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

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

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



IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

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

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

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

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



ON THE DEATH OF A PROMISING CHILD.

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE DYING HOUR.

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

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

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



THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

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

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

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

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

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And sat beside the dead, And felt those movings of the mind Which own a secret dread. The ticking clock, which told the hour, Had then a sadder chime; And these winds seem'd an unseen pow'r, Which sung the dirge of time.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, When, o'er the new-made grave Of one whose heart was true and kind, Its rudest blasts did rave. Oh! there was something in the sound— A mournful, melting tone— Which led the thoughts to that dark ground Where he was left alone.

I 've listen'd to the midnight wind, And courted sleep in vain, While thoughts like these have oft combined To rack the wearied brain. And even when slumber, soft and deep, Has seen the eyelid close, The restless soul, which cannot sleep, Has stray'd till morning rose.



ROBERT DAVIDSON.

Robert Davidson was born in the parish of Morebattle, Roxburghshire, in 1779. The son of humble parents, he was sent to tend cattle in his tenth year. He had received at the parish school a limited education; and he devoted his leisure time on the hills to miscellaneous reading. Learning scraps of old ballads from the cottage matrons, as they sung them at their distaffs, he early began to essay imitations of these olden ditties. As a farm-servant and an agricultural labourer, he continued through life to seek repose from toil in the perusal of poetry and the composition of verses. "My simple muse," he afterwards wrote, "oft visited me at the plough, and made the labour to seem lighter and the day shorter." In 1811, and in 1824, he published small collections of verses. At the recommendation of some influential friends, he published, in 1848, a compact little volume of his best pieces, under the title, "Leaves from a Peasant's Cottage-Drawer;" and to which was prefixed a well-written autobiographical sketch. He was often oppressed by poverty; and, latterly, was the recipient of parochial relief. He died in the parish of Hounam, on the 6th April 1855; and his remains rest in the church-yard of his native parish. Many of his poems are powerful, both in expression and sentiment; and several of his songs are worthy of a place in the national minstrelsy. In private life he was sober, prudent, and industrious.



FAREWELL TO CALEDONIA.

Adieu! a lang and last adieu, My native Caledonia! For while your shores were in my view, I steadfast gazed upon ye, O! Your shores sae lofty, steep, an' bold, Fit emblem of your sons of old, Whose valour, more than mines of gold, Has honour'd Caledonia.

I think how happy I could be, To live and die upon ye, O! Though distant many miles from thee, My heart still hovers o'er ye, O! My fancy haunts your mountains steep, Your forests fair, an' valleys deep, Your plains, where rapid rivers sweep To gladden Caledonia.

Still mem'ry turns to where I spent Life's cheerfu' morn sae bonnie, O! Though by misfortune from it rent, It 's dearer still than ony, O! In vain I 'm told our vessel hies To fertile fields an' kindly skies; But still they want the charm that ties My heart to Caledonia.

My breast had early learn'd to glow At name of Caledonia; Though torn an' toss'd wi' many a foe, She never bow'd to ony, O! A land of heroes, famed an' brave— A land our fathers bled to save, Whom foreign foes could ne'er enslave— Adieu to Caledonia!



ON VISITING THE SCENES OF EARLY DAYS.

Ye daisied glens and briery braes, Haunts of my happy early days, Where oft I 've pu'd the blossom'd slaes And flow'rets fair, Before my heart was scathed wi' waes Or worldly care.

Now recollection's airy train Shoots through my heart with pleasing pain, And streamlet, mountain, rock, or plain, Like friends appear, That, lang, lang lost, now found again, Are doubly dear.

But many a dauted object 's fled; Low lies my once paternal shed; Rank hemlocks wild, and weeds, o'erspread The ruin'd heap; Unstirr'd by cheerful tongue or tread, The echoes sleep.

Yon bonnie burn, whose limpid streams, When warm'd with summer's glowing beams, Have often laved my tender limbs, When my employ Was chasing childhood's airy whims From joy to joy.

Upon yon green, at gloamin' gray, I 've often join'd in cheerful play, Wi' comrades guileless, blithe, and gay, Whose magic art, Remember'd at this distant day, Still warms the heart.

Ah, cronies dear! for ever lost! Abroad on life's rough ocean toss'd, By adverse winds and currents cross'd, By watching worn, Some landed on that silent coast, Ne'er to return!

Howe'er the path of life may lie, If poorly low, or proudly high, When scenes of childhood meet our eye, Their charms we own, And yield the tribute of a sigh To days long gone.



TO WANDER LANG IN FOREIGN LANDS.

AIR—"Auld Langsyne."

To wander lang in foreign lands, It was my destinie; I joyful was at my return, My native hills to see. My step grew light, my heart grew fain, I thought my cares to tine, Until I fand ilk weel-kenn'd spot Sae alter'd sin' langsyne.

I sigh'd to see the flow'ry green Skaith'd by the ruthless pleugh; Likewise the bank aboon the burn, Where broom and hawthorns grew. A lonely tree, whose aged trunk The ivy did entwine, Still mark'd the spot where youngsters met, In cheerful sports langsyne.

I mixed with the village train, Yet still I seem'd alane; Nae kindly hand did welcome me, For a' my friends were gane. Those friends who oft in foreign lands Did haunt this heart o' mine, And brought to mind the happy days I spent wi' them langsyne.

In youthfu' prime, at fortune's ca', I braved the billows' roar; I 've now seen thirty simmer suns Blink on a distant shore; And I have stood where honour call'd, In the embattled line, And there left many gallant lads, The cronies o' langsyne.

I 've gather'd walth o' weel-won gear, Yet still I fortune blame; I lang wi' strangers pass'd my days, And now I 'm ane at hame. I have nae friend but what my gowd Can draw to mammon's shrine; But how unlike the guileless hearts That wish'd me weel langsyne!



PETER ROGER.

Peter Roger, blacksmith, formerly at Glenormiston, and latterly at Peebles, though more the enthusiastic lover of, than a contributor to, the national minstrelsy, is entitled to remembrance. His numerous communications addressed to the editor of this work, have supplied much information, which has been found useful in the preparation of these volumes. Roger was born at Clovenford, in the parish of Stow, in 1792. For thirty-seven years he wrought as blacksmith at Glenormiston, on the banks of the Tweed, near Innerleithen. In 1852, he removed to Peebles, where he had purchased a small cottage and garden. He died suddenly, at Peebles, on the 3d April 1856, in his 64th year. The following sketch of his character has been supplied, at our request, by his intimate acquaintance, the Rev. James Murray, minister of Old Cumnock:—

"Roger was in many respects a very remarkable man.... He possessed, in an eminent degree, an exquisite natural sympathy with all things beautiful and good. He was an excellent botanist, well-skilled in music, and passionately fond of poetry. His conversation was very interesting; and his slight tendency to dogmatise in the presence of a stranger, entirely disappeared in the society of his friends. He might almost be said to revere any one possessed of intellectual gifts and accomplishments, whether natural or acquired; and as he lived many years in a cottage situated on the way-side between Peebles and Innerleithen, he was frequently visited by those who passed by. Occasionally the Ettrick Shepherd would stop his gig to have a few minutes' crack with his 'friend Peter,' as he called him. At another time it would be his minister, the Rev. Mr Leckie, or some other worthy pastor, or some surgeon of the district upon his widely-extended rounds—Dr Craig, for example; or Mr Thomas Smibert; or Mr Adam Dickson, a young genius nipt in the bud—whose appearance would be the welcome signal for the 'tinkling' of Peter's hammer to know a brief respite. And I could mention others of his acquaintance, almost self-taught like himself, whose intelligence might enable them 'to stand before kings.'

