived at the banks o' sweet Tay's flowin' river, I look'd, as it rapidly row'd to the sea; And fancy, whose fond dream still pleases me ever, Beguiled the lone passage to bonnie Dundee. There, glowrin' about, I saw in his station Ilk bodie as eydent as midsummer bee; When fair stood a mark, on the face o' creation, The lovely young Peggy, the pride o' Dundee!

O! aye since the time I first saw this sweet lassie, I 'm listless, I 'm restless, wherever I be; I 'm dowie, and donnart, and aften ca'd saucy; They kenna its a' for the lass o' Dundee! O! lang may her guardians be virtue and honour; Though anither may wed her, yet well may she be; And blessin's in plenty be shower'd down upon her— The lovely young Peggie, the pride o' Dundee!



JOHN FINLAY.

John Finlay, a short-lived poet of much promise, was born at Glasgow in 1782. His parents were in humble circumstances, but they contrived to afford him the advantages of a good education. From the academy of Mr Hall, an efficient teacher in the city, he was sent, in his fourteenth year, to the University. There he distinguished himself both in the literary and philosophical classes; he became intimately acquainted with the Latin and Greek classics, and wrote elegant essays on the subjects prescribed. His poetical talents first appeared in the composition of odes on classical subjects, which were distinguished alike by power of thought and smoothness of versification. In 1802, while still pursuing his studies at college, he published a volume entitled "Wallace, or the Vale of Ellerslie, with other Poems," of which a second edition[24] appeared, with considerable additions. Soon after, he published an edition of Blair's "Grave," with many excellent notes; produced a learned life of Cervantes; and superintended the publication of a new edition of Smith's "Wealth of Nations." In the hope of procuring a situation in one of the public offices, he proceeded to London in 1807, where he contributed many learned articles, particularly on antiquarian subjects, to different periodicals. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable post in the metropolis, he returned to Glasgow in 1808; and the same year published, in two duodecimo volumes, a collection of "Scottish Historical and Romantic Ballads." This work is chiefly valuable from some interesting notes, and an ingenious preliminary dissertation on early romantic composition in Scotland. About this period, Professor Richardson, of Glasgow, himself an elegant poet, offered him the advance of sufficient capital to enable him to obtain a share in a printing establishment, and undertook to secure for the firm the appointment of printers to the University; he declined, however, to undergo the risk implied in this adventure. Again entertaining the hope of procuring a situation in London, he left Glasgow towards the close of 1810, with the intention of visiting his college friend, Mr Wilson, at Elleray, in Cumberland, to consult with him on the subject of his views. He only reached the distance of Moffat; he was there struck with an apoplectic seizure, which, after a brief illness, terminated his hopeful career, in the 28th year of his age. His remains were interred in the churchyard of Moffat. Possessed of a fine genius, extensive scholarship, and an amiable heart, John Finlay, had he been spared, would have adorned the literature of his country. He entertained worthy aspirations, and was amply qualified for success; for his energies were co-extensive with his intellectual gifts. At the period of his death, he was meditating a continuation of Warton's History of Poetry. His best production is the poem of "Wallace," written in his nineteenth year; though not free from defects, it contains many admirable descriptions of external nature, and displays much vigour of versification. His lyrics are few, but these merit a place in the minstrelsy of his country.

[24] A third edition was published at Glasgow, by R. Chapman, in 1817.



O! COME WITH ME.

TUNE—"Roslin Castle."

O! come with me, for the queen of night Is throned on high in her beauty bright: 'Tis now the silent hour of even, When all is still in earth an' heaven; The cold flowers which the valleys strew Are sparking bright wi' pearly dew, And hush'd is e'en the bee's soft hum, Then come with me, sweet Mary, come.

The opening blue-bell—Scotland's pride— In heaven's pure azure deeply dyed; The daisy meek frae the dewy dale, The wild thyme, and the primrose pale, Wi' the lily frae the glassy lake, Of these a fragrant wreath I 'll make, And bind them 'mid the locks that flow In rich luxuriance from thy brow.

O, love, without thee, what were life? A bustling scene of care and strife; A waste, where no green flowery glade Is found for shelter or for shade. But cheer'd by thee, the griefs we share We can with calm composure bear; For the darkest nicht o' care and toil. Is bricht when blest by woman's smile.



'TIS NOT THE ROSE UPON THE CHEEK.

'Tis not the rose upon the cheek, Nor eyes in langour soft that roll, That fix the lover's timid glance, And fire his wilder'd soul.

But 'tis the eye that swims in tears, Diffusing soft a joy all holy; So soothing to the heart of love, And yet so melancholy.

