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

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



THE LAMENT.

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

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



TO MARY.

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

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

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

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



WILLIAM THOM.

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

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



JEANIE'S GRAVE.

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

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

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

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



THEY SPEAK O' WILES.

AIR—"Gin a bodie meet a bodie."

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

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

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



THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.[30]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE LASS O' KINTORE.

AIR—"Oh, as I was kiss'd yestreen."

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

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



MY HAMELESS HA'.

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

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

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

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



WILLIAM GLEN.[31]

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

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

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

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



WAES ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE.[33]

TUNE—"Johnnie Faa."

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

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

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

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

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

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



MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.[34]

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE BATTLE-SONG.[35]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE MAID OF ORONSEY.[37]

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

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

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

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

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

[37] Printed for the first time.



JESS M'LEAN.[38]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[38] Printed for the first time.



HOW EERILY, HOW DREARILY.

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

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

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

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



THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.[39]

AIR—"Whistle o'er the lave o 't."

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

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

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

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

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

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



BLINK OVER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY.

AIR—"Blink over the burn, sweet Betty."

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

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

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

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



FAREWEEL TO ABERFOYLE.

AIR—"Highland Plaid."

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

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

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

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



DAVID VEDDER.

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

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

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

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



JEANIE'S WELCOME HAME.

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

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

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

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



I NEITHER GOT PROMISE OF SILLER.

AIR—"Todlin' hame."

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

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

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

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



THERE IS A PANG FOR EVERY HEART.

AIR—"Gramachree."

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

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

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



THE FIRST OF MAY.

AIR—"The Braes of Balquhidder."

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

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

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

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



SONG OF THE SCOTTISH EXILE.

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

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

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

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



THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.

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

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

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

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



THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



JOHN M'DIARMID.

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

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

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



NITHSIDE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



EVENING.

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

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

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



PETER BUCHAN.

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

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

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

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



THOU GLOOMY FEBERWAR.[41]

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

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

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

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

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



WILLIAM FINLAY.

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

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



THE BREAKING HEART.

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

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



THE AULD EMIGRANT'S FAREWEEL TO SCOTLAND.

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

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

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

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

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



O'ER MOUNTAIN AND VALLEY.

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

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

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

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



JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND.[43]

TUNE—"Oh, the roast beef of Old England."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CAPTAIN PATON'S LAMENT.[44]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.[45]

From the Gaelic.

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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



THOMAS MATHERS.

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



EARLY LOVE.

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

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

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

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



JAMES BROWN.

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



MY PEGGY 'S FAR AWAY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



LOVE BROUGHT ME A BOUGH.

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

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

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

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



HOW 'S A' WI' YE.

AIR—"Jenny's Bawbee."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



OH! SAIR I FEEL THE WITCHING POWER.

TUNE—"Miller of Dron," improved set.

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

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

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



DANIEL WEIR.

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

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

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



SEE THE MOON.

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

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



LOVE IS TIMID.

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

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

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



RAVEN'S STREAM.

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

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



OH! OUR CHILDHOOD'S ONCE DELIGHTFUL HOURS.

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

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

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

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



COULD WE BUT LOOK BEYOND OUR SPHERE.

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

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

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

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