"My own intimacy with Peter extends back to the time of my boyhood; and I can honestly say, that an evening spent under his roof, in company with him and his pious and amiable sister Peggy, who survives him, was among the greatest treats I ever experienced. There, at his door, in paper cap and leather apron, his shirt sleeves turned up, and his bare, brawny arms crossed upon his chest, and 'his brow wet with honest sweat,' would the hard-headed and warm-hearted blacksmith await the coming of him whom he expected. And, first, whilst his sister was attending to the preparation of some creature-comforts—for he was a man of some substance, and hospitable withal—you would be conducted into his little garden, sloping down to the very brink of the Tweed, and embosomed amid natural hazel wood, the lingering remains of a once goodly forest, to see some favourite flower, or to hear him trill, with a skill and execution which would have done little dishonour to Picus himself, some simple native melody upon his Scotch flute. The in-door entertainment consisted of varied conversation, embracing the subjects of literature, politics, and theology, largely interspersed with the reading of MS. poems by his numerous poetical friends. But the best part of the treat came last. Gradually you would notice a serious shade, not gloomy but chastened, steal over his massive features. His conversation would glide most naturally, and without any intentional effort that was apparent, into a serious strain; and then Peggy would bring down the family Bible, and, after having selected a suitable psalm, he would sing it to some plaintive air—and he could sing well; and the prayer which closed the usual exercises was such a manly, pathetic, and godly outpouring of a spirit chastened with the simplest and purest piety, as made the heart glad.

"Peter did nothing by halves, but everything with the energy of a man working at a forge. He embraced the temperance movement as soon as he heard of it, and continued to the end of his days a most rigid total abstainer from the use of all ardent spirits. Altogether, he was one of those self-taught, large-hearted, pious, and intellectual men of whom Scotland may well be proud."



LOVELY JEAN.

AIR—"Miss Forbes' Farewell."

'Mang a' the lassies young an' braw, An' fair as summer's rosy beam, There 's ane the bonniest o' them a', That dwells by Manor's mountain stream. Oft hae I gazed on her sweet face, An' ilka time new beauties seen; For aye some new discover'd grace Endears to me my lovely Jean.

An' oh! to list her ev'ning sang, When a' alane she gently strays The yellow waving broom amang, That blooms on Manor's flow'ry braes— Her voice sae saft, sae sweet and clear, Afar in yonder bower sae green, The mavis quits her lay to hear A bonnier sang frae lovely Jean.

But it 's no her peerless face nor form, It 's no her voice sae sweet and clear, That keeps my love to her sae warm, An' maks her every day mair dear; It 's just the beauties o' her mind, Her easy, winning, modest mien, Her truth and constancy, which bind My heart and soul to lovely Jean.



JOHN MALCOLM.

John Malcolm was the second son of the Rev. John Malcolm, minister of the parish of Firth and Stennis, Orkney, where he was born about 1795. Through a personal application to the Duke of Kent, he was enabled to proceed as a volunteer to join the army in Spain. Arriving at the period when the army under General Graham (afterwards Lord Lynedoch) was besieging St Sebastian, he speedily obtained a lieutenancy in the 42d Regiment, in which he served to the close of the Pyrenees' campaign. Wounded at the battle of Toulouse, by a musket-ball penetrating his right shoulder, and otherwise debilitated, he retired from active service on half-pay, and with a pension for his wound. He now fixed his abode in Edinburgh, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. He contributed to Constable's Magazine, and other periodicals. For one of the earlier volumes of "Constable's Miscellany," he wrote a narrative of the Peninsular War. As a poet, he became known by some stanzas on the death of Lord Byron, which appeared in the Edinburgh Weekly Journal. In 1828, he published "Scenes of War, and other Poems;" and subsequently contributed numerous poetical pieces to the pages of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. A small volume of prose sketches also appeared from his pen, under the title of "Tales of Field and Flood." In 1831 he undertook the editorship of the Edinburgh Observer newspaper, which he held till the period of his death. He died at Edinburgh, of a pulmonary complaint, in September 1835.

Fond of conversation, and abounding in humorous anecdote, Malcolm was especially esteemed for his gentle and amiable deportment. His poetry, which is often vigorous, is uniformly characterised by sweetness of versification.



THE MUSIC OF THE NIGHT.

The music of the night, Upon its lonely flight Into the west, where sink its ebbing sands; That muffled music seems Like voices heard in dreams, Sigh'd back from long-lost years and distant lands.

Amid the stillness round, As 'twere the shade of sound, Floats on the low sweet strain of lulling tones; Such as from trembling wire Of sweet AEolian lyre, With winds awake in murmurs and in moans.

Oh! melting on the ear, What solemn chords are there! The torrent's thunder sunk into a sigh; And thine, majestic main! Great Nature's organ strain, Deep pealing through the temple of the sky.

And songs unsung by day— The nightingale's lone lay. From lady's bower, the lover's serenade; And dirge of hermit-bird From haunts of ruin heard, The only voice that wails above the dead.

To them that sail the deep, When winds have sunk to sleep, The dreamy murmurs of the night steal on; Say, does their mystic hum, So vague and varied, come From distant shores unseen, and lands unknown?

In them might fancy's ear Earth's dying echoes hear, Our home's sweet voices swooning on the floods; Or songs of festal halls, Or sound of waterfalls, Or Indian's dismal war-whoop through the woods.

Joy breathes in morning song, And happy things among Her choral bowers wake matins of delight; But dearer unto me The dirge-like harmony Of vesper voices, and of wailing night.



THE SEA.

The sea—the deep, deep sea— That awful mystery! Was there a time of old ere it was born, Or e'er the dawn of light, Coeval with the night— Say, slept it on, for ever and forlorn?

Till the Great Spirit's word Its sullen waters heard, And their wild voices, through the void profound, Gave deep responsive roar; But silent never more Shall be their solemn, drear, and dirge-like sound!

Earth's echoes faint and die; Sunk down into a sigh, Scamander's voice scarce whispers on its way; And desert silence reigns Upon the mighty plains Where battles' thunders peal'd—and where are they?

But still from age to age Upon its pilgrimage, When many a glorious strain the world hath flown; And while her echoes sleep In darkness, the great deep, Unwearied and unchanged, goes sounding on.



ERSKINE CONOLLY.

Erskine Conolly was born at Crail, Fifeshire, on the 12th of June 1796. At the burgh school of his native town, he received an ordinary elementary education, and was afterwards apprenticed to Mr Cockburn, bookseller in Anstruther. He subsequently commenced business as a bookseller in the small town of Colinsburgh; but after a trial of several years, not having succeeded according to his expectations, he removed to Edinburgh, where he was employed as a clerk by Mr Thomas Megget, writer to the signet. At a future period, he entered into partnership with Mr James Gillon, writer and messenger in Edinburgh; and after his partner's death, carried on the business on his own account. He died at Edinburgh on the 7th January 1843. Of highly sociable dispositions, and with talents of a superior order, Conolly was much beloved among a wide circle of friends. Unambitious of fame as a poet, though he frequently wrote verses, he never ventured on a publication. His popular song of "Mary Macneil," appeared in the Edinburgh Intelligencer of the 23d December 1840; it is much to be remarked for deep feeling and genuine tenderness.



MARY MACNEIL.

AIR—"Kinloch of Kinloch."

The last gleam o' sunset in ocean was sinkin', Owre mountain an' meadowland glintin' fareweel; An' thousands o' stars in the heavens were blinkin', As bright as the een o' sweet Mary Macneil. A' glowin' wi' gladness she lean'd on her lover, Her een-tellin' secrets she thought to conceal; And fondly they wander'd whar nane might discover The tryst o' young Ronald an' Mary Macneil.

Oh! Mary was modest, an' pure as the lily, That dew-draps o' mornin' in fragrance reveal; Nae fresh bloomin' flow'ret in hill or in valley Could rival the beauty of Mary Macneil. She moved, and the graces play'd sportive around her; She smiled, and the hearts o' the cauldest wad thrill; She sang, and the mavis cam listenin' in wonder, To claim a sweet sister in Mary Macneil.

But ae bitter blast on its fair promise blawin', Frae spring a' its beauty an' blossoms will steal; An' ae sudden blight on the gentle heart fa'in', Inflicts the deep wound nothing earthly can heal. The simmer saw Ronald on glory's path hiein'; The autumn, his corse on the red battle fiel'; The winter, the maiden found heartbroken, dyin'; An' spring spread the green turf owre Mary Macneil!



THERE 'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.