The note that falters on the tongue, Sweet as the dying voice of eve, That calms the throbbing breast of pain, Yet makes it love to grieve!

The hand, alternate fiery warm And icy cold, the bursting sigh, The look that hopes, yet seems to fear, Pale cheek and burning eye.

These, these the magic circle twine, The lover's thoughts and feelings seize; 'Till scarce a son of earth he seems, But lives in what he sees.



I HEARD THE EVENING LINNET'S VOICE.

AIR—"Gramachree."

I heard the evening linnet's voice the woodland tufts among, Yet sweeter were the tender woes of Isabella's song; So soft into the ear they steal, so soft into the soul, The deep'ning pain of love they soothe, and sorrow's pang control.

I look'd upon the pure brook that murmur'd through the glade, And mingled in the melody that Isabella made; Yet purer was the residence of Isabella's heart, Above the reach of pride and guile, above the reach of art.

I look'd upon the azure of the deep unclouded sky, Yet clearer was the blue serene of Isabella's eye; Ne'er softer fell the rain-drop of the first relenting year, Than falls from Isabella's eye the pity-melted tear.

All this my fancy prompted, ere a sigh of sorrow proved, How hopelessly, yet faithfully, and tenderly I loved! Yet though bereft of hope I love, still will I love the more, As distance binds the exile's heart to his dear native shore.



OH! DEAR WERE THE JOYS.

AIR—"Here 's a health to ane I love dear."

Oh! dear were the joys that are past! Oh! dear were the joys that are past! Inconstant thou art, as the dew of the morn, Or a cloud of the night on the blast!

How dear was the breath of the eve, When bearing thy fond faithless sigh! And the moonbeam how dear that betray'd The love that illumined thine eye!

Thou vow'dst in my arms to be mine, Thou swar'st by the moon's sacred light; But dark roll'd a cloud o'er the sky, It hid the pale queen of the night.

Thou hast broken thy plighted faith, And broken a fond lover's heart; Yes! in winter the moon's fleeting ray I would trust more than thee and thy art!

I am wretched to think on the past— Even hope now my peace cannot save; Thou hast given to my rival thy hand, But me thou hast doom'd to my grave.



WILLIAM NICHOLSON.

William Nicholson, known as the Galloway poet, was born at Tannymaus, in the parish of Borgue, on the 15th August 1782. His father followed the occupation of a carrier; he subsequently took a farm, and finally kept a tavern. Of a family of eight children, William was the youngest; he inherited a love of poetry from his mother, a woman of much intelligence. Early sent to school, impaired eyesight interfered with his progress in learning. Disqualified by his imperfect vision from engaging in manual labour, he chose the business of pedlar or travelling merchant. In the course of his wanderings he composed verses, which, sung at the various homesteads he visited with his wares, became popular. Having submitted some of his poetical compositions to Dr Duncan of Ruthwell, and Dr Alexander Murray, the famous philologist, these gentlemen commended his attempting a publication. In the course of a personal canvass, he procured 1500 subscribers; and in 1814 appeared as the author of "Tales in Verse, and Miscellaneous Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Manners," Edinburgh, 12mo. By the publication he realised L100, but this sum was diminished by certain imprudent excesses. With the balance, he republished some tracts on the subject of Universal Redemption, which exhausted the remainder of his profits. In 1826 he proceeded to London, where he was kindly entertained by Allan Cunningham and other distinguished countrymen. On his return to Galloway, he was engaged for a short time as assistant to a cattle-driver. In 1828, he published a second edition of his poems, which was dedicated to Henry, now Lord Brougham, and to which was prefixed a humorous narrative of his life by Mr Macdiarmid. Latterly, Nicholson assumed the character of a gaberlunzie; he played at merrymakings on his bagpipes, for snuff and whisky. For sometime his head-quarters were at Howford, in the parish of Tongland; he ultimately was kept by the Poors' Board at Kirk-Andrews, in his native parish. He died at Brigend of Borgue, on the 16th May 1849. He was rather above the middle size, and well formed. His countenance was peculiarly marked, and his eyes were concealed by his bushy eye-brows and long brown hair. As a poet and song-writer he claims a place in the national minstrelsy, which the irregular habits of his life will not forfeit. The longest poem in his published volume, entitled "The Country Lass," in the same measure as the "Queen's Wake," contains much simple and graphic delineation of life; while the ballad of "The Brownie of Blednoch," has passages of singular power. His songs are true to nature.



THE BRAES OF GALLOWAY.

TUNE—"White Cockade."