There 's a thrill of emotion, half-painful, half-sweet, When the object of untold affection we meet, But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief, As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.

There 's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread, When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread; But she smiles, and away the disturber is borne, Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.

There 's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above, When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love, Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings, The longest, the last of terrestrial things.



GEORGE MENZIES.

George Menzies was born in the parish of Arbuthnot, Kincardineshire, on the 21st January 1797. His father was an agricultural labourer. On completing his education at a country school, he became, in his fourteenth year, apprentice to a gardener. He prosecuted his vocation in different districts; acted some time as clerk to the contractors of the Forth and Clyde Canal; laboured as a weaver in several towns in the counties of Forfar and Kincardine; and conducted unendowed schools in various localities. In 1833, he emigrated to Canada, where he taught in different seminaries, and afterwards formed a connexion with a succession of public journals. He ultimately became proprietor and editor of the Woodstock Herald newspaper. After a short illness, he died at Woodstock, Canada West, on the 4th March 1847, in his fifty-first year.

Menzies was possessed of good talents and indomitable energy. He wrote respectable verses, though not marked by any decided originality. In 1822, he published, at Forfar, a small volume of poems, entitled, "Poetical Trifles," of which a second and enlarged edition appeared five years afterwards. The whole of his poems, with an account of his life, in a duodecimo volume, were published at Montrose in 1854.



THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.

As clear is Luther's wave, I ween, As gay the grove, the vale as green; But, oh! the days that we have seen Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!

Oh! we have often fondly stray'd In Fordoun's green embow'ring glade, And mark'd the moonbeam as it play'd On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary!

Since then, full many a year and day With me have slowly pass'd away, Far from the braes of Auchinblae, And far from love and thee, Mary!

And we must part again, my dear, It is not mine to linger here; Yes, we must part—and, oh! I fear, We meet not here again, Mary!

For on Culloden's bloody field, Our hapless Prince's fate is seal'd— Last night to me it was reveal'd Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!

And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine Upon the heights of Galloquhine, A thousand victims at the shrine Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!

Hark! hark! they come—the foemen come— I go; but wheresoe'er I roam, With thee my heart remains at home— Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!



FARE THEE WEEL.

Fare thee weel, my bonnie lassie; Fare thee weel for ever, Jessie! Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.

By yon starry heavens I vow it! By my love!—(I mayna rue it)— By this hour in which we sever! I will love but thee for ever.

Should the hand of death arrest me, Think my latest prayer hath blest thee; As the parting pang draws nearer, I will love thee aye the dearer.

Still my bosom's love I 'll cherish— 'Tis a spark that winna perish; Though I ne'er again may meet thee, Tell na me that I 'll forget thee.



JOHN SIM.

John Sim was born in Paisley, on the 6th of April 1797. His father, James Sim, was engineer in the factory of James Carlile and Sons, and was highly valued by his employers. In the Grammar-school, John made rapid progress in classical learning; and in 1814 entered the University of Glasgow, with a view to the medical profession. He obtained his diploma as surgeon on the 6th of April 1818. He commenced the practice of medicine in the village of Auchinleck, Ayrshire; but removed in a few months to his native town. His professional success was not commensurate with his expectations; and in the hope of bettering his circumstances, he proceeded to the West Indies. He sailed from Greenock on the 19th January 1819, for Trinidad; but had only been resident in that island about eight months when he was seized with a fatal illness. The precise date of his death is unknown.

Sim was a young man of high promise. Early wedded to the muse, he was selected as the original editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire." He published a small volume of poems and songs. His songs are somewhat imitative, but are remarkable for sweetness of expression, and are pervaded by genial sentiment.



NAE MAIR WE 'LL MEET.

AIR—"We 'll meet beside the dusky glen."

Nae mair we 'll meet again, my love, by yon burn side— Nae mair we 'll wander through the grove, by yon burn side— Ne'er again the mavis lay will we hail at close o' day, Nor ne'er again we 'll stray down by yon burn side.

Yet mem'ry oft will fondly brood on yon burn side, O'er haunts which we sae saft hae trod, by yon burn side; Still the walk wi' me thou 'lt share, though thy foot can never mair Bend to earth the gowan fair, down by yon burn side.

Now far removed from every care, 'boon yon burn side, Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side; And if angels pity know, sure the tear for me will flow, Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.



BONNIE PEGGY.[46]

AIR—"Bonnie lassie, O."

Oh, we aft hae met at e'en, bonnie Peggy, O! On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O! Where the waters smoothly rin, Far aneath the roarin' linn, Far frae busy strife and din, bonnie Peggy, O! When the lately crimson west, bonnie Peggy, O! In her darker robe was dress'd, bonnie Peggy, O! And a sky of azure blue, Deck'd with stars of golden hue, Rose majestic to the view, bonnie Peggy, O! When the sound of flute or horn, bonnie Peggy, O! On the gale of ev'ning borne, bonnie Peggy, O! We have heard in echoes die, While the wave that rippled by, Sung a soft and sweet reply, bonnie Peggy, O!

Then how happy would we rove, bonnie Peggy, O! Whilst thou, blushing, own'd thy love, bonnie Peggy, O! Whilst thy quickly throbbing breast To my beating heart I press'd, Ne'er was mortal half so blest, bonnie Peggy, O! Now, alas! these scenes are o'er, bonnie Peggy, O! Now, alas! we meet no more, bonnie Peggy, O! Oh! never again, I ween, Will we meet at summer e'en On the banks of Cart sae green, bonnie Peggy, O! Yet had'st thou been true to me, bonnie Peggy, O! As I still hae been to thee, bonnie Peggy, O! Then with bosom, oh, how light, Had I hail'd the coming night, And yon evening star so bright, bonnie Peggy, O!

[46] This song is much in the strain of the popular song of "Kelvin Grove," which, it may here be remarked, has often been erroneously ascribed to Sim. It was contributed to the "Harp of Renfrewshire," then under his editorial care, by his townsman, class-fellow, and professional brother, Mr Thomas Lyle, surgeon, Glasgow, and was published in that work (p. 144) by Mr John Murdoch, the successor of Sim in the editorship, with a number of alterations by that gentleman. Of these alterations Mr Lyle complained to Mr Sim, and received a letter from him attributing them to Mr Murdoch. On the completion of the work, Sim was mentioned in the index as the author of the song—by the poet Motherwell, the third and last editor, who, not unnaturally, assigned to the original editor those songs which appeared anonymously in the earlier portion of the volume. The song being afterwards published with music by Mr Purdie, musicseller in Edinburgh, Mr Lyle was induced to adopt measures for establishing his title to the authorship. In the absence of the original MS., the claim was sufficiently made out by the production of Mr Sim's letter on the subject of the alterations. (See Memoir of Mr Lyle, postea.)



NOW, MARY, NOW THE STRUGGLE 'S O'ER.[47]

Gaelic Air.

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er— The war of pride and love; And, Mary, now we meet no more, Unless we meet above.

Too well thou know'st how much I loved! Thou knew'st my hopes how fair! But all these hopes are blighted now, They point but to despair.

Thus doom'd to ceaseless, hopeless love, I haste to India's shore; For here how can I longer stay, And call thee mine no more?

Now, Mary, now the struggle 's o'er; And though I still must love, Yet, Mary, here we meet no more, Oh, may we meet above!

[47] This song was addressed to a young lady to whom the author was attached, and who had agreed to marry him on an improvement in his worldly circumstances. A desire speedily to gain her hand is said to have been the cause of his proceeding to the West Indies. The prediction in the song was sadly realised.



WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

William Motherwell was born in High Street, Glasgow, on the 13th October 1797. For thirteen generations, his paternal ancestors were owners of the small property of Muirsmill, on the banks of the Carron, Stirlingshire. His father, who bore the same Christian name, carried on the business of an ironmonger in Glasgow. His mother, whose maiden name was Elizabeth Barnet, was the daughter of a prosperous farmer in the parish of Auchterarder, Perthshire, from whom she inherited a considerable fortune. Of a family of six, William was the third son. His parents removed to Edinburgh early in the century; and in April 1805, he became a pupil of Mr William Lennie, a successful private teacher in Crichton Street. In October 1808, he entered the High-school of Edinburgh; but was soon after placed at the Grammar-school of Paisley, being entrusted to the care of an uncle in that place. In his fifteenth year, he became clerk in the office of the Sheriff-clerk of Paisley, and in this situation afforded evidence of talent by the facility with which he deciphered the more ancient documents. With the view of obtaining a more extended acquaintance with classical literature, he attended the Latin and Greek classes in the University of Glasgow, during the session of 1818-19, and had the good fortune soon thereafter to receive the appointment of Sheriff-clerk-depute of the county of Renfrew.