O lassie, wilt thou gang wi' me, And leave thy friens i' th' south countrie— Thy former friens and sweethearts a', And gang wi' me to Gallowa'? O Gallowa' braes they wave wi' broom, And heather-bells in bonnie bloom; There 's lordly seats, and livins braw, Amang the braes o' Gallowa'!

There 's stately woods on mony a brae, Where burns and birds in concert play; The waukrife echo answers a', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c.

The simmer shiel I 'll build for thee Alang the bonnie banks o' Dee, Half circlin' roun' my father's ha', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c.

When autumn waves her flowin' horn, And fields o' gowden grain are shorn, I 'll busk thee fine, in pearlins braw, To join the dance in Gallowa'. O Gallowa' braes, &c.

At e'en, whan darkness shrouds the sight, And lanely, langsome is the night, Wi' tentie care my pipes I 'll thraw, Play "A' the way to Gallowa'." O Gallowa' braes, &c.

Should fickle fortune on us frown, Nae lack o' gear our love should drown; Content should shield our haddin' sma', Amang the braes o' Gallowa'. Come while the blossom 's on the broom, And heather bells sae bonnie bloom; Come let us be the happiest twa On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!



THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

TUNE—"Ewe Bughts, Marion."

Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary, And visit our haughs and our glens? There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's, That lassie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.

'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses, Nae lilies grow wild on the lea; But the heather its sweet scent discloses, And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.

See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin', Whose summits are shaded wi' blue; There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin', Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin', Whan shepherds return frae the hill, Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon', While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.

Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams, That points owre the quivering stream; But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary, And kinder the blinks o' her een.



THE BANKS OF TARF.

TUNE—"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."

Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows; And mony a greenwood cluster grows, And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O! Below a spreadin' hazle lea, Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see, While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e, I met my bonnie Annie, O!

Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue, Her lips like roses wet wi' dew; But O! her e'e, o' azure blue, Was past expression bonnie, O! Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair, That lightly wanton'd wi' the air; But vain were a' my rhymin' ware To tell the charms o' Annie, O!

While smilin' in my arms she lay, She whisperin' in my ear did say, "Oh, how could I survive the day, Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?" "While spangled fish glide to the main, While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain, Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain, I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"

The Beltan winds blew loud and lang, And ripplin' raised the spray alang; We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang, The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O! Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay, And blithe the blinks o' summer day; I fear nae winter cauld and blae, If blest wi' love and Annie, O!



O! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE.

TUNE—"Will ye walk the woods with me?"

O! will ye go to yon burn side, Amang the new-made hay; And sport upon the flowery swaird, My ain dear May?

The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side, Whar lambkins lightly play, The wild bird whistles to his mate, My ain dear May.

The waving woods, wi' mantle green, Shall shield us in the bower, Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May, O' mony a bonnie flower. My father maws ayont the burn, My mammy spins at hame; And should they see thee here wi' me, I 'd better been my lane.

The lightsome lammie little kens What troubles it await— Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er, The fause bird lea'es its mate. The flowers will fade, the woods decay, And lose their bonnie green; The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast, Before that it be e'en.

Ilk thing is in its season sweet; So love is in its noon: But cankering time may soil the flower, And spoil its bonnie bloom. Oh, come then, while the summer shines, And love is young and gay; Ere age his withering, wintry blast Blaws o'er me and my May.

For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks, Or haud the halesome plough; And nightly clasp thee to my breast, And prove aye leal and true. The blush o'erspread her bonnie face, She had nae mair to say, But gae her hand and walk'd alang, The youthfu', bloomin' May.



ALEXANDER RODGER.

Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder, Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village inn; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to Hamburgh. Alexander was apprenticed in his twelfth year to a silversmith in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country, in 1797, he joined his maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a weaver. He married in his twenty-second year; and contrived to add to the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led in 1819 to afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of promoting disaffection and revolt. The connexion was attended with serious consequences; he was convicted of revolutionary practices, and sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the Barrowfield Works, as an inspector of cloths used for printing and dyeing. He held this office during eleven years; he subsequently acted as a pawnbroker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different newspapers. In 1836 he became assistant in the publishing office of the Reformers' Gazette, a situation which he held till his death. This event took place on the 26th September 1846.

Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of "Poems and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are disfigured by coarse political allusions. Several of his songs are of a high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of external nature than of the domestic affections; and, himself possessed of a lively sympathy with the humbler classes, he took delight in celebrating the simple joys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the pathetic, his muse sometimes assumed a sportive gaiety, when the laugh is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation; he was fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836, about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained him at a public festival and handed him a small box of sovereigns; and some admiring friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow.



SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.

How brightly beams the bonnie moon, Frae out the azure sky; While ilka little star aboon Seems sparkling bright wi' joy. How calm the eve, how blest the hour! How soft the silvan scene! How fit to meet thee, lovely flower, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

Now let us wander through the broom, And o'er the flowery lea; While simmer wafts her rich perfume, Frae yonder hawthorn tree: There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest, Where we 've sae aften been; Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast— Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

How sweet to view that face so meek— That dark expressive eye— To kiss that lovely blushing cheek— Those lips of coral dye! But O! to hear thy seraph strains, Thy maiden sighs between, Makes rapture thrill through all my veins— Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

O! what to us is wealth or rank? Or what is pomp or power? More dear this velvet mossy bank— This blest ecstatic hour! I 'd covet not the monarch's throne, Nor diamond-studded Queen, While blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!



BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.

AIR—"Good-morrow to your night-cap."

Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; And dinna be sae rude to me, As kiss me sae before folk.

It wad na gie me meikle pain, 'Gin we were seen and heard by nane To tak' a kiss, or grant you ane, But, guid sake! no before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Whate'er you do when out o' view, Be cautious aye before folk.

Consider, lad, how folk will crack, And what a great affair they 'll mak O' naething but a simple smack That 's gi'en or ta'en before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, Nor gie the tongue o' auld or young Occasion to come o'er folk.

It 's no through hatred o' a kiss That I sae plainly tell you this; But, losh! I tak it sair amiss To be sae teased before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; When we 're our lane ye may tak ane, But fient a ane before folk.

I 'm sure wi' you I 've been as free As ony modest lass should be; But yet it doesna do to see Sic freedom used before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; I 'll ne'er submit again to it— So mind you that—before folk.

Ye tell me that my face is fair; It may be sae—I dinna care— But ne'er again gar 't blush sae sair As ye hae done before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Nor heat my cheeks wi' your mad freaks, But aye be douce before folk.

Ye tell me that my lips are sweet, Sic tales, I doubt, are a' deceit; At ony rate, it 's hardly meet, To pree their sweets before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk; Gin that 's the case, there 's time and place, But surely no before folk.

But, gin you really do insist That I should suffer to be kiss'd, Gae get a licence frae the priest, And mak me yours before folk. Behave yoursel' before folk, Behave yoursel' before folk, And when were ane, bluid, flesh, and bane, Ye may tak ten before folk.[25]

[25] "The Answer" is of inferior merit, and has therefore been omitted.



LOVELY MAIDEN.

Lovely maiden, art thou sleeping? Wake, and fly with me, my love, While the moon is proudly sweeping, Through the ether fields above; While her mellow'd light is streaming Full on mountain, moon, and lake. Dearest maiden, art thou dreaming? 'Tis thy true-love calls awake.

All is hush'd around thy dwelling, Even the watch-dog 's lull'd asleep; Hark! the clock the hour is knelling, Wilt thou then thy promise keep? Yes, I hear her softly coming, Now her window 's gently raised; There she stands, an angel blooming, Come, my Mary, haste thee, haste!

Fear not, love, thy rigid father Soundly sleeps bedrench'd with wine; 'Tis thy true-love holds the ladder, To his care thyself resign! Now my arms enfold a treasure, Which for worlds I 'd not forego; Now our bosoms feel that pleasure, Faithful bosoms only know.

Long have our true-loves been thwarted, By the stern decrees of pride, Which would doom us to be parted, And make thee another's bride; But behold, my steeds are ready, Soon they 'll post us far away; Thou wilt be Glen Alva's lady, Long before the dawn of day.



THE PEASANT'S FIRESIDE.

AIR—"For lack o' gowd."

How happy lives the peasant, by his ain fireside, Wha weel employs the present, by his ain fireside; Wi' his wifie blithe and free, and his bairnie on his knee, Smiling fu' o' sportive glee, by his ain fireside! Nae cares o' state disturb him, by his ain fireside; Nae foolish fashions curb him, by his ain fireside; In his elbow-chair reclined, he can freely speak his mind, To his bosom-mate sae kind, by his ain fireside.

When his bonnie bairns increase, around his ain fireside, What health, content, and peace surround his ain fireside, A' day he gladly toils, and at night delighted smiles At their harmless pranks and wiles, about his ain fireside; And while they grow apace, about his ain fireside, In beauty, strength, and grace, about his ain fireside, Wi' virtuous precepts kind, by a sage example join'd, He informs ilk youthfu' mind, about his ain fireside.

When the shivering orphan poor draws near his ain fireside, And seeks the friendly door, that guards his ain fireside, She 's welcomed to a seat, bidden warm her little feet, While she 's kindly made to eat, by his ain fireside. When youthfu' vigour fails him, by his ain fireside, And hoary age assails him, by his ain fireside, With joy he back surveys all his scenes of bygone days, As he trod in wisdom's ways, by his ain fireside.

And when grim death draws near him, by his ain fireside, What cause has he to fear him, by his ain fireside? With a bosom-cheering hope, he takes heaven for his prop, Then calmly down does drop, by his ain fireside. Oh! may that lot be ours, by our ain fireside; Then glad will fly the hours, by our ain fireside; May virtue guard our path, till we draw our latest breath, Then we 'll smile and welcome death, by our ain fireside.



AH, NO! I CANNOT SAY "FAREWELL."

Ah, no! I cannot say "Farewell," 'T would pierce my bosom through; And to this heart 't were death's dread knell, To hear thee sigh "Adieu." Though soul and body both must part, Yet ne'er from thee I 'll sever, For more to me than soul thou art, And oh! I 'll quit thee never.

Whate'er through life may be thy fate, That fate with thee I 'll share, If prosperous, be moderate; If adverse, meekly bear; This bosom shall thy pillow be, In every change whatever, And tear for tear I 'll shed with thee, But oh! forsake thee, never.

One home, one hearth, shall ours be still, And one our daily fare; One altar, too, where we may kneel, And breathe our humble prayer; And one our praise, that shall ascend, To one all-bounteous Giver; And one our will, our aim, our end, For oh! we 'll sunder never.

And when that solemn hour shall come, That sees thee breathe thy last, That hour shall also fix my doom, And seal my eyelids fast. One grave shall hold us, side by side, One shroud our clay shall cover; And one then may we mount and glide, Through realms of love, for ever.



JOHN WILSON.

John Wilson, one of the most heart-stirring of Scottish prose writers, and a narrative and dramatic poet, is also entitled to rank among the minstrels of his country. The son of a prosperous manufacturer, he was born in Paisley, on the 18th of May 1785. The house of his birth, an old building, bore the name of Prior's Croft; it was taken down in 1787, when the family removed to a residence at the Town-head of Paisley, which, like the former, stood on ground belonging to the poet's father. His elementary education was conducted at the schools of his native town, and afterwards at the manse of Mearns, a rural parish in Renfrewshire, under the superintendence of Dr Maclatchie, the parochial clergyman. To his juvenile sports and exercises in the moor of Mearns, and his trouting excursions by the stream of the Humbie, and the four parish lochs, he has frequently referred in the pages of Blackwood's Magazine. In his fifteenth year he became a student in the University of Glasgow. Under the instructions of Professor Young, of the Greek Chair, he made distinguished progress in classical learning; but it was to the clear and masculine intellect of Jardine, the distinguished Professor of Logic, that he was, in common with Jeffrey, chiefly indebted for a decided impulse in the path of mental cultivation. In 1804 he proceeded to Oxford, where he entered in Magdalen College as a gentleman-commoner. A leader in every species of recreation, foremost in every sport and merry-making, and famous for his feats of agility and strength, he assiduously continued the prosecution of his classical studies. Of poetical genius he afforded the first public indication by producing the best English poem of fifty lines, which was rewarded by the Newdigate prize of forty guineas. On attaining his majority he became master of a fortune of about L30,000, which accrued to him from his father's estate; and, having concluded a course of four years at Oxford, he purchased, in 1808, the small but beautiful property of Elleray, on the banks of the lake Windermere, in Westmoreland. During the intervals of college terms, he had become noted for his eccentric adventures and humorous escapades; and his native enthusiasm remained unsubdued on his early settlement at Elleray. He was the hero of singular and stirring adventures: at one time he joined a party of strolling-players, and on another occasion followed a band of gipsies; he practised cock-fighting and bull-hunting, and loved to startle his companions by his reckless daring. His juvenile excesses received a wholesome check by his espousing, in 1811, Miss Jane Penny, the daughter of a wealthy Liverpool merchant, and a lady of great personal beauty and amiable dispositions, to whom he continued most devotedly attached. He had already enjoyed the intimate society of Wordsworth, and now sought more assiduously the intercourse of the other lake-poets. In the autumn of 1811, on the death of his friend James Grahame, author of "The Sabbath," he composed an elegy to his memory, which attracted the notice of Sir Walter Scott; in the year following he produced "The Isle of Palms," a poem in four cantos.