From his boyhood fond of literature, Motherwell devoted his spare hours to reading and composition. He evinced poetical talent so early as his fourteenth year, when he produced the first draught of his beautiful ballad of "Jeanie Morrison." Many of his earlier sketches, both in prose and verse, were inconsiderately distributed among his friends. In 1818, he made some contributions in verse to the "Visitor," a small work published at Greenock; and in the following year became the third and last editor of the "Harp of Renfrewshire," an esteemed collection of songs, to which he supplied an interesting introductory essay and many valuable notes. Pursuing his researches on the subject of Scottish song and ballad, he appeared in 1827 as the editor of an interesting quarto volume, entitled "Minstrelsy, Ancient and Modern,"—a work which considerably extended his reputation, and secured him the friendly correspondence of Sir Walter Scott. In 1828, he originated the Paisley Magazine, which was conducted by him during its continuance of one year; it contains several of his best poetical compositions, and a copy is now extremely rare. During the same year, he was appointed editor of the Paisley Advertiser, a Conservative newspaper; and this office he exchanged, in January 1830, for the editorship of the Glasgow Courier, a more influential journal in the same political interests.

On his removal to Glasgow, Motherwell rapidly extended the circle of his literary friends, and began to exercise no unimportant influence as a public journalist. To The Day, a periodical published in the city in 1832, he contributed many poetical pieces with some prose sketches; and about the same time furnished a preface of some length to a volume of Scottish Proverbs, edited by his ingenious friend, Andrew Henderson. Towards the close of 1832, he collected his best poetical compositions into a small volume, with the title of "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical." In 1835, he became the coadjutor of the Ettrick Shepherd in annotating an edition of Burns' Works, published by Messrs Fullarton of Glasgow; but his death took place before the completion of this undertaking. He died of apoplexy, after a few hours' illness, on the 1st of November 1835, at the early age of thirty-eight. His remains were interred in the Necropolis, where an elegant monument, with a bust by Fillans, has been erected to his memory.

Motherwell was of short stature, but was well-formed. His head was large and forehead ample, but his features were somewhat coarse; his cheek-bones were prominent, and his eyes small, sunk in his head, and surmounted by thick eye-lashes. In society he was reserved and often taciturn, but was free and communicative among his personal friends. He was not a little superstitious, and a firm believer in the reality of spectral illusions. Desultory in some of his literary occupations, he was laborious in pruning and perfecting his poetical compositions. His claims as a poet are not inconsiderable; "Jeanie Morrison" is unsurpassed in graceful simplicity and feeling, and though he had not written another line, it had afforded him a title to rank among the greater minstrels of his country. Eminent pathos and earnestness are his characteristics as a song-writer. The translations of Scandinavian ballads which he has produced are perhaps the most vigorous and successful efforts of the kind which have appeared in the language. An excellent edition of his poetical works, with a memoir by Dr M'Conechy, was published after his death by Mr David Robertson of Glasgow.



JEANIE MORRISON.[48]

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way, But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows owre my path, And blind my een wi' tears; They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears; And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'Twas then we twa did part; Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remember'd evermair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun owre ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson—but My lesson was in thee.

Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said We cleek'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays (The schule then skailt at noon) When we ran aff to speel the braes— The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thoughts rush back O' schule-time and o' thee. Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luve! Oh, lichtsome days and lang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms sprang!

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin', dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its waters croon? The simmer leaves hung owre our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin o' the wood, The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled—unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I hae been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts, As ye hae been to me! Oh, tell me gin their music fills Thine heart, as it does mine; Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I 've wander'd east, I 've wander'd west, I 've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way; And channels deeper as it rins, The luve o' life's young day.

Oh, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd O' bygane days and me!

[48] The heroine of this song, Miss Jane Morrison, now Mrs Murdoch, still survives. Her father, Mr Ebenezer Morrison, was a respectable brewer and corn-merchant in Alloa. In the autumn of 1807, when in her seventh year, she became a pupil of Mr Lennie, and for several months occupied the same class-room with young Motherwell. Of the flame which she had excited in the susceptible heart of her boy-lover, she was totally unconscious. Mr Lennie, however, in a statement published by the editor of Motherwell's poems, refers to the strong impression which she made on the young poet; he describes her as "a pretty girl, and of good capacity." "Her hair," he adds, "was of a lightish brown, approaching to fair; her eyes were dark, and had a sweet and gentle expression; her temper was mild, and her manners unassuming." In 1823, Miss Morrison became the wife of Mr John Murdoch, commission-agent in Glasgow, who died in 1829. She has since resided in different places, but has now (Whitsunday 1856) fixed her abode in the vicinity of Stirling. She never met the poet in after-life, and has only an imperfect recollection of his appearance as a boy. The ballad of "Jeanie Morrison" had been published for several years before she became aware that she was the heroine. It remains to be added, somewhat in justification of the poet's juvenile passion, that Mrs Murdoch is a person of the most gentle and amiable manners, and retains, in a very remarkable degree, that personal beauty for which she was celebrated in youth.



WEARIE'S WELL.

In a saft simmer gloamin', In yon dowie dell, It was there we twa first met, By Wearie's cauld well. We sat on the broom bank, And look'd in the burn, But sidelang we look'd on Ilk ither in turn.

The corncraik was chirming His sad eerie cry, And the wee stars were dreaming Their path through the sky; The burn babbled freely Its love to ilk flower, But we heard and we saw nought In that blessed hour.

We heard and we saw nought, Above or around; We felt that our luve lived, And loathed idle sound. I gazed on your sweet face Till tears fill'd my e'e, And they drapt on your wee loof— A warld's wealth to me.

Now the winter snaw 's fa'ing On bare holm and lea, And the cauld wind is strippin' Ilk leaf aff the tree. But the snaw fa's not faster, Nor leaf disna part Sae sune frae the bough, as Faith fades in your heart.

You 've waled out anither Your bridegroom to be; But can his heart luve sae As mine luvit thee? Ye 'll get biggings and mailins, And mony braw claes; But they a' winna buy back The peace o' past days.

Fareweel, and for ever, My first luve and last; May thy joys be to come— Mine live in the past. In sorrow and sadness This hour fa's on me; But light, as thy luve, may It fleet over thee!



WAE BE TO THE ORDERS.

Oh! wae be to the orders that march'd my luve awa', And wae be to the cruel cause that gars my tears down fa', Oh! wae be to the bluidy wars in Hie Germanie, For they hae ta'en my luve, and left a broken heart to me.

The drums beat in the mornin', afore the screich o' day, And the wee, wee fifes play'd loud and shrill, while yet the morn was gray; The bonnie flags were a' unfurl'd, a gallant sight to see, But waes me for my sodger lad that march'd to Germanie.

Oh! lang, lang is the travel to the bonnie Pier o' Leith, Oh! dreich it is to gang on foot wi' the snaw drift in the teeth! And oh, the cauld wind froze the tear that gather'd in my e'e, When I gaed there to see my luve embark for Germanie.

I look'd owre the braid blue sea, sae lang as could be seen A wee bit sail upon the ship that my sodger lad was in; But the wind was blawin' sair an' snell, and the ship sail'd speedilie, And the waves and cruel wars hae twinn'd my winsome luve frae me.

I never think o' dancin', and I downa try to sing, But a' the day I speir what news kind neibour bodies bring; I sometimes knit a stocking, if knittin' it may be, Syne for every loop that I cast on, I 'm sure to let doun three.