Hitherto Wilson had followed the career of a man of fortune; and his original patrimony had been handsomely augmented by his wife's dowry. But his guardian (a maternal uncle) had proved culpably remiss in the management of his property, he himself had been careless in pecuniary matters, and these circumstances, along with others, convinced him of the propriety of adopting a profession. His inclinations were originally towards the Scottish Bar; and he now engaged in legal studies in the capital. In 1815 he passed advocate, and, during the terms of the law courts, established his residence in Edinburgh. He was early employed as a counsel at the circuit courts; but his devotion to literature prevented him from giving his heart to his profession, and he did not succeed as a lawyer. In 1816 appeared his "City of the Plague," a dramatic poem, which was followed by his prose tales and sketches, entitled "Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life," "The Foresters," and "The Trials of Margaret Lindsay."

On the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, in 1817, Wilson was one of the staff of contributors, along with Hogg, Lockhart, and others; and on a difference occurring between the publisher and Messrs Pringle and Cleghorn, the original editors, a few months after the undertaking was commenced, he exercised such a marked influence on the fortunes of that periodical, that he was usually regarded as its editor, although the editorial labour and responsibility really rested on Mr Blackwood himself. In 1820 he was elected by the Town-Council of Edinburgh to the Chair of Moral Philosophy in the University, which had become vacant by the death of Dr Thomas Brown. In the twofold capacity of Professor of Ethics and principal contributor to a popular periodical, he occupied a position to which his genius and tastes admirably adapted him. He possessed in a singular degree the power of stimulating the minds and drawing forth the energies of youth; and wielding in periodical literature the vigour of a master intellect, he riveted public attention by the force of his declamation, the catholicity of his criticism, and the splendour of his descriptions. Blackwood's Magazine attained a celebrity never before reached by any monthly periodical; the essays and sketches of "Christopher North," his literary nom-de-guerre, became a monthly treasure of interest and entertainment. His celebrated "Noctes Ambrosianae," a series of dialogues on the literature and manners of the times, appeared in Blackwood from 1822 till 1835. In 1825 his entire poetical works were published in two octavo volumes; and, on his ceasing his regular connexion with Blackwood's Magazine, his prose contributions were, in 1842, collected in three volumes, under the title of "Recreations of Christopher North."

Illustrious as a man of letters, and esteemed as a poet, the private life of Professor Wilson was for many years as destitute of particular incident, as his youth had been remarkable for singular and stirring adventure. Till within a few years of his death, he resided during the summer months at Elleray, where he was in the habit of sumptuously entertaining his literary friends. His splendid regattas on the lake Windermere, from which he derived his title of "Admiral of the Lake," have been celebrated in various periodical papers. He made frequent pedestrian tours to the Highlands, in which Mrs Wilson, who was of kindred tastes, sometimes accompanied him. On the death of this excellent woman, which took place in March 1837, he suffered a severe shock, from which he never recovered. In 1850 he was elected first president of the Edinburgh Philosophical Institution; and in the following year a civil-list pension of L300 was, on the recommendation of the premier, Lord John Russell, conferred on him by the Queen. In 1852 he felt necessitated, from a continuance of impaired health, to resign his professorship in the University. He died in his house in Gloucester Place, Edinburgh, on the 3d of April 1854. His remains, at a public funeral, were consigned to the Dean Cemetery, and upwards of a thousand pounds have been raised to erect a suitable monument to his memory.

Besides the works already enumerated, Professor Wilson contributed an admirable essay on the genius of Burns for Blackie's edition of his works, and an elegant dissertation on Highland scenery, preliminary to the "Caledonia Illustrata." Of his whole works, a complete edition is in the course of publication, under the editorial care of his distinguished son-in-law, Professor Ferrier, of St Andrews. Than Professor Wilson no Scotsman, Scott and Jeffrey not excepted, has exercised a wider and deeper influence upon the general intellect of his countrymen. With a vast and comprehensive genius, he has gathered from every department of nature the deep and genial suggestions of wisdom; he has found philosophy in the wilds, and imbibed knowledge by the mountain stream. Under canvas, in his sporting-jacket, or with the angler's rod, he is still the eloquent "old Christopher;" his contemplations are always lofty, and his descriptions gorgeous. As a poet, he is chiefly to be remarked for meek serenity and gentle pathos. His tales somewhat lack incident, and are deficient in plot; but his other writings, whether critical or philosophical, are marked by correctness of taste, boldness of imagery, and dignity of sentiment. Lion-hearted in the exposure of absolute error, or vain pretext, he is gentle in judging human frailty; and irresistible in humour, is overpowering in tenderness. As a contributor to periodical literature, he will find admirers while the English language is understood.



MARY GRAY'S SONG.

I walk'd by mysel' owre the sweet braes o' Yarrow, When the earth wi' the gowans o' July was dress'd; But the sang o' the bonnie burn sounded like sorrow, Round ilka house cauld as a last-simmer's nest.

I look'd through the lift o' the blue smiling morning, But never a wee cloud o' mist could I see, On its way up to heaven, the cottage adorning, Hanging white owre the green o' its sheltering tree.

By the outside I kenn'd that the inn was forsaken, That nae tread o' footsteps was heard on the floor; Oh, loud craw'd the cock whare was nane to awaken, And the wild raven croak'd on the seat by the door!

Sic silence—sic lonesomeness, oh, were bewildering! I heard nae lass singing when herding her sheep; I met nae bright garlands o' wee rosy children, Dancing onto the school-house, just waken'd frae sleep.

I pass'd by the school-house, when strangers were coming, Whose windows with glad faces seem'd all alive; Ae moment I hearken'd, but heard nae sweet humming, For a night o' dark vapour can silence the hive.

I pass'd by the pool where the lasses at daw'ing, Used to bleach their white garments wi' daffin and din; But the foam in the silence o' nature was fa'ing, And nae laughing rose loud through the roar of the linn.

I gaed into a small town, when sick o' my roaming, Whare ance play'd the viol, the tabor, and flute; 'Twas the hour loved by labour, the saft smiling gloaming, Yet the green round the cross-stane was empty and mute.

To the yellow-flower'd meadow, and scant rigs o' tillage, The sheep a' neglected had come frae the glen; The cushat-dow coo'd in the midst o' the village, And the swallow had flown to the dwellings o' men!

Sweet Denholm! not thus when I lived in thy bosom Thy heart lay so still the last night o' the week; Then nane was sae weary that love would nae rouse him, And grief gaed to dance with a laugh on his cheek.

Sic thoughts wet my een, as the moonshine was beaming On the kirk-tower that rose up sae silent and white; The wan ghastly light on the dial was streaming, But the still finger tauld not the hour of the night.

The mirk-time pass'd slowly in siching and weeping, I waken'd, and nature lay silent in mirth; Owre a' holy Scotland the Sabbath was sleeping, And heaven in beauty came down on the earth.

The morning smiled on—but nae kirk-bell was ringing, Nae plaid or blue bonnet came down frae the hill; The kirk-door was shut, but nae psalm tune was singing, And I miss'd the wee voices sae sweet and sae shrill.

I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling, The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither; The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over, And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea, When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover, And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices, And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!



THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

With laughter swimming in thine eye, That told youth's heart-felt revelry; And motion changeful as the wing Of swallow waken'd by the spring; With accents blithe as voice of May, Chanting glad Nature's roundelay; Circled by joy like planet bright That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light, Thy image such, in former time, When thou, just entering on thy prime, And woman's sense in thee combined Gently with childhood's simplest mind, First taught'st my sighing soul to move With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face A thoughtful and a quiet grace: Though happy still, yet chance distress Hath left a pensive loveliness; Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams, And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams! Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild, Shower blessings on a darling child; Thy motion slow and soft thy tread, As if round thy hush'd infant's bed! And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone, That tells thy heart is all my own, Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years, With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth and tranquil prime Assured, I smile at hoary Time; For thou art doom'd in age to know The calm that wisdom steals from woe; The holy pride of high intent, The glory of a life well spent. When, earth's affections nearly o'er, With Peace behind and Faith before, Thou render'st up again to God, Untarnish'd by its frail abode, Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn From bands of sister seraphim, Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye Open in immortality.



PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head For one little hour on thy lover's bed, And none but the silent stars of night Shall witness be to our delight?

Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be Of the eider-down that is spread for thee, So I in my sorrow must lie alone, For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.

Music to thee I know is dear; Then the saddest of music is ever here, For Grief sits with me in my cell, And she is a syren who singeth well.

But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs, And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers, When the bells of merriment are ringing, And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd, No rival hast thou in my solitude, Be mine, my love! and we two will lie Embraced for ever, or awake to die!

Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour, Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow; But thou art Joy's faithful paramour, And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.



DAVID WEBSTER.

David Webster was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.[26]

[26] The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles Fleming, of Paisley.



TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.

TUNE—"Brose and Butter."

When I was a miller in Fife, Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it racket; For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair, While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill and the kill, The garland and gear for my cogie, Hey for the whisky and yill, That washes the dust frae my craigie.