My father says I 'm in a pet, my mither jeers at me, And bans me for a dautit wean, in dorts for aye to be; But little weet they o' the cause that drumles sae my e'e, Oh! they hae nae winsome love like mine, in the wars o' Germanie.



THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by: It speaks a tale of other years— Of hopes that bloom'd to die— Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan; It stirs some chord of memory, In each dull heavy tone: The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon— All, all my fond heart cherished, Ere death hath made it lone.

Mournfully, oh, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell, With its quaint pensive minstrelsy, Hope's passionate farewell. To the dreamy joys of early years, Ere yet grief's canker fell On the heart's bloom—ay, well may tears Start at that parting knell!



HE IS GONE! HE IS GONE!

He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, Or the down that is blown By the wind o'er the lea. He is fled—the light-hearted! Yet a tear must have started To his eye when he parted From love-stricken me!

He is fled! he is fled! Like a gallant so free— Plumed cap on his head, And sharp sword by his knee; While his gay feathers flutter'd, Surely something he mutter'd— He at least must have utter'd A farewell to me!

He 's away! he 's away! To far lands o'er the sea, And long is the day Ere home he can be; But where'er his steed prances Amid thronging lances, Sure he 'll think of the glances That love stole from me!

He is gone! he is gone! Like the leaf from the tree, But his heart is of stone If it ne'er dream of me; For I dream of him ever— His buff-coat and beaver, And long sword, oh! never Are absent from me!



DAVID MACBETH MOIR.

David Macbeth Moir was born at Musselburgh on the 5th January 1798. His elementary education was conducted at a private seminary and the Grammar-school of that town. He subsequently attended the medical classes in the University of Edinburgh, and in his eighteenth year obtained a surgeon's diploma. In partnership with Dr Brown, a respectable physician of long standing, he entered on medical practice in his native place. He wrote good poetry in his fifteenth year, and about the same age contributed some prose essays to the Cheap Magazine, a small periodical published in Haddington. In 1816 he published a poem entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers." For a succession of years after its commencement in 1817, he wrote numerous articles for Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. Soon after the establishment of Blackwood's Magazine, he became one of its more conspicuous contributors; and his poetical contributions, which were generally subscribed by his literary nom de guerre, the Greek letter Delta ([Greek: Delta]), long continued a source of much interest to the readers of that periodical. In 1824 he published a collection of his poetical pieces, under the title of "Legend of Genevieve, with other Tales and Poems." "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," originally supplied in a series of chapters to Blackwood, and afterwards published in a separate form, much increased his reputation as an author. In 1831 appeared his "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine;" a work which was followed, in 1832, by a pamphlet entitled, "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera;" and a further publication, with the title, "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera." A third volume of poems from his pen, entitled "Domestic Verses," was published in 1843. In the early part of 1851 he delivered, at the Philosophical Institution of Edinburgh, a course of six lectures on the "Poetical Literature of the Past Half-century," which, afterwards published in an elegant volume by the Messrs Blackwood, commanded a large share of public attention. In a state of somewhat impaired health, he proceeded to Dumfries on the 1st day of July 1851, hoping to derive benefit from a change of scene and climate. But his end was approaching; he died at Dumfries on the 6th of the same month, having reached only his 53d year. His remains were interred, at a public funeral, in the burying-ground of Musselburgh, where a monument has been erected to his memory. Indefatigable in the discharge of his professional duties, Moir regularly devoted a portion of his time to the gratification of his literary tastes. A pleasant prose writer, he will be remembered for his inimitable drollery in the adventures of "Mansie Wauch." As a poet, his style is perspicuous and simple; and his characteristics are tenderness, dignity, and grace. He is occasionally humorous, but he excels in the plaintive and elegiac. Much of his poetry breathes the odour of a genuine piety. He was personally of an agreeable presence. Tall in stature, his countenance, which was of sanguine hue, wore a serious aspect, unless kindled up by the recital of some humorous tale. His mode of utterance was singularly pleasing, and his dispositions were pervaded by a generous benignity. He loved society, but experienced his chief happiness in the social intercourse of his own family circle. He had married in 1829; and his amiable widow, with eight children, still survive. A collected edition of his best poems, in two duodecimo volumes, has been published since his death, by the Messrs Blackwood, under the editorial superintendence of Thomas Aird, who has prefixed an interesting memoir.



CASA WAPPY.[49]

And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy— The realms where sorrow dare not come, Where life is joy? Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth, Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy!

Despair was in our last farewell, As closed thine eye; Tears of our anguish may not tell When thou didst die; Words may not paint our grief for thee, Sighs are but bubbles on the sea Of our unfathom'd agony, Casa Wappy!

Thou wert a vision of delight To bless us given; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven. So dear to us thou wert, thou art Even less thine own self than a part Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy!

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline— 'Twas cloudless joy; Sunrise and night alone were thine, Beloved boy! This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; That found thee prostrate in decay; And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Earth's undefiled, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Our dear, sweet child! Humbly we bow to fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy!

Do what I may, go where I will, Thou meet'st my sight; There dost thou glide before me still, A form of light. I feel thy breath upon my cheek, I see thee smile, I hear thee speak, Till, oh! my heart is like to break, Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

The nursery shews thy pictured wall, Thy bat, thy bow, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; But where art thou? A corner holds thine empty chair; Thy playthings, idly scatter'd there, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

We mourn for thee when blind, blank night The chamber fills; We pine for thee when morn's first light Reddens the hills; The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea— All—to the wallflower and wild pea— Are changed—we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy!

* * * * *

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, In life's spring-bloom, Down to the appointed house below— The silent tomb. But now the green leaves of the tree, The cuckoo, and "the busy bee," Return, but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy!

'Tis so! but can it be—(while flowers Revive again)— Man's doom in death—that we and ours For aye remain? Oh! can it be that o'er the grave The grass, renew'd, should yearly wave, Yet God forget our child to save? Casa Wappy!

It cannot be; for were it so Thus man could die, Life were a mockery—thought were woe, And truth a lie— Heaven were a coinage of the brain— Religion frenzy—virtue vain, And all our hopes to meet again, Casa Wappy!

Then be to us, O dear, lost child! With beam of love, A star—death's uncongenial wild— Smiling above! Soon, soon thy little feet have trod The skyward path, the seraph's road, That led thee back from man to God, Casa Wappy!

Yet, 'tis sweet balm to our despair, Fond, fairest boy, That heaven is God's, and thou art there With him in joy! There past are death and all its woes, There beauty's stream for ever flows, And pleasure's day no sunset knows, Casa Wappy!

Farewell, then—for a while farewell, Pride of my heart! It cannot be that long we dwell Thus torn apart— Time's shadows like the shuttle flee; And dark howe'er life's night may be, Beyond the grave I 'll meet with thee, Casa Wappy!

[49] This touching elegiac poem (which is not unsuitable for music) was written by Mr Moir on the death of his favourite child, Charles Bell—familiarly called by him "Casa Wappy"—who died in February 1838, at the age of four and a half years.



FAREWELL, OUR FATHERS' LAND.

Farewell, our fathers' land, Valley and fountain! Farewell, old Scotland's strand, Forest and mountain! Then hush the drum and hush the flute, And be the stirring bagpipe mute— Such sounds may not with sorrow suit— And fare thee well, Lochaber!

This plume and plaid no more will see, Nor philabeg, nor dirk at knee, Nor even the broadswords which Dundee Bade flash at Killiecrankie. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

Now when of yore, on bank and brae, Our loyal clansmen marshall'd gay; Far downward scowls Bennevis gray, On sheep-walks spreading lonely. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

For now we cross the stormy sea, Ah! never more to look on thee, Nor on thy dun deer, bounding free, From Etive glens to Morven. Farewell, our fathers' land, &c.

Thy mountain air no more we 'll breathe; The household sword shall eat the sheath, While rave the wild winds o'er the heath Where our gray sires are sleeping. Then farewell, our fathers' land, &c.



HEIGH-HO!

A pretty young maiden sat on the grass— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— And by a blithe young shepherd did pass, In the summer morning so early. Said he, "My lass, will you go with me, My cot to keep and my bride to be; Sorrow and want shall never touch thee, And I will love you rarely?"

"O! no, no, no!" the maiden said— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— And bashfully turn'd aside her head, On that summer morning so early. "My mother is old, my mother is frail, Our cottage it lies in yon green dale; I dare not list to any such tale, For I love my kind mother rarely."

The shepherd took her lily-white hand— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— And on her beauty did gazing stand, On that summer morning so early. "Thy mother I ask thee not to leave Alone in her frail old age to grieve; But my home can hold us all, believe— Will that not please thee fairly?"

"O! no, no, no! I am all too young"— Sing heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho!— "I dare not list to a young man's tongue, On a summer morning so early." But the shepherd to gain her heart was bent; Oft she strove to go, but she never went; And at length she fondly blush'd consent— Heaven blesses true lovers so fairly.



ROBERT FRASER.

Robert Fraser was born in the village of Pathhead, Fifeshire, on the 24th of June 1798. Receiving a respectable education at the various schools of the place, he became apprenticed in his fourteenth year to a wine-merchant in Kirkcaldy, with whom he continued during a period of four years. In 1819 he commenced business with a partner as an ironmonger in Kirkcaldy, and for a considerable time was prosperous in merchandise. His spare hours were devoted to literature, more especially to classical learning and the acquisition of the modern languages. He was latterly familiar with all the languages of Europe. He contributed both in prose and verse to the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and other periodicals. A series of misfortunes led to his renouncing business, and in 1838 he accepted the editorship of the Fife Herald newspaper, when he removed his residence to Cupar-Fife. He died at Cupar, after a lingering illness, on the 22d May 1839. His "Poetical Remains," with a memoir from the pen of the poet Vedder, were published a few months after his decease. Though not entitled to a high rank, his poetry is pervaded by gracefulness, and some of his lyrics evince considerable power.



OH, I LO'ED MY LASSIE WEEL.

Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, How weel I canna tell; Lang, lang ere ithers trow'd, Lang ere I wist mysel'. At the school amang the lave, If I wrestled or I ran, I cared na' for the prize, If she saw me when I wan.

Oh, I lo'ed my lassie weel, When thae gleesome days were gane; 'Mang a' the bonnie an' the gude, To match her saw I nane. Though the cauld warl' o'er me cam, Wi' its cumber an' its toil, My day-tide dool was a' forgot, In her blithe e'enin' smile.

Oh, I lo'ed, nor lo'ed in vain; An' though mony cam to woo, Wha to won her wad been fain, Yet to me she aye was true. She grat wi' very joy When our waddin' day was set; An' though twal' gude years sinsyne hae fled, She 's my darling lassie yet.



JAMES HISLOP.

James Hislop, a short-lived poet of considerable promise, was born of humble parents in the parish of Kirkconnel, Dumfriesshire, in July 1798. Under the care of his grandfather, a country weaver, and a man of piety and worth, he taught himself to read. When little more than a child, he became a cow-herd on the farm of Dalblair, in the neighbourhood of his birth-place. About the age of thirteen, he obtained a year's schooling, which was nearly the whole amount of his regular education. He had already read many books on the hillside. In his fourteenth year, he became a shepherd and tended his first flock at Boghead, parish of Auchinleck, Ayrshire, in the immediate vicinity of Airsmoss, the scene of the skirmish, in 1680, between a body of the soldiers of Charles II. and a small party of Covenanters, when their minister, the famous Richard Cameron, was slain. The traditions which still floated among the peasantry around the tombstone of this indomitable pastor of the persecuted Presbyterians, essentially fostered in his mind the love of poetry; and he afterwards turned them to account in his poem of "The Cameronian's Dream." Some years having passed at this place, he removed to Corsebank, on the stream Crawick, and afterwards to Carcoe, in the neighbourhood of Sanquhar. Instead of a course of indiscriminate reading, he now followed a system of regular study; and ere his twentieth year, was not only a respectable classical scholar, but tolerably conversant with some of the modern languages and the exact sciences. He opened an evening school for the instruction of his humble pastoral associates; and about the close of 1819, was induced to remove to Greenock, there to make the attempt of earning a livelihood by teaching. In October of the same year, he began to contribute verses to the Edinburgh Magazine, which excited no inconsiderable attention, and especially called forth the kindly criticisms of the amiable editor, the Rev. Mr Morehead. Visiting Edinburgh, he was introduced by this gentleman to Mr Jeffrey and the Rev. Mr Alison, who had both been interested by his poetry.

The Greenock school adventure was unfortunate, and the poet returned to the pastoral scenes of Carcoe. At this period he composed "The Cameronian's Dream," which appeared in the Edinburgh Magazine for February 1821, and attracted much attention. He now commenced teaching in Edinburgh; but soon obtained, through the recommendation of Mr Jeffrey, the appointment of schoolmaster in the "Doris" frigate, about to sail for South America. At sea, he continued to apply himself to mental improvement; and on his return from a three years' cruise along the coasts of the Western world, he published, in the pages of the Edinburgh Magazine, a series of papers, under the title of "Letters from South America," describing the scenes which he had surveyed. In 1825 he proceeded to London, and there formed the acquaintance of Allan Cunningham, Joanna Baillie, and J. G. Lockhart. For some time, he reported to one of the London newspapers; but this employment proving uncongenial, was speedily abandoned. The fidelity with which he had reported a sermon of the famous Edward Irving, gained him the personal acquaintance of that extraordinary individual, who presented him with some tokens of his regard. In 1826, he was appointed teacher of an extensive free school in the neighbourhood of London—an office which, at the end of a year, he exchanged for that of schoolmaster on board the "Tweed" man-of-war, ordered to the Mediterranean and the Cape of Good Hope. While the vessel was cruising off the Cape de Verd islands, Hislop, along with the midshipmen, made a visit of pleasure to the island of St Jago. Sleeping a night on shore, they were all seized with fever, which, in the case of six of the party, including poor Hislop, proved fatal. After lingering for twelve days, he died on the 4th December 1827, in his twenty-ninth year.

Of a clear head, a warm heart, and exemplary steadiness of character, Hislop was much beloved; and a wide circle of hopeful friends deeply lamented his premature decease. By Allan Cunningham, his genius has been described as "elegant rather than vigorous, sweet and graceful rather than lofty, although he was occasionally lofty, too." As the author of "The Cameronian's Dream," he is entitled to a place among the bards of his country.



THE CAMERONIAN'S DREAM.

In a dream of the night, I was wafted away To the muirlands of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen Engraved on the stone where the heather grows green.

'Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's home was the mountain and wood, And in Wellwood's dark valley the standard of Zion, All bloody and torn, 'mong the heather was lying.

'Twas morning, and summer's young sun from the east Lay in lovely repose on the green mountain's breast; On Wardlaw and Cairntable, the clear shining dew Glisten'd sheen 'mong the heath-bells and mountain-flowers blue.

And far up in heaven, in a white sunny cloud, The song of the lark was melodious and loud; And in Glenmuir's wild solitudes, lengthen'd and deep, Were the whistling of plovers and bleating of sheep.

And Wellwood's sweet valley breathed music and gladness, The fresh meadow blooms hung in beauty and redness; Its daughters were happy to hail the returning, And drink the delights of July's sweet morning.

But, ah! there were hearts cherish'd far other feelings— Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings— And drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow, For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying, Conceal'd 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl were crying; For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering, And their bridle-reins rung through the thin misty covering.

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheath'd, But the vengeance that darken'd their brow was unbreathed; With eyes raised to heaven, in calm resignation, They sung their last song to the God of salvation.

The hills with the sweet mournful music were ringing, The curlew and plover in concert were singing; But the melody died 'midst derision and laughter, As the host of ungodly rush'd on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded, Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded; Their dark eyes flash'd lightning, as, proud and unbending, They stood like the rock which the thunder was rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming, The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming, The heavens grew black, and the thunder was rolling, As in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling.

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended, A chariot of fire through the dark cloud descended; Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness, And its burning wheels turn'd upon axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its door, bright and shining, All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining; And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation, Have mounted the chariot and steeds of salvation.

On the arch of the rainbow the chariot is gliding; Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding; Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye— A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!



HOW SWEET THE DEWY BELL IS SPREAD.

How sweet the dewy bell is spread Where Spango's mossy streams are lavin' The heathery locks o' deepenin' red, Around the mountain brow aye wavin'! Here, on the sunny mountain side, Dear lassie, we 'll lie down thegither; Where Nature spreads luve's crimson bed, Among the bonnie bloomin' heather.

Lang hae I wish'd, my lovely maid, Amang thae fragrant wilds to lead ye; And now, aneath my tartan plaid, How blest I lie wi' you aside me! And art thou happy—dearest, speak— Wi' me aneath the tartan plaidie? Yes; that dear glance, sae saft and meek, Resigns thee to thy shepherd laddie.

The saftness o' the gentle dove, Its eyes in dying sweetness closin', Is like thae languid eyes o' love, Sae fondly on my heart reposin'. When simmer suns the flowers expand, In a' their silken beauties shinin', They 're no sae saft as thy white hand, Upon my love-warm cheek reclinin'.

While thus, aneath my tartan plaid, Sae warmly to my lips I press ye; That hinnied bloom o' dewy red Is nocht like thy sweet lips, dear lassie! Reclined on love's soft crimson bed, Our hearts sae fondly lock'd thegither; Thus o'er my cheek thy ringlets spread, How happy, happy 'mang the heather!



ROBERT GILFILLAN.

A respectable contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith; and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the office of Collector of Poor's-rates in Leith, and continued to hold this appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December 1850, in his fifty-second year.

A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music, and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for graceful simplicity.



MANOR BRAES.

TUNE—"Logan Water."

Where Manor stream rins blithe an' clear, And Castlehill's white wa's appear, I spent ae day, aboon a' days, By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes. The purple heath was just in bloom, And bonnie waved the upland broom, The flocks on flowery braes lay still, Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.

'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose, Where Manor clearest, saftest flows, I met a maiden fair to see, Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e; Her beauty to the mind did bring A morn where summer blends wi' spring, So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair, 'Twas bliss to look—to linger there!

Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm, Wi' love to win and sense to charm, So much of nature, nought of art, She 'll live enthroned within my heart! Aboon her head the laverock sang, And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang; Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays, By Manor stream an' Manor braes.

I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care? She said her heart frae love was free, But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e. The parting cam, as partings come, Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb; Yet I 'll return, ere many days, To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.



FARE THEE WELL.

TUNE—"Roy's Wife."

Fare thee well, for I must leave thee; But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine—believe me!

We part—but by those dew-drops clear, My love for thee will last for ever; I leave thee—but thy image dear, Thy tender smiles, will leave me never. Fare thee well, &c.

Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow— One farewell smile before we sever; The only balm for parting woe Is—fondly hope 'tis not for ever. Fare thee well, &c.

Though dark and dreary lowers the night, Calm and serene may be the morrow; The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright, Without some mingling drops of sorrow! Fare thee well, for I must leave thee, But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee; Happier days may yet be mine, At least I wish them thine—believe me!



THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne— 'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom, Art thou here to assure us that summer is come? The primrose and harebell appear with the spring, But tidings of summer the young roses bring.

Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon), Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky, The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.

Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay, But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away; And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair— Yet I 'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.



THE EXILE'S SONG.

TUNE—"My ain Countrie."

Oh! why left I my hame, Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia's shore, And I gaze across the sea; But I canna get a blink O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs, And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings; But I dinna see the broom Wi' its tassels on the lea, Nor hear the lintie's sang O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor song of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn; For the tyrant's voice is here, And the wail of slaverie, But the sun of freedom shines In my ain countrie!

There 's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There 's a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!



THE HAPPY DAYS O' YOUTH.

Oh! the happy days o' youth are fast gaun by, And age is coming on, wi' its bleak winter sky; An' whar shall we shelter frae its storms when they blaw, When the gladsome days o' youth are flown awa'?

They said that wisdom cam wi' manhood's riper years, But naething did they tell o' its sorrows an' tears; Oh! I 'd gie a' the wit, gif ony wit be mine, For ae sunny morning o' bonnie langsyne.

I canna dow but sigh, I canna dow but mourn, For the blithe happy days that never can return; When joy was in the heart, an' love was on the tongue, An' mirth on ilka face, for ilka face was young.

Oh! the bonnie weaving broom, whaur aften we did meet, Wi' its yellow flowers that fell like gowd 'mang our feet; The bird would stop its sang, but only for a wee, As we gaed by its nest, 'neath its ain birk-tree.

Oh! the sunny days o' youth, they couldna aye remain— There was ower meikle joy and ower little pain; Sae fareweel, happy days! an' fareweel, youthfu' glee! The young may court your smiles, but ye 're gane frae me.



'TIS SAIR TO DREAM.

'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sall never see; Yet oh! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me! I thought we sat beside the burn That wimples down the flowery glen, Where, in our early days o' love, We met that ne'er sall meet again.

The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave, And gladden'd wi' his parting ray The woodland wild and valley green, Fast fading into gloamin' gray. He talk'd of days o' future joy, And yet my heart was haflins sair; For when his eye it beam'd on me, A withering death-like glance was there!

I thought him dead, and then I thought That life was young and love was free; For o'er our heads the mavis sang, And hameward hied the janty bee! We pledged our love and plighted troth, But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave; When, starting from my dream, I found His troth was plighted to the grave!

I canna weep, for hope is fled, And nought would do but silent mourn, Were 't no for dreams that should na come, To whisper back my love's return. 'Tis sair to dream o' them we like, That waking we sall never see; Yet, oh! how kindly was the smile My laddie in my sleep gave me!



METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.



METRICAL TRANSLATIONS

FROM

The Modern Gaelic Minstrelsy.



WILLIAM ROSS.

William Ross, the Bard of Gairloch, and the Burns of the Gaelic Highlands, was born at Broadford, in the island of Skye, in 1762. He received his school education at Forres, whither his parents removed during his youth, and obtained his training as a poet among the wilds of Highland scenery, which he visited with his father, who followed the calling of a pedlar. Acquiring a knowledge of the classics and of general learning, he was found qualified for the situation of parish school-master of Gairloch. He died at Gairloch in 1790, at the early age of twenty-eight. Ross celebrated the praises of whisky (uisg-bea) in several lyrics, which continue popular among the Gael; but the chief theme of his inspiration was "Mary Ross," a fair Hebridean, whose coldness and ultimate desertion are understood to have proved fatal to the too susceptible poet.



THE HIGHLAND MAY.

I.

Let the maids of the Lowlands Vaunt their silks and their Hollands, In the garb of the Highlands Oh give me my dear! Such a figure for grace! For the Loves such a face! And for lightness the pace That the grass shall not stir. * * * * *

II.

Lips of cherry confine Teeth of ivory shine, And with blushes combine To keep us in thrall. Thy converse exceeding All eloquent pleading, Thy voice never needing To rival the fall Of the music of art,— Steal their way to the heart, And resistless impart Their enchantment to all.

III.

When Beltane is over, And summer joys hover, With thee a glad rover I 'll wander along, Where the harp-strings of nature Are strung by each creature, And the sleep shall be sweeter That lulls to their song, There, bounding together, On the lawn of the heather, And free from the tether, The heifers shall throng.

IV.

There shall pasture the ewes, There the spotted goats browse, And the kids shall arouse In their madness of play; They shall butt, they shall fight, They shall emulate flight, They shall break with delight O'er the mountains away. And there shall my Mary With her faithful one tarry, And never be weary In the hollows to stray.

V.

While a concert shall cheer us, For the bushes are near us; And the birds shall not fear us, We 'll harbour so still.

* * * * *

Strains the mavis his throat, Lends the cuckoo her note, And the world is forgot By the side of the hill.



THE CELT AND THE STRANGER.

The dawn it is breaking; but lonesome and eerie Is the hour of my waking, afar from the glen.[50] Alas! that I ever came a wanderer hither, Where the tongue of the stranger is racking my brain!

Cleft in twain is my heart, all my pleasure betraying; The half is behind, but the better is straying The shade of the hills and the copses away in, And the truant I call to the Lowlands in vain.

I know why it wanders,—it is to be treading Where long I frequented the haunts of my dear, The meadow so dewy, the glades so o'erspreading, With the gowans to lean on, the mavis to cheer.

It is to be tending where heifers are wending, And the birds, with the music of love, are contending; And rapture, its passion to innocence lending, Is a dance in my soul, and a song in my ear.

[50] This song was written in Edinburgh.



CORMAC'S CURE.

The following is a portion of the poet's "Lament for his Lost Love," on her departure to England with her husband. Cormac, an Irish harper, was long entertained in his professional character by Macleod of Lewis; and had the temerity to make love to the chief's daughter. On the discovery, and its apprehended consequences to his safety, he is said to have formed the desperate resolution of slaying the father, and carrying away the lady. His hand was stayed, as he raised the deadly weapon, by the sudden appearance of Macleod's son; who, with rare and commendable temper, advised him to look for a love among the hundred maidens of his own degree who were possessed of equal charms. With the same uncommon self-command, poor Cormac formed the resolution of drowning his love in the swell of his own music. Ross applies the story to his own case.

Thus sung the minstrel Cormac, his anguish to beguile, And laid his hand upon his harp, and struck the strings the while— "Since they have taught my lady fair on her poet's gifts to frown, In deeper swellings of the lay, I 'll learn my love to drown."

When Colin Cormac's guilty grasp was closing with the spear, Rush'd in the chieftain's heir, and cried, "What frenzied mood is here! Sure many a May of ruby ray, as blushful on the brow, As rosy on the lip, is there—then, why so frantic thou?"

The heart-struck minstrel heard the word; and though his flame, uncured, Still fired his soul, in haste the shores of danger he abjured: But aye he rung his harp, though now it knew another strain, And loud arose its warblings as the sounding of the main.

Yes! 'twas an organ peal that soar'd the vocal lift along, As chorus'd to the high-strung harp his words of mightier song, Lest, hapless chance! should rise, above the swelling of the tide, A remnant of the ambitious love that sought a noble bride.

But I, alas! no language find, of Sassenach or Gael, Nor note of music in the land, my cureless woe to quail. And art thou gone, without a word, without a kindly look Of smiling comfort, on the bard whose life thy beauty shook?

Not so it fared with Cormac; for thus the tale is told, That never, to the last, he brook'd desertion's bitter cold. His comrades sorrow'd round him; his dear vouchsafed a kiss— He almost thought he heard her sigh, "Come back again to bliss!"



THE LAST LAY OF LOVE.

This was composed when Ross was dying, and probably when he was aware of his approaching end. He died of consumption, precipitated by the espousals of his mistress to another lover.

Reft the charm of the social shell By the touch of the sorrowful mood; And already the worm, in her cell, Is preparing the birth of her brood.

She blanches the hue of my cheek, And exposes my desperate love; Nor needs it that death should bespeak The hurt no remeid can remove.

The step, 'twas a pleasure to trace, Even that has withdrawn from the scene; And, now, not a breeze can displace A leaf from its summit of green

So prostrate and fallen to lie, So far from the branch where it hung, As, in dust and in helplessness, I, From the hope to which passion had clung.

Yet, benison bide! where thy choice Deems its bliss and its treasure secure, May the months in thy blessings rejoice, While their rise and their wane shall endure!

For me, a poor warrior, in blood By thy arrow-shot steep'd, I am prone, The glow of ambition subdued, The weapons of rivalry gone.

Yet, cruel to mock me, the base Who scoff at the name of the bard, To scorn the degree of my race, Their toil and their travail, is hard.

Since one, a bold yeoman ne'er drew A furrow unstraight or unpaid; And the other, to righteousness true, Hung even the scales of his trade.

And I—ah! they should not compel To waken the theme of my praise; I can boast over hundreds, to tell Of a chief in the conflict of lays.

And now it is over—the heart That bounded, the hearing that thrill'd, In the song-fight shall never take part, And weakness gives warning to yield.

As the discord that raves 'neath the cloud That is raised by the dash of the spray When waters are battling aloud, Bewilderment bears me away.

And to measure the song in its charm, Or to handle the viol with skill, Or beauty with carols to warm, Gone for ever, the power and the will.

No never, no never, ascend To the mountain-pass glories, shall I, In the cheer of the chase to unbend; Enough, it is left but to die.

And yet, shall I go to my rest, Where the dead of my brothers repair— To the hall of the bards, not unblest, That their worthies before me are there?



LACHLAN MACVURICH.

This bard, known by his territorial designation of "Strathmassie," lived during nearly eighty years of the last century, and died towards its close. His proper patronymic was Macpherson. He was a favourite tenant of the chief of Cluny, and continued to enjoy the benefit of his lease of a large farm in Badenoch, after the misfortunes of the family, and forfeiture of their estate. He was very intimate with his clansman, James Macpherson, who has identified his own fame so immortally with that of Ossian. Lachlan had the reputation of being his Gaelic tutor, and was certainly his fellow-traveller during the preparation of his work. In the specimens of his poetical talents which are preserved, "Strathmassie" evinces the command of good Gaelic, though there is nothing to indicate his power of being at all serviceable to his namesake in that fabrication of imagery, legends, and sentiments, which, in the opinion of many, constitutes all that we have in the name of Ossian.



THE EXILE OF CLUNY.

The brave chief of Cluny, after lingering long on the heights of Benalder, where he entertained his unfortunate prince during some of the last days of the adventurer's wandering, at length took shipping for France, amidst the tears and regrets of a clan that loved him with the fondest devotion. "Strathmassie" seems to have caught, in the following verses, some characteristic traits of his chief, in whom peaceful dispositions were remarkably blended with the highest courage in warfare.

Oh, many a true Highlander, many a liegeman, Is blank on the roll of the brave in our land; And bare as its heath is the dark mountain region, Of its own and its prince's defenders unmann'd. The hound's death abhorr'd, some have died by the cord, And the axe with the best of our blood is defiled, And e'en to the visions of hope unrestored, Some have gone from among us, for ever exiled.

He is gone from among us, our chieftain of Cluny; At the back of the steel, a more valiant ne'er stood; Our father, our champion, bemoan we, bemoan we! In battle, the brilliant; in friendship, the good. When the sea shut him from us, then the cross of our trial Was hung on the mast and was swung in the wind: "Woe the worth we have sepulchred!" now is the cry all; "Save the shade of a memory, is nothing behind."

What symbols may match our brave chief's animation? When his wrath was awake, 'twas a furnace in glow; As a surge on the rock struck his bold indignation, As the breach to the wall was his arm to the foe. So the tempest comes down, when it lends in its fury To the frown of its darkness the rattling of hail; So rushes the land-flood in turmoil and hurry, So bickers the hill-flame when fed by the gale.

Yet gentle as Peace was the flower of his race, Rare was shade on his face, as dismay in his heart; The brawl and the scuffle he deem'd a disgrace, But the hand to the brand was as ready to start. Who could grapple with him in firmness of limb And sureness of sinew? and—for the stout blow— 'Twas the scythe to the swathe in the meadows of death, Where numbers were levell'd as fast and as low.

Ever loyal to reason, we 've seen him appeasing With a wave of one hand the confusion of strife; With the other unsheathing his sword, and, unbreathing, Following on for the right in the havoc of life. To the wants of the helpless, the wail of the weak, His hand aye was open, his arm was aye strong; And under yon sun, not a tongue can bespeak His word or his deed that was blemish'd with wrong.



JAMES M'LAGGAN.

James M'Laggan was the son of a small farmer at Ballechin, in the parish of Logierait, Perthshire, where he was born in 1728. Educated at the University of St Andrews, he received license as a probationer of the Established Church. Through the influence of the Duke of Atholl, he was appointed to the Chapel of Ease, at Amulree, in Perthshire, and subsequently to the chaplainship of the 42d Regiment, his commission to the latter office bearing date the 15th of June 1764. His predecessor in the chaplainship was Dr Adam Ferguson, author of the "History of the Roman Republic," who was also a native of the parish of Logierait.