Although it 's been lang in repute For rogues to mak rich by deceiving, Yet I see that it does not weel suit Honest men to begin to the thieving; For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt, Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it; Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't, Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

A man that 's been bred to the plough, Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper; Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough After kenning what 's said by the happer. I whiles thought it scoff'd me to scorn, Saying, Shame, is your conscience no checkit? But when I grew dry for a horn, It changed aye to Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

The smugglers whiles cam wi' their pocks, Cause they kent that I liked a bicker; Sae I bartered whiles wi' the gowks, Gaed them grain for a soup o' their liquor. I had lang been accustom'd to drink, And aye when I purposed to quat it, That thing wi' its clappertie clink Said aye to me, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.

But the warst thing I did in my life, Nae doubt but ye 'll think I was wrang o 't, Od! I tauld a bit bodie in Fife A' my tale, and he made a bit sang o 't; I have aye had a voice a' my days, But for singing I ne'er got the knack o 't; Yet I tried whiles, just thinking to please The greedy wi' Tak it, man, tak it. Hey the mill, &c.

Now, miller and a' as I am, This far I can see through the matter, There 's men mair notorious to fame, Mair greedy than me or the muter; For 'twad seem that the hale race o' men, Or wi' safety the half we may mak it, Had some speaking happer within, That said to them, Tak it, man, tak it. Hey for the mill, &c.



OH, SWEET WERE THE HOURS.

AIR—"Gregor Arora."

Oh, sweet were the hours That I spent wi' my Flora, In yon gay shady bowers, Roun' the linn o' the Cora!

Her breath was the zephyrs That waft frae the roses, And skim o'er the heath As the summer day closes.

I told her my love-tale, Which seem'd to her cheering; Then she breathed on the soft gale Her song so endearing.

The rock echoes ringing Seem'd charm'd wi' my story; And the birds, sweetly singing, Replied to my Flora.

The sweet zephyr her breath As it wafts frae the roses, And skims o'er the heath As the summer day closes.



PATE BIRNIE.[27]

Our minstrels a', frae south to north, To Edin cam to try their worth, And ane cam frae the banks o' Forth, Whase name was Patie Birnie. This Patie, wi' superior art, Made notes to ring through head and heart, Till citizens a' set apart Their praise to Patie Birnie. Tell auld Kinghorn, o' Picish birth, Where, noddin', she looks o'er the Firth, Aye when she would enhance her worth, To sing o' Patie Birnie.

His merits mak Auld Reekie[28] ring, Mak rustic poets o' him sing; For nane can touch the fiddle-string Sae weel as Patie Birnie. He cheers the sage, the sour, the sad, Maks youngsters a rin louping mad, Heads grow giddy, hearts grow glad, Enchanted wi' Pate Birnie.

The witching tones o' Patie's therm, Mak farmer chiels forget their farm, Sailors forget the howling storm, When dancing to Pate Birnie. Pate maks the fool forget his freaks, Maks baxter bodies burn their bakes, And gowkies gie their hame the glaiks, And follow Patie Birnie.

When Patie taks his strolling rounds, To feasts or fairs in ither towns, Wark bodies fling their trantlooms doun, To hear the famous Birnie. The crabbit carles forget to snarl, The canker'd cuiffs forget to quarrel, And gilphies forget the stock and horle, And dance to Patie Birnie.

[27] Pate Birnie was a celebrated fiddler or violinist who resided in Kinghorn, Fifeshire.

[28] An old designation for the city of Edinburgh, often used by the Scottish poets.



WILLIAM PARK.

William Park was not born in lawful wedlock. His grandfather, Andrew Park, occupied for many years the farm of Efgill, in the parish of Westerkirk, and county of Dumfries. He had two sons, William and James, who were both men of superior intelligence, and both of them writers of verses. William, the poet's father, having for a brief period served as a midshipman, emigrated to the island of Grenada, where he first acted as the overseer of an estate, but was afterwards appointed to a situation in the Customs at St George's, and became the proprietor and editor of a newspaper, called the St George's Chronicle. In the year 1795, he was slain when bravely heading an encounter with a body of French insurgents. His son, the subject of this memoir, was born at Crooks, in the parish of Westerkirk, on the 22d of February 1788, and was brought up under the care of his grandfather. He received an ordinary training at the parochial school; and when his grandfather relinquished his farm to a higher bidder, he was necessitated to seek employment as a cow-herd. In 1805, he proceeded as a farm-servant to the farm of Cassock, in the parish of Eskdalemuir. In 1809, he entered the service of the Rev. Dr Brown,[29] minister of Eskdalemuir, and continued to occupy the position of minister's man till the death of that clergyman, many years afterwards.

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 L75, 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 Graeme, 